of a handkerchief about her shoulders, and that torn muslin bonnet. I
don't wonder you shivered, Effie, it makes me cold to look at her.'

'Let us see if she wants anything,' said Effie.

By this time the attention of the little girl was attracted by the
children's conversation and glances, and she came running towards them,
crying at every step, 'Give me a sixpence, please?'

'We have no money, not even a penny,' said Harry, 'are you very hungry?'
The girl began to tell how long it was since she had had anything to
eat, but she talked so hurriedly, and used so many queer words, that the
two children found it very difficult to understand her.

'She is in want, no doubt,' whispered Harry to his sister, 'but father
would say, it was best to give her food and clothing, not money.'

'I wish I had a sixpence, though,' said Effie.

The wealthy and the gay, the poor and the apparently miserable, went
pouring by in crowds, and some did not hear the beggar-child's plea,
others that heard did not heed it, while many paused from idle curiosity
to gaze at her, and a few flung her a penny, and passed on. Harry and
Effie too went on, frequently looking back and forming little plans for
the good of the child, until their attention was attracted by other
objects of compassion or admiration. Sleighs were continually dashing
past them, drawn by beautiful horses, and filled with the forms of the
young, the gay, and the happy. Old men, bowed down by the weight of
years, hobbled along on the pavements, their thin blue lips distorted by
a smile--a smile of welcome to the year that, perhaps, before its