much, that I wanted them to love me too; and I used to throw little things out of the window sometimes, so that they would look up and smile at me.' Ah! the young, tender heart, living, as yet, only by the affections, that required such a wealth of love to fill it! The little outcast heart depending on casual passers by for a stray word or look of comfort, striving to feed itself on such poor, miserable crumbs as these! It made the mother's face grow white with anguish to think of _that_. 'Well, about just such a time every morning, when Charley had gone to school, and I sat by the window as lonesome as lonesome could be, on the sidewalk under the window there always came a lady who was kinder to me than the other ladies, who _always_ looked up and smiled. Such a beautiful lady, ma, with a face as kind as pa's, and a great deal more smiling; you'd love her if you saw her; I know you would--you couldn't help it. And ma,' and here Harry's enthusiasm died out, and his voice took a sadder tone, 'she's got a little boy, just about as big as I am, and she always takes him with her when she goes out, just like the other ladies. And--and ma'--the low voice had a frightened tone in it, as if the little one feared he was venturing too far. 'Yes, Harry.' 'I thought--that--that--' 'What, darling?' 'That if you would go out to walk yourself sometimes, and take us with you, Charley and me, that we shouldn't be so different from everybody else, and it wouldn't be quite so lonesome here.' A long pause followed--a frightened pause on Harry's part. Venturing, after a little while, to look into his mother's face, its sadness, unmixed with anger reassured him, and he proceeded: 'That was the lady who sent you the flower. She lives in a little white house just across the road. One day, when Betty took me out for a walk, I ran away and went there; and I have been there a good many times since. It's a little house, ma, a very little house. There are no bright pictures or beautiful carpets in it; but they are never lonesome there. She is as kind to her little boy every day as you are to me now. It's a long time, ma, since you kissed me and held me on your lap, and acted as if you loved me! Oh, mamma!' He laid the pale cheek, wet with grateful tears, close against her own. 'Why a'n't you good to me always? I love you _now_, but I don't love you always; I _can't_ love you always, ma. That day when you frightened me so, when you pulled my hair, threw me down on the floor, and whipped me till the blood ran, I didn't like you for a long time _then_, you hurt me so.' The grief of the wretched mother burst forth anew in sobs and tears. 'Oh, Harry! oh, my poor, poor child! Did ma do that?' 'Don't cry, ma, oh, don't cry; I don't think you meant to do it. There is something that changes you, that makes you cross and strange. And ma'--the timid voice sank away to a low, frightened whisper, broken and tremulous with tears. 'Yes, dearest.'