a's life-time. Floy became very tired of
that close room. There were no pretty pictures on the walls, like those
in Floy's house in the country; the chairs were hard and uncomfortable,
and little Floy had nothing to amuse her. Mamma couldn't spare time to
walk much, and Floy was not allowed to play on the sidewalk, lest she
might hear naughty words, and play with naughty children. Mamma's pen
went scratch--scratch--scratch--from sunrise till sunset,--save when
she took a turn across the floor to get rid of an ugly pain in her
shoulders, from constant stooping. Floy was weary of counting the
bricks on the opposite wall,--weary of seeing the milkman stop at seven
o'clock, and the baker at nine,--weary of hearing the shrill voice of
Mrs. Walker, (below stairs,) of whom mamma hired her room. Still Floy
never complained; but sometimes when she could bear the monotonous,
dull stillness no longer, she would slide her little hand round her
mamma's waist, and say, "Please, Mamma, put up that ugly pen, and take
me on your lap."

Floy was always sorry when Christmas, and New Year, and Thanksgiving
came round; because it made mamma's eyes so red and swollen, and
because she was such a little girl that she couldn't tell how to
comfort her. She longed to grow up a big lady, that she might earn some
money, so that mamma needn't work so hard; and it puzzled her very much
to know what had become of mamma's old _friends_, who used to ride out
so often to their pretty country house, in papa's lifetime, to eat
strawberries, and to drink tea. She was quite sure she had met some of
them once or twice, when mamma had taken her out to church--but somehow
they didn't seem to see either mamma or Floy.

Floy was very careful of her two dresses, for fear they would get
soiled, (ever since she woke one night, and found mamma washing them
out, when she was hardly able to hold her head up.) She was afraid,
too, that mamma often wanted the bread and milk she made Floy eat; and
only said "she wasn't hungry," because there wasn't enough for her, and
Floy, too.

Well, my dear children, it was the thought of all these things that
sent the warm tears to Floy's bright eyes, as she looked in at the
fruiterer's window that hot August morning.

* * *

Two years have gone by. It is August again. The sky is cloudless--the
birds are singing--and little Floy's tears are all dried up. Her cheeks
are plump and rosy;