As Sally Gibson was sweeping the doorstep early the next morning, a couple
of ponies dashed up to the gate, in whose riders she instantly recognized
Elsie Travilla and Philip Ross.

"Hallo!" shouted the latter, "this young lady has something for you."

"Good-morning," Elsie said, reaching out a little gloved hand, as the girl
drew near, "mamma bade me bring you this note, and ask how your mother is
to-day."

"A little better, thank you; it has done her a world of good to--to have
her mind so relieved, and the doctor's medicine seems to have helped her
too. How very, very kind Mrs. Travilla is," she added, with tears in her
eyes, "and Mrs. Ross. Won't you come in?"

"Not this morning, thank you," and away they galloped. Sally looking after
them with admiring eyes, and a murmured exclamation, "How pretty and sweet
she is!"

It was not an envious sigh that accompanied the words, but born of mingled
emotions,--the half-formed thought, "Shall I ever know such pleasures.
Alas, they are not for me!" quickly succeeded by another,--"Ah, that sweet
child cannot live to maturity, and be always as happy and free from care,
as now."

Her mother's shrill voice recalled her to herself, "Why do you stand
there? What's that they gave you?"

"A note, mother. It's directed to me."