"At last I asked her if she would let me bring you up to see her, but she was vexed at the idea of a clergyman. Once or twice after that I mentioned it, but she still answered no. Last night, as I was saying my prayers by her bed, she began to cry softly, and then, sir, she rose up and kissed me on the forehead. Then I asked her again, and she said you might come--only she made me promise to tell you everything about her first. But for that I would not talk of my poor mother's faults, though it is only to you." The child ceased speaking--she looked earnestly into the clergyman's face. "You will not go home till you have seen her?" she said. "No, my child, I only trust that my poor efforts may be blessed as yours have been," and the clergyman went into the Hospital, leading Mary by the hand. It was an hour before he left the building, and when he turned to shake hands with the little girl, you could see by the expression of his face that it had been an important and heart-rending hour to them all; over and over again did that good man's feet tread those worn stairs, and each time his face looked more thankful than it had done before. One evening he remained much longer than usual. Little Mary had been in the garret since morning, and here, about nine o'clock, the physician was called for the fourth time that day. He was absent but a few minutes. "You had better go up," he said to the matron, who met him in the hall, "that poor woman is gone." Mary Fuller turned her head as the matron came into that dimly-lighted garret. Tears stood on her cheek, but her eyes were radiant with holy light. "Oh, madam, she was my mother! She kissed me! with her last breath she kissed me!" "She died," said the clergyman, in his low mild voice, "she died with her arms round this little girl, calm and peaceful as a child." "Go," said the matron, gently sending Mary to the stairs, "go, my child, to-morrow you shall see her again." The child went down, not to weep as they supposed, for there was a higher and more holy feeling than grief in her young heart. She had found her mother. CHAPTER XXI. THE TWO OLD MEN The past, sometimes, comes dimly back, Stealing like shadows on the brain; We see the ruins on its track, And feel the dead flowers bloom again.