got up, and dined, and went to bed as usual. They were sometimes
merry, sometimes naughty, as usual. People made them nice presents,
or sent for them to pleasant treats, as usual--perhaps more than
usual; their father did all he could to supply the place of the lost
one, but never could name her name; and soon they forgot that they
had ever had a mamma at all. Soon? Ay, long before friends and
strangers lead left off saying 'Poor little things' at sight of them,
and long before the black frocks and crape-trimmed bonnets were laid
aside, which, indeed, they wore double the usual length of time."

"And how old were they?" asked No. 6, in a whisper.

"Four and five," replied Aunt Judy; "old enough to know what they
liked and disliked from hour to hour. Old enough to miss what had
pleased them, till something else pleased them as well. But not old
enough to look forward and know how much a mother is wanted in life;
and, therefore, what a terrible loss the loss of a mother is."

"It's a very sad story I'm afraid," remarked No. 6.

"Not altogether," said Aunt Judy, smiling, "as you shall hear. One
day the two little motherless girls went hand in hand across one of
the courts of the great Charity Institution in London, where their
grandmamma lived, into the old archway entrance, and there they stood
still, looking round them, as if waiting for something. The old
archway entrance opened into a square, and underneath its shelter
there was a bench on one side, and on the other the lodge of the
porter, whose business it was to shut up the great gates at night.

The porter had often before looked at the motherless children as they