ingnaries" did not smile upon him and his
slender bank account, or they were not willing to wash the dishes and
halve the financial responsibilities besides; but as the winter days
slipped by, we could not help seeing that Patsy's pale face grew paler
and his soft dark eyes larger and more pathetic. In spite of better care
than he had ever had before, he was often kept at home by suffering all
too intense for a child to bear. It was almost as if a sixth sense came
to him in those days, so full was he of strange thoughts and intuitions.
His eyes followed me wistfully as I passed from one child to another,
and when my glance fell upon him, his loving gaze seemed always waiting
for mine.

When we were alone, as he pored over picture-books, or sat silently by
the window, watching the drops chase each other down the pane, his talk
was often of heaven and the angels.

[Illustration: "HE SAT SILENTLY BY THE WINDOW."]

Daga Ohlsen had left us. Her baby eyes had opened under Norway skies,
but her tongue had learned the trick of our language when her father and
mother could not speak nor understand a word, and so she became a
childish interpreter of manners and customs in general. But we knew that
mothers' hearts are the same the world over, and, lacking the power to
put our sympathy in words, we sent Daga's last bit of sewing to her
mother. Sure enough, no word was needed; the message explained itself;
and when we went to take a last look at the dear child, the scrap of
cardboard lay in the still hand, the needle threaded with yellow wool,
the childish knot, soiled and cumbersome, hanging below the pattern just
as she had left it. It was her only funeral offering, her only funeral
service, and was it not something of a sermon? It told the history of
her industry, her sudden call from earthly things, and her mother's
tender thought. It chanced to be a symbol, too, as things do chance
sometimes, for it was a butterfly dropping its cocoon behind it, and
spreading its wings for flight.

Patsy had been our messenger during Daga's illness, and his mind was
evidently on that mystery which has puzzled souls since the beginning of
time; for no anxious, weary, waiting heart has ever ceased to beat
without its passionate desire to look into the beyond.

"Nixy Jones's mother died yesterday, Miss Kate. They had an orful nice
funeral."

"Yes, I'm sorry for the poor little children; they will miss their
mamma."

"Not 'nuff to hurt 'em