One hot August day, when not a breath came into the room, and the dust and noise and evil smells were almost unendurable, poor Lizzie lay on her bed singing feebly to herself about "the beautiful blue sea." She was trying to get to sleep that she might dream of a cool place, and her voice was growing fainter and fainter, when suddenly it seemed as if the dream had come, for a sweet odor was near, something damp and fresh touched her feverish cheek, and a kind voice said in her ear,-- "Here is the little bird I ’ve been following. Will you have some flowers, dear?" "Is it heaven? Where’s Billy?" murmured Lizzie, groping about her, half awake. "Not yet. I’m not Billy, but a friend who carries flowers to little children who cannot go and get them. Don’t be afraid, but let me sit and tell you about it," answered the voice, as a gentle hand took hers. "I thought maybe I ’d died, and I was glad, for I do want to see Billy so much. He’s baby, you know." And the clinging hands held the kind one fast till it filled them with a great bunch of roses that seemed to bring all summer into the close, hot room with their sweetness. "Oh, how nice! how nice! I never had such a lot. They ’re bigger ’n’ better ’n dandelions, are n’t they? What a good lady you must be to go ’round giving folks posies like these!" cried Lizzie, trying to realize the astonishing fact. Then, while the new friend fanned her, she lay luxuriating in her roses, and listening to the sweet story of the Flower Mission which, like many other pleasant things, she knew nothing of in her prison. Presently she told her own little tale, never guessing how pathetic it was, till lifting her hand to touch the new face, she found it wet with tears. "Are you sorry for me?" she asked. "Folks are very kind, but I ’m a burden, you know, and I ’d better die and go to Billy; I was some use to him, but I never can be to any one else. I heard ’em say so, and poor mother would do better if I was n’t here." "My child, I know a little blind girl who is no burden but a great help to her mother, and a happy, useful creature, as you might be if you were taught and helped as she was," went on the voice, sounding more than ever like a good fairy’s as it told fresh wonders till Lizzie was sure it _must_ be all a dream. "Who taught her? Could I do it? Where’s the place?" she asked, sitting erect in her eagerness, like a bird that hears a hand at the door of its cage. Then, with the comfortable arm around her, the roses stirring with the flutter of her heart, and the sightless eyes looking up as if they could see the face of the deliverer, Lizzie heard the wonderful story of the House Beautiful standing white and spacious on the hill, with the blue sea before it, the fresh wind always blowing, the green gardens and parks all about, and inside, music, happy voices, shining faces, busy hands, and year after year the patient teaching by those who dedicate themselves to this noble and tender task.