“Do you know, Sophie, that I am not contented at all—that I am very _dis_contented? I want a little girl!—I want a little girl _so bad_! I want one to dress, and to fix, and to play with. My boy is eight years old, and far too big to be dressed in trimmed clothes—too much of a man, in his own and his father’s opinion, to wear anything but a plain broadcloth jacket and trousers. And I do _so_ love to make and trim children’s clothes. I never go into a dry goods store and see remnants of pretty calico or merino, but I think what sweet frocks for a little girl they would make. Last fall I bought some pretty remnants of crimson merino and orange-colored bombazine, and a bunch of narrow black worsted braid to trim with, just for a notion—don’t laugh at me, Sophie; and so this winter, while confined to the house by the dreadful weather, I passed some of the dreary evenings pleasantly in making and trimming some little dresses, and as I had no little girl to wear them I made them to fit _your_ little girl, Sophie. Here they are—try one of them on her—_please_ try one of them on her—I want to see how they look _so much_!” And opening her travelling satchel she produced with glee four beautiful little dresses suitable for winter—a crimson, and a green merino, and a blue, and an orange bombazine. “And that ain’t all,” said she, diving into her satchel; “I have made half-a-dozen nice little petticoats, and half-a-dozen pair of pantalets, and I have trimmed them with thread edging, and, to complete the wardrobe, I bought four pairs of little shoes to match in colors each of the four dresses; and I have half finished at home a little black velvet pelisse and a little black plush hat, into which I intend to stick a small white plume. Won’t our little girl be nice, Sophie?” Emily’s black eyes were dancing as she dashed back the black ringlets that kept falling over her face, while she stooped over the basket and looked up for a reply. It was just Sophie Churchill’s character to receive this favor with all the simple, artless frankness with which it was offered. She expressed no surprise—spoke no thanks; she only passed her hand around Emily’s neck, turned her face around to meet her own, bent forward, and kissed her lips. “There! Now, Sophie, let us go into your chamber and dress her,” said Emily, setting Hagar off her lap, and beginning to replace the articles in the satchel, and rising to go upstairs. But her husband now approached her, and laying his hand affectionately on the top of her head, pressed her down into her seat, and took the chair by her side, saying,— “Emily, how would you like to have your friend Miss Churchill always with you?” “Oh! I should be delighted—enchanted!” “Of course—so I supposed, my dear. Come here, Sophie, my child!” Sophie was at the side-board, taking out some apples. She replaced them, however, and went up to her pastor.