lose about
you; you are cold, I know," and the woman shivers as she speaks.

"No, mother, not _very_," replies the child, again relapsing into that
hollow, ominous cough. "I wish you wouldn't make me always wear your
shawl when it is cold, mother."

"Dear child, you need it most. How you cough to-night!" replies the
mother; "it really don't seem right for me to send you up that long,
cold street; now your shoes have grown so poor, too; I must go myself
after this."

"O mother, you must stay with the baby--what if he should have one of
those dreadful fits while you are gone! No, I can go very well; I have
got used to the cold now."

"But, mother, I'm cold," says a little voice from the scanty bed in the
corner; "mayn't I get up and come to the fire?"

"Dear child, it would not warm you; it is very cold here, and I can't
make any more fire to-night."

"Why can't you, mother? There are four whole sticks of wood in the box;
do put one on, and let's get warm once."

"No, my dear little Henry," says the mother, soothingly, "that is all
the wood mother has, and I haven't any money to get more."

And now wakens the sick baby in the cradle, and mother and daughter are
both for some time busy in attempting to supply its little wants, and
lulling it again to sleep.

And now look you well at that mother. Six months ago she had a husband,
whose earnings procured for her both the necessaries and comforts of
life; her children were clothed, fed, and schooled, without thoughts of
hers. But husband-less, friendless, and alone in the heart of a great,
busy city, with feeble health, and only the precarious resource of her
needle, she has gone down from comfort to extreme poverty. Look at her
now, as she is to-night. She knows full well that the pale, bright-eyed
girl, whose hollow cough constantly rings in her ears, is far from well.
She knows that cold, and hunger, and exposure of every kind, are daily
and surely wearing away her life. And yet what can she do? Poor soul!
how many times has she calculated all her little resources, to see if
she could pay a doctor and get medicine for Mary--yet all in vain. She
knows that timely medicine, ease, fresh air, and warmth might save her;
but she knows that all these things are out of the question for her. She
feels, too, as a mother would feel, when she sees her once rosy, happy
little boy becoming pale, and anxious, and fretful; and even when he
teases her most, she only stops her wo