Poor little Dora Deane! How utterly wretched and desolate she was,
as she crouched before the scanty fire, and tried to warm the
little bit of worn-out flannel, with which to wrap her mother's
feet; and how hard she tried to force back the tears which would
burst forth afresh whenever she looked upon that pale, sick
mother, and thought how soon she would be gone!

It was a small, low, scantily furnished room, high up in the third
story of a crazy old building, which Dora called her home, and its
one small window looked out on naught save the roofs and spires of
the great city whose dull, monotonous roar was almost the only
sound to which she had ever listened. Of the country, with its
bright green grass, its sweet wild flowers, its running brooks,
and its shady trees, she knew but little, for only once had she
looked on all these things, and then her heart was very sad, for
the bright green grass was broken, and the sweet wild flowers were
trampled down, that a grave might be made in the dark, moist earth
for her father, who had died in early manhood, leaving his wife
and only child to battle with the selfish world as best they
could. Since that time, life had been long and dreary to the poor
widow, whose hours were well-nigh ended, for ere to-morrow's sun
was risen, _she_ would have a better home than that dreary,
cheerless room, while Dora, at the early age of twelve, would be
an orphan.

It was a cold December night, the last one of the year, and the
wintry wind, which swept howling past the curtainless window,
seemed to take a sadder tone, as if in pity for the little girl
who knelt upon the hearthstone, and with the dim firelight
flickering over her tear-stained face, prayed that she, too, might