Cybele was a little girl; she had large gray eyes, and brown hair smoothly parted over her forehead, while there was a pitiful expression round her mouth, that pleaded with you so earnestly, you could scarce help stopping, as you met her, to give her a few pennies.

Her real home was not in this country. Long ago she had come over from the bright land of Italy, from its warm, sunny skies and beautiful gardens, where the birds sang so joyfully, and gay music sounded on the air, all which she longed to see and hear again; and as all things there had been so beautiful, and here so dreary, all beauty grew to be the same thing as that dear Italy, so that when she even saw flowers in the window of some lordly house, she would stand, gazing tearfully through them at the far-off home!

Cybele’s mother had died in that beautiful land, and it was in one of its lovely gardens her body rested while her spirit soared heavenward. The little girl knew this place so well; the orange-trees grew about it, and the song of the waterfall, near by, played and sparkled in the tones of the birds. But Cybele’s aunt had taken the little girl with her to this distant land, and the child could no longer go and weep over the grave where her mother’s body had been laid; but her heart was there it could not forget. She dreamed of it in the long nights; and, when she played upon her tambourine, the remembrance inspired her notes, making people love to listen to her.

Away down in an uncomfortable, out-of-the-way part of the city dwell a great many poor people, who have come from distant countries to find here some bread, which may keep them from starving. The streets where they dwell are dirty, and the houses look smoky and wretched. There are queer little shops, with oranges and cigars, bread and tobacco, in the windows, and if you go in you smell yeast, and see milk-cans standing about, while a man in a green jacket sells you what you ask for. To such shops do the people near by come for their bread and cent’s worth of milk. To such a shop little Cybele came, early in the morning, and late at night; and so dingy looked the shops and people, that her aunt’s room seemed bright and cheerful in comparison. This room, nevertheless, was small and quite dark, having but one window, which looked down into a brown back-yard; but her aunt kept the room neat and clean; the bed stood off by itself, in one corner, the two chairs on either side of the table, and in the cupboard were a few plates and cups, with which the scanty table was spread; yet was this room dear to the child, since the dreams she had dreamed there hung over her still with their light and love.

It chanced, one day, that her aunt fell sick so sick as to be obliged to lie on the bed. For a long time she had not been able to do any hard work, but had sat at home and made little brooms for Cybele to take out with her when she went to play the tambourine about the streets. And Cybele had seen how her aunt grew pale, day by day, but she had not dreamed the time would come when her aunt must lay still on the bed for weariness.

With a heavy heart she took the brooms and the tambourine, and went out, hoping to get a few pennies, and bring home a doctor for her aunt.

But it was a sad day for Cybele. She was rudely sent away from the doors at which she stopped, and though she stood long before the windows of lordly houses, in which she felt were many persons, still the sashes were left down, and no kind group appeared to encourage her. So she passed on, through quiet squares and noisy streets, but everywhere met with a repulse.

What should she do? It was impossible to go home without money. She thought of the poor aunt who was sick, and of the mother who lay away in the gardens of Italy, and new courage came into her soul. A gentleman came toward her, with ruddy cheeks and smooth, rich clothes. Surely he will not turn away from the little child. So she stepped forward, and, when he came near, she looked up in his face, saying,

“Please, sir, will you not buy one of my brooms?”

But he brushed by her, unheeding her gentle tones, and leaving her eyes filled with tears.

Then came along a careless boy, whistling a merry tune, and with his hands thrust into his pockets. Confidence and hope made her ask him also.

“Please, will you buy a broom?”

The boy stopped, and, still whistling, looked into her face, glanced over her dress, tambourine and brooms; and, as his eyes rested upon these last, he replied:

“Buy a broom! Pray, what think you I want with one of those flimsy things?” And then he looked at her as though he thought her so absurd!

Cybele was abashed by his manner, and began to think she had asked him to do a very foolish thing, so she hurried to reply:

“I don’t know, I’m sure; but they brush away flies with them.”

“Flies!” he repeated, contemptuously, at the same time taking one of the brooms from her little bundle, and thrusting it about him in all conceivable ways; pulling open the brush, and altogether ruining it. “Flies! it is getting too cool for flies; and, besides, my mother never lets any get into the house; so it’s no use any way. Why don’t you go home? It’s a shame to be walking round the streets so. You ought to be in school, or at work, or something else.”

“I don’t know how to do anything else,” replied Cybele, the blood rushing to her cheeks; “my aunt is sick, and I want to get some money.”

“Tush! always sick!” replied the boy, contemptuously; “how silly! I wonder the beggars don’t all die some day, they’ve been sick so long!”

“We are not beggars!” said Cybele, raising her head somewhat proudly, and preparing to move away. “If you don’t want the broom, I’ll take it, if you please.”

The boy seemed half pleased, as he looked at her, and said:

“Proud, too if it isn’t funny! Here, don’t go away I want to hear your tambourine.”

