Richard Howland’s home was very beautiful, overlooking, as it did, the town and the surrounding country, and the passers-by often stopped to admire its winding walks, its fountains, its grassy plats, graceful evergreens, and wealth of flowers, the latter of which were the especial pride of the stately Miss Elinor, the maiden sister, who was mistress of the house, for Richard Howland had no wife, and on the night when we first introduce him to our readers, he was seated in his pleasant sitting-room, with his sister at his side, and every possible comfort and luxury around him. The chill December wind which howled among the naked branches of the maples, or sighed through the drooping cedar boughs, could not find entrance there. The blinds were closely shut—the heavy curtains swept the floor—the fire burned brightly in the grate, casting fantastic shadows on the wall, and with his favorite paper in his hand, he almost forgot that in the world without there were such evils as poverty or pain. Neither did he see the fragile form toiling through the darkness up the street, and pausing at his gate. But he heard the ringing of the door-bell, and his ear caught the sound of some one in the hall, asking to see him. “I wish I could be alone for one evening,” he said, and with a slight frown of impatience upon his brow, he awaited the approach of his visitor. It was a delicate young girl, and her dress of black showed that sorrow had thus early come to her. “Are you Mr. Howland?” she asked, and her eyes of blue timidly sought the face of the young man, who involuntarily arose and offered her a seat. Her errand was soon told. She had come to rent his cheapest tenement—the brown house in the hollow, which she had heard was vacant, and she wished him to furnish her with work—she could make both shirts and vests tolerably well, and she would try hard to pay the rent! The stranger paused, and Miss Elinor, who had been watching her with mingled feelings of curiosity and interest, saw that the long eyelashes were moist with tears. Mr. Howland saw it, too, and wondering that one so young and timid should come to him alone, he said: “Little girl, have you no friends—no one on whom to depend, save yourself?” The tears on the eyelashes now dropped upon the cheek, for the _little girl_, as Mr. Howland had called her, mistook his meaning and fancied he was thinking of security, and payment, and all those dreadful words whose definition she was fast learning to understand. “I have a father,” she said, and before she had time for more, the plain-spoken Miss Elinor asked: “Why didn’t he come himself, and not send you, who seem so much a child?” There was reproach in the question, and the young girl felt it keenly, and turning toward Miss Elinor, she answered: