I looked through a mist of tears that half blinded me, and saw the kindest, sweetest face that my eyes ever dwelt upon. It was that of a young woman, perhaps twenty or twenty-two years of age. "You must not feel yourself alone, dear child," she said, smoothing my hair with one hand, from which she had drawn off the glove. "Oh," said Mrs. Pierce, pushing her daughter behind her, "you will never believe, marm, what she is crying about,--leaving home, you think it is? Oh, no; Miss is just taking on about a snip of a doll which my little girl here smashed a trifle, not meaning any harm, for children will be children, you know." Here Mrs. Pierce patted her child's head, who cast sidelong glances at me and attempted to hide herself behind her mother's dress. I looked up at the young lady, blushing red, and begging her in my heart not to think me so very ridiculous. She smiled encouragingly, and turning upon Mrs. Pierce, said, very gravely,-- "I am surprised, madam, that you should think this a slight cause of grief. The smallest thing connected with the child's home must be dear to her." Mrs. Pierce gave her head a fling, and muttered that she meant no harm. Miss was welcome to all her things back again; her children did not want them, not they. "You are right," said the young lady, quite seriously; "have everything she has owned or loved packed up at once." Mrs. Pierce went out muttering; the child followed her with a finger in her mouth. "Now," said the young lady, "is there anything else you would like to take away,--a bird, a little dog, or the cat you have loved; we can find room for them?" My heart leaped. I had the dear old canary-bird; and lying upon the crimson cushions of my mother's easy-chair was "Fanny," a pretty chestnut-colored dog, that had all the grace of an Italian greyhound, and the brightness of a terrier. "May I take her with me?" I cried, springing up and falling on my knees before my mother's arm-chair, and hugging Fanny to my bosom. "I am so glad, so grateful, so--" Here I broke down, and burying my face in Fanny's fur, cried and laughed out my thankfulness. When I looked up, one of the handsomest men I ever saw stood by the young lady, who was smiling upon him, though I saw bright tears in her eyes. "So this is your father's ward," said the gentleman, reaching out his hand as if he had known me all his life. I put my hand in his, and felt my heart grow warm, as if it had found shelter from its loneliness. He exchanged glances with the lady, and I felt sure that they were pleased with me. "Now," said the gentleman, "we have a little time, if you want to take leave of anything." "Oh, I have been taking leave ever since she died," I answered, saddened by his words. "I couldn't do it again." "Perhaps that is best," said the gentleman; "so get on your things; we have a long ride before us."