It was a hearty endorsement, and Harry's heart warmed as she spoke. The little maiden was not more than nine or ten years old, but she seemed to have some skill in reading faces; at least, Harry thought she had. Whatever might be said of himself, he was sure she was a good girl. In short, though Harry had never read a novel in his life, she was a little angel, even if she had no wings. He even went so far as to believe she was a little angel, commissioned by that mysterious something, which wiser and more devout persons would have called a special providence, to relieve his wants with the contents of her basket, and gladden his heart by the sunshine of her sweet smile. There is something in goodness which always finds its way to the face. It makes little girls look prettier than silks, and laces, and ribbons, and embroidery. Julia Bryant was pretty, very pretty. Harry thought so; but very likely it was the doughnuts and her kind words which constituted her beauty. "I am pretty sure I am not a bad boy," continued Harry; "but I will tell you my own story, and you shall judge for yourself." "You will tell me all of it--won't you?" "To be sure I will," replied Harry, a little tartly, for he misapprehended Julia's meaning. He thought she was afraid he would not tell his wrong acts; whereas her deep interest in him rendered her anxious to have the whole, even to the smallest particulars. "I shall be so delighted! I do so love to hear a good story!" exclaimed Julia. "You shall have it all; but where were you going? It will take me a good while." "I was going to carry these doughnuts to Mrs. Lane. She is a poor widow, who lives over the back lane. She has five children, and has very hard work to get along. I carry something to her every week." "Then you are a little angel!" added Harry, who could understand and appreciate kindness to the poor. "Not exactly an angel, though Mrs. Lane says I am," replied Julia, with a blush. "Aunty Gray, over to the poorhouse, used to call everybody an angel that brought her anything good. So I am sure you must be one." "Never mind what I am now. I am dying to hear your story," interposed Julia, as she seated herself on another rock, near that occupied by Harry. "Here goes, then"; and Harry proceeded with his tale, commencing back beyond his remembrance with the traditionary history which had been communicated to him by Mr. Nason and the paupers.