So she laid down her bundle of brooms, and, arranging her tambourine, played him some merry tunes.

“Can’t you dance, too?” asked the boy, when she had finished. So she danced and played to him; and, when she stopped, he placed a penny in her hand, and coolly walked away.

She looked at the penny lying in her hand, and then after the boy, who was walking up the street, and she couldn’t help thinking how very little it was, and how she hoped he would have given her more. She looked at the little broom he had ruined, and everything seemed sadder than before. Then, by some strange freak, her mind ran off to the gardens where her mother slept, as it always did when darkness gathered round her, and she longed, more than ever before, to throw herself on the ground there, and quietly sleep a long, long time. During the whole day she had received but a few pennies; so few, they would not induce a doctor to go down to her sick aunt. If she only could have met some kind heart, which would have gone home with her, and given kind words and soothing draughts to the sick one! But it was not brought into her path.

When she came home and saw how much worse her aunt was than when she had left her in the morning, her little heart grew sick; and Cybele, who had seen her mother grow thin and die, began to be terrified, lest the aunt too would be taken.

So, she went up to her gently, and kissed her brow, and the poor aunt opened her eyes and smiled mournfully; and when she heard how little money the tambourine had brought that day, she tried to conceal her sorrow lest the little child should be grieved.

Then Cybele lighted a small fire in their bit of a fireplace, and made a little tea for her aunt. It was the very last she had; but when she thought how much her aunt needed it, and how she would need still more on the morrow, hope whispered, quite cheerfully, that with the tambourine she would win from people’s pockets many a bright cent. With these thoughts, she looked very lovingly towards the tambourine, which lay quietly upon the floor in the corner, its gay bells silent, as if it, too, felt sorrow for the aunt’s sickness.

After Cybele had toasted a bit of bread, and given it, with the tea, to the aunt had received the kind kiss, and saw her close her eyes she thought she slept, and new courage filled her heart; she began to think of the pleasant people she should see to-morrow. What a kind crowd she drew about her! They looked on her with loving eyes, and the sweet smiles played about their lips. There were the groups of pretty children, in gay frocks and rosy cheeks, which should gather about the parlor-window, when she should stop before it and strike the tambourine with her hand; and they would smile upon her, and then the elder sister, who should be so mild and gentle, would come and throw up the sash, and speak with her; and, perhaps, even she would throw down to her a sprig of the geranium which stood near by on the flower-stand. Then she was lured further on, to think of a great fortune which was to be obtained, that she might go back to the laughing skies of Italy, and spend her days in the lovely garden where her mother slept.

But when Cybele arose in the morning, and told her aunt how she was going out to gather in the pennies, the poor aunt sighed, and bade her stay at home a while, for she could not bear to be alone.

So Cybele sat down upon the floor, and, taking the tambourine, sang and played the softest and sweetest airs she could remember; and, as she played, it seemed as though new tones, and words even, were given to speak out of it.

She astonished herself, and a kind of sorrowful ecstasy came into her soul. She played on, and on, and forgot that the day was passing off, in which she was to earn so many bright pennies, in order to bring home the kind physician who was to make the dear aunt well at once. She went to the far-off land, and sang of the vineyards and the soft, warm air; of the gently-moving waters, and the fragrant blossoms around the banks of the lakes. O, the moon rose up before her, and she drank from its loving beams; the stars sent down their misty light, as if shrouded because of their great beauty! Once in that land, how had she forgotten all things else! A holy inspiration had come down over her; an angel of light appeared to her enchanted eyes, beckoning her to rest her head upon his bosom.

“Fear not!” he said, “for I will yet take you to the lovely gardens where your mother dwells.”

But, when she eagerly stretched out her arms and cried, “Take me now,” he disappeared, and she found the song stayed upon her lips, the room hushed, and only the glory, which the angel’s presence had shed about, still lingered there. The holy stillness came into her heart also, and she sat quietly upon the floor a long time; and when, at last, she rose and went up to her aunt’s bedside, she found the brow she kissed was cold, the hand she clasped was chilly; and, in looking with fear upon the aunt’s face, she found the dews of death resting there.

The aunt was dead! Those songs, which flowed so easily from Cybele’s lips, had become the requiem of the dead, and those soft tones had been the last sigh of a passing soul.

Cybele knew that when the angel had over-shadowed her, as she sang, he had borne hence her aunt’s spirit.

But, O, it was so hard to be left all alone! And when the people from the other room came in and prepared her aunt for the burial; when they took her from the bed and put her in the rude coffin, the child’s heart felt like breaking, and, had it not been for the words the angel had spoken to her when he came to bear hence the dear aunt, she would have wept without ever smiling again.

Then they carried away the coffin into a dismal place, where was neither green grass nor pleasant brook, nor even a flower, might it be ever so little; and there was a row of square, black doors against the walls, one of which they opened, and shoved the coffin into a dark place.

