feel it to be right to let the children associate with her."
Uncle Phil was determined, as far as in him lay, to remove this objection, and to make the most of the first opportunity of finding out something about the little stranger; so, the first mild sunny day, he stationed himself at the street door, with the baby in his arms, sure that the little girl, who frequently passed in and out, would be attracted by the natural affinities of childhood. She soon appeared, with a pitcher in her hand, on her way to the pump. She would have been extremely pretty, but that she wanted the foundation of all childhood's beauty—health. Her eye was sunken; her cheeks pale, and lips blue; and she looked peaked and cold. Her dress was thin and shabby. She had a soiled silk frock; slippers down at the heel; a faded silk bonnet, with artificial flowers; a carnelian necklace and ear-rings; and a ragged French shawl. A sad contrast was she to Anne and Ruth Aikin, who, in their school-dress, with a pail between them, were preceding her at the pump. They were dressed in factory frocks, and aprons with pockets; gingham hoods; warm gray cloaks; calf-skin shoes, and nice woollen stockings, of Aunt Lottie's knitting. On they ran, chattering and giggling, while the little shivering stranger lagged alone behind them. "I know very well, Mary," said Anne, in reply to something from her sister, "mother don't like us to keep company with girls she don't know; but, then, I know mother would not object to our just speaking kindly to her: I'll tell mother about it. Little girl," raising her voice, "we've filled our
