“My father could not find the way—he never even saw my face—he couldn’t see my mother when she died. Oh! he’s blind, he’s blind,” and the voice, which at first had merely trembled, was choked with bitter sobs. The hearts of both brother and sister were touched, and the brown house in the hollow, nay, any house which Richard Howland had to rent, was at the girl’s command. But he was a man of few words, and so he merely told her she could have both tenement and work, while his sister thought how she would make her brother’s new tenants her especial care. Miss Elinor was naturally of a rather inquisitive turn of mind and she tried very skillfully to learn something of the stranger’s history. But the young girl evaded all her questioning, and after a few moments arose to go. Mr. Howland accompanied her to the door, which he held open until she passed down the walk and out into the street. Then the door was closed, and Alice Warren was alone again in the cold, dark night, but she scarcely heeded it, for her heart was lighter than it had been for many weeks. The gentleman whom she had so much dreaded to meet had spoken kindly to her; the lady too, had whispered “poor child” when she told her of her father, while better far than all, she had procured a shelter for her father, the payment for which would come within their slender means. Not time, but the joy or sorrow it brings, changes people most, and the Alice Warren of to-day is scarce the same we saw one year ago. Then, petted, caressed and glowing with youthful beauty, she presented a striking contrast to the pale-faced girl, who, on the wintry night of which we write, traversed street after street, until she came to the humble dwelling which for the last few days had been her home. Every cent of his large fortune had Mr. Warren given up, choosing rather to starve and know he had a right to do so, than to feed on what was not his own. His handsome house and furniture had all been sold, and with a mere pittance, which would not last them long, they had gone into the country, where Alice hoped to earn a livelihood by teaching. But she was “too small, too childish, too timid,” the people said, ever to succeed, and so at last she resorted to her needle, which in her days of prosperity, she had fortunately learned to use. As time passed on a kind-hearted woman, who visited in their neighborhood, became interested in them and urged their removal to Oakland, her native town, whither they finally went, stopping with her for a few days until further arrangements could be made.