hite robe, and a golden harp. There was no misery there, and night and
day she sang, "Worthy, worthy, worthy the Lamb!" and thousands of
bright winged angels echoed it back; and then--poor little Betsey woke,
crying because it was only a dream, and found herself again in the
little old room all alone,--all but Pussy, who was rubbing her lank
sides against the bed post and the wicker chair, and looking wistfully
up into Betsey's face, as much as to say, aint you _very_ hungry,
Betsey?

* * *

"Rein up--rein up! Stop your horses, I say! It's no use--she's down."
"Move your omnibus,"--"Get out of the way, there,"--"Go ahead"--"What
do you block up the street, for?"--"What's to pay?"--"Who's killed?"

"Only a beggar woman," said the omnibus driver, gathering up his reins;
"she slipped on the wet pavements, yonder, and the horses went over
her, and killed her. Can't be helped, you know,--there's enough beggars
left--everybody knows _that_," and he whipped up his horses, and drove
on.

Then a police-man picked up Betsey's dead mother and carried her to the
watch house; while some little Irish boys ran off with her basket and
ate up Betsey's supper.

There was nobody to take care of lame Betsey, so she was carried to the
poor-house. It didn't matter much to her, when she found her mother was
dead, where they took her. She was used to seeing misery; so the groans
of the poor creatures on the hospital cots about her was nothing new.
But she grew very weak, day by day, and couldn't eat the food they
brought her; and one morning the old nurse found her lying with her
little cheek in her hand, and a smile upon her face. Betsey's dream had
come true: she was an angel!

SCOTT FARM.

What a blessed thing it is to have a good grandmother! Sophy had one.
Sophy loved to go and see her.

It was in the country where Grandmother Scott lived, just a pleasant
ride from Sophy's home; in a good, old-fashioned farm-house, with green
moss growing out of the sloping roof, shaded by trees that looked a
century old. It is autumn there now; so you see on the cellar door and
under the front windows, crooked necked squashes and round yellow
pumpkins, mellowing in the warm sunbeams. Strings of dried apples are
festooned from chamber windows; and paper bags of catnip and spearmint
and thoroughwort and penny-royal and mullen hang drying on the garret
walls.

On "the buttery" shelves are broad