"Come here, sissy! I want to talk to you; and I can't turn round to come to you. Come here!" The little girl slowly obeyed the kind command, and stood presently beside the wagon, her pale face upraised, her startled eyes intently fixed upon the clear and honest ones bent to meet them. "What is your name, little girl?" "Sunshine," said the child vaguely; and her eyes dropped from the face of her questioner to fix themselves upon the far horizon, where hung already the evening-star, pale and trembling, as it had hung upon the evening of 'Toinette Legrange's birthday ten months before. Was it a sudden association with the star and the hour that had suggested to the heart of the desolate child this name, so long forgotten, once so appropriate, now so strange and sad? "Sunshine?" replied the young girl wonderingly. "You don't look like it a bit. Where do you belong? and where are you going?" The child's eyes travelled back from Dreamland, and rested wistfully upon the kind face above her. "I don't know," said she sadly. "I want to go to heaven; but I've forgot the way." "To heaven! You poor little thing, have you no home short of that?" "I don't know. I wish I had some water." "You had better jump into the wagon, and come home with me, Sunshine, if that is your name. Something has got to be done for you right away." The child, still looking at her in that strange and solemn manner, asked suddenly,-- "Who are you?" "I? Oh! I'm Dora Darling; and I live about five miles from here. Jump in quick; for it is growing dark, and we must be at home for supper." As she spoke, she leaned down, and gave a hand to the little girl, who mechanically took it, and clambered into the carriage. Dora lifted her to the seat, and held her there, with one arm about her waist, saying kindly,-- "Hug right up to me, you poor little thing! and hold on tight. We'll be at home in half an hour, or less.-Now, Pope!" The impatient horse, feeling the loosened rein, and hearing his own name, darted away at speed; whirling the light wagon along so rapidly, that the child clung convulsively to her new protector, murmuring,-- "I guess I shall spill out of this, and get kilt." "Oh, no, you won't, Sunshine! I shall hold you in. You're not Irish, are you?" "What's that?" "Why, Irish, you know. You said 'kilt' just now, instead of 'killed,' as we do." The child made no reply; but her head drooped upon Dora's shoulder yet more heavily, and her eyes closed. "Are you sick, little girl? or only tired?" asked Dora, looking anxiously down into the colorless face, over which the evening breeze was gently strewing the tangled curls, as if to hide it from mortal view, while the poor, worn, spirit fled away to peace and rest. "Sunshine!" exclaimed Dora, gently moving the heavy head that still drooped lower and lower, until now the face was hidden from view.