ul stars. Farthest up, at the very top, her
doll, her very own, with arms outstretched, as if appealing to be taken
down and hugged. She knew it, knew the mission-school that had seen her
first and only real Christmas, knew the gentle face of her teacher, and
the writing on the wall she had taught her to spell out: "In His Name."
His name, who, she had said, was all little children's friend. Was he
also her dolly's friend, and would know it among the strange people?

The light went out; the glory faded. The bare room, only colder and
more cheerless than before, was left. The child shivered. Only that
morning the doctor had told her mother that she must have medicine and
food and warmth, or she must go to the great hospital where papa had
gone before, when their money was all spent. Sorrow and want had laid
the mother upon the bed he had barely left. Every stick of furniture,
every stitch of clothing on which money could be borrowed, had gone to
the pawnbroker. Last of all, she had carried mamma's wedding-ring, to
pay the druggist. Now there was no more left, and they had nothing to
eat. In a little while mamma would wake up, hungry.

The little girl smothered a last sob and rose quickly. She wrapped the
doll in a threadbare shawl, as well as she could, tiptoed to the door
and listened a moment to the feeble breathing of the sick mother within.
Then she went out, shutting the door softly behind her, lest she wake
her.

Up the street she went, the way she knew so well, one block and a turn
round the saloon corner, the sunset glow kissing the track of her bare
feet in the snow as she went, to a door that rang a noisy bell as she
opened it and went in. A musty smell filled the close room. Packages,
great and small, lay piled high on shelves behind the worn counter. A
slovenly woman was haggling with the pawnbroker about the money for a
skirt she had brought to pledge.

"Not a cent more than a quarter," he said, contemptuously, tossing the
garment aside. "It's half worn out it is, dragging it back and forth
over the counter these six months. Take it or leave it. Hallo! What have
we here? Little Finnegan, eh? Your mother not dead yet? It's in the
poor-house ye will be if she lasts much longer. What the----"

He had taken the package from the trembling child's hand--the precious
doll--and unrolled the shawl. A moment he stood staring in dumb
amazement at its contents. Then he caught it up and flung it with an
angry oath u