"Not well. Dear little innocent creature! it has seen the light of this dreary world in an evil time. Ellen has scarcely any milk for it; and I could not get it to feed, try all I could. It nestles in her breast, and frets and cries almost incessantly, with pain and hunger. Although it is now six weeks old, yet Ellen seems to have gained scarcely any strength at all. She has no appetite, and creeps about with the utmost difficulty. With three little children hanging about her, and the youngest that helpless babe, her condition is wretched indeed. It would be bad enough, were her husband kind to her. But cross, drunken and idle, scarcely furnishing his family with food enough to sustain existence, her life with him is one of painful trial and suffering. Indeed, I wonder, with her sensitive disposition and delicate body, how she can endure such a life for a week." A deep sigh, or rather moan, was the mother's only response. Her daughter continued, "Bad as I myself feel with this constant cough, pain in my side, and weakness, I must go over again to-morrow and stay with her. She ought not to be left alone. The dear children, too, require a great deal of attention that she cannot possibly give to them." "You had better bring little Ellen home with you, had you not, Mary? I could attend to her much better than Ellen can." "I was thinking of that myself, Ma. But you seemed so poorly, that I did not feel like saying anything about it just now." "O yes. Bring her home with you to-morrow evening, by all means. It will take that much off of poor Ellen's hands." "Then I will do so, Ma; at least if Ellen is willing," Mary said, in a lighter tone--the idea of even that relief being extended to her overburdened sister causing her mind to rise in a momentary buoyancy. "Anna is late to-night," she remarked, after a pause of a few moments. As she said this, the door opened, and the sister of whom she spoke entered. "You are late to-night, Anna," her mother said. "Yes, rather later than usual. I had to take a few small articles home for a lady, after I left the store, who lives in Sixth near Spring Garden." "In Sixth near Spring Garden!" "Yes. The lad who takes home goods had gone, and the lady was particular about having them sent home this evening." "Do you not feel very tired?" "Indeed I do," the poor girl said, sinking into a chair. "I feel, sometimes, as if I must give up. No one in our store is allowed to sit down from morning till night. The other girls don't appear to mind it much; but before evening, it seems as if I must drop to the floor. But I won't complain," she added, endeavouring to rally herself, and put on a cheerful countenance. "How have you been to-day, Ma?" "If you won't complain, I am sure that I have no right to, Anna." "You cannot be happy, of course, Ma; that I know too well. None of us, I fear, will ever be again happy in this world!" Anna said, in a tone of despondency, her spirits again sinking.