“Have you got any shirts for me?” she inquired after a while. “Yes,” said Martin, recollecting himself, and unrolling a bundle which he had placed on the table. “There are half a dozen for you to begin on; and, if you do them well, you can have some more.” Floy looked pleased. “Now,” said she, “I shall have something to do when you are away.” “You like to be doing something?” said Martin, inquiringly. “Oh, yes! I can’t bear to be idle.” Martin did not go out again that afternoon. About six o’clock, Floy set the table, and placed upon it a plate of warm cakes which might have pleased the palate of an epicure. It was the best meal the miser had tasted for years, and he could not help confessing it to himself. Floy was gratified at the appetite with which he ate. Thus matters went on. The presence of the little girl seemed to restore Martin to a part of his former self. He was no longer so grasping and miserly as before. Through little Floy’s ministry, he began to have more of a relish for the comforts of life, and less to grudge the expense necessary to obtain them. It was not many weeks before he fell sick, in consequence of imprudent exposure to the rain. At first he did not regard it; but a fever set in, and he was confined to his bed. At the urgent solicitation of Floy, he consented to have a physician called, though not without something of reluctance at the thought of the fee. Then it was that he began to appreciate more fully the importance of Floy’s services. Ever ready to minister to his wants, no one could wish a more faithful or attentive nurse. As she sat by his bedside in the long days through which his sickness was protracted, busily engaged with her sewing, he would lie for hours, watching the motion of her busy fingers with pleased interest. Occasionally—for he had nothing else to do—his mind would wander back to the scenes of his early manhood, and he would sigh over the recollection of the happiness which might have been his. Then his thoughts would be borne along the dreamy years which had intervened, unlighted by the rays of friendship, and uncheered by the presence of affection. The image of his daughter, whom he had cast off, and of whose after-fate he knew nothing, came up before him, and he could not repel it. A change, a beneficial and salutary change, was rolling over his mind,—the fruit of those long involuntary hours of sickness and self-communing. On the first day succeeding his recovery, he invited Floy to go out with him. It was an unusual request, and Floy hardly knew what to make of it. She got her bonnet, however (for shawl she had none), and complied. It was a chilly March day, and the thin dress which she had worn from the time of her coming to Kendrick’s was but an ill protection against the weather. She shivered involuntarily. “You are cold,” said Martin; “but you will not need to go far.” He led the way into a dry-goods store.