ds of a paper. There was a toy horse and wagon, a top, a
ball,--memorials gathered with many a tear and many a heart-break! She
sat down by the drawer, and, leaning her head on her hands over it, wept
till the tears fell through her fingers into the drawer; then suddenly
raising her head, she began, with nervous haste, selecting the plainest
and most substantial articles, and gathering them into a bundle.

"Mamma," said one of the boys, gently touching her arm, "you going to
give away _those_ things?"

"My dear boys," she said, softly and earnestly, "if our dear, loving
little Henry looks down from heaven, he would be glad to have us do
this. I could not find it in my heart to give them away to any common
person--to anybody that was happy; but I give them to a mother more
heart-broken and sorrowful than I am; and I hope God will send his
blessings with them!"

There are in this world blessed souls, whose sorrows all spring up into
joys for others; whose earthly hopes, laid in the grave with many tears,
are the seed from which spring healing flowers and balm for the desolate
and the distressed. Among such was the delicate woman who sits there by
the lamp, dropping slow tears, while she prepares the memorials of her
own lost one for the outcast wanderer.

After a while, Mrs. Bird opened a wardrobe, and, taking from thence a
plain, serviceable dress or two, she sat down busily to her work-table,
and, with needle, scissors, and thimble, at hand, quietly commenced the
"letting down" process which her husband had recommended, and continued
busily at it till the old clock in the corner struck twelve, and she
heard the low rattling of wheels at the door.

"Mary," said her husband, coming in, with his overcoat in his hand, "you
must wake her up now; we must be off."

Mrs. Bird hastily deposited the various articles she had collected in a
small plain trunk, and locking it, desired her husband to see it in
the carriage, and then proceeded to call the woman. Soon, arrayed in
a cloak, bonnet, and shawl, that had belonged to her benefactress, she
appeared at the door with her child in her arms. Mr. Bird hurried her
into the carriage, and Mrs. Bird pressed on after her to the carriage
steps. Eliza leaned out of the carriage, and put out her hand,--a hand
as soft and beautiful as was given in return. She fixed her large, dark
eyes, full of earnest meaning, on Mrs. Bird's face, and seemed going
to speak. Her lips moved,--she tried