O, it was so dreary a place, with the high fence all about it, and the cold, dismal, gray clouds above! It did not seem to Cybele that she could leave the aunt there. Could she only lie away in the beautiful land where the mother slept, where the birds rested their wings upon the lemon-trees, and the blue sky smiled in quiet peacefulness!

But the people who stood around could not understand her grief, and so they hurried her from the yard and locked up the gate.

That night Cybele lay alone upon the bed on which her aunt had died, and the lonely grief came so fast upon her that she could not sleep, and the morning found her weary and heart-broken.

Then there came into her room a coarse man, who told her she must go out, for she could no longer live there; that she might be allowed to take her tambourine with her, but all the rest, and there was little enough, the two chairs, the bed, the kettle and the few things in the cupboard, were his, to pay for the rent of the room and he told her, if she brought a few pennies to the people who lived in the next room, when night was come, they would take care of her.

Now the man had no sooner spoken these words, than Cybele decided to have nothing to do with the people in the next room, for she could not love them. The father and mother were so coarse and cross, and the boys were so rude and big; they had often refused to help her aunt, and while she was sick they had never come with kind words to smooth her pillow. Even after she had died, they had but come to put her in a rude coffin, and carry her to a dismal place, from which they thrust out the only heart who yearned for her.

So Cybele did not think of going to them. She tied the large silk handkerchief over her head, which had served her for a bonnet since she had left Italy, and, taking her dear tambourine in her hand, and the poor, neglected brooms, she went away out of the rooms where she had lived so long, where she had seen the angel, and where her aunt had died. Then, after standing upon the sill of the door a few moments, looking down the long staircase, out into the world to which she was going, she raised her gray eyes, and sweetly said, as though replying to the angel’s admonition, “I’m not afraid.” Ah, dearest one, you need not fear when the heavenly Father is so near unto your heart!

Without more hesitation she said “Good-by” to the room, and quickly sped down the staircase out into the world, while thus she talked to her tambourine:

“Don’t you be afraid either, dear little Tambourine!” and she held it tenderly in her arms; “nor you, dear Brooms! We shall have happy times together yet. Only think of the beautiful tunes I’ll play on you, and how the children will clap their hands when they hear your bells! No, don’t be in the least afraid; I’ll play on you as I never have before since once,” here the little lip quivered in spite of itself, “only try and play real pretty do, so I shan’t ever be lonesome with thinking of the lovely gardens at home! Ah, Tambourine! Tambourine! you and I are all alone!” Just then, a sweet tone came from the bells of the tambourine, and comforted Cybele’s heart.

She wandered up the streets, and stopped to look in upon the windows of the toy-shops; but the toy-carts, and those wonderful witches, who would always stand on their heads, had no charm for her longer. Her heart was saddened, and when she tried to strike out gay tunes, they would not come only sad ones, and sad words from her lips. The children pitied her grave looks, and, when they could not persuade her to dance for them, they would leave her in silence.

When she looked about her and saw all the children, how they were never alone, that their eye’s danced, and their voices were mirthful, she would ask herself why she, too, was not happy. Then courage would come to her, and she would strike a gay air, and call the children to her side; but, when she had finished, she was glad to creep away by herself, and lean her head upon her tambourine to weep. Then, when the voice of the angel sounded in her heart, she would raise her head to reply, meekly, “No, I’m not afraid.”

It chanced, one day, that she wandered into the obscure corner of a church. It was evening service, and at first she was only glad to get away from the cold, biting air; but she had not been there long before a strange feeling of gladness rose up in her heart. The organ awoke from its stillness, and the tones gladdened her as the tambourine, dear as it was, had never done. The hazy light poured in through the windows, and lit up the faces of the scattered worshippers with seraphic beauty, and it gave golden edges to the spotless robe of the priest in the chancel, played upon his white, flowing hair, and shone upon his uplifted countenance. The priest spoke out blessed words of the Father in heaven, how he calls the tired and weary to come and be folded up in his arms; how he even says, “Suffer little children to come unto mo, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven.” These words fell into the parched heart of little Cybele, and ran all along there in low sobs, and, stretching up her tiny arms, she murmured:

“Take me, take me now, I want to come!” And she began to think of the angel who had said to her:

“Fear not, for I will yet take you to the lovely gardens where your mother dwells.”

The organ ceased, the priest went out from the chancel, one by one the people passed out from the church, the sexton closed up the doors and went away, and Cybele sat in her corner, longing to see again the angel who was so often in her thoughts, until the hazy light had faded away in the darkness.

Then the moon rose, and streamed into the church, down the long aisles, and up into the chancel; and from the window above the place where the priest had spoken those holy words there flooded a glory of light, while the columns and galleries stood still in their deepened shadows. It was so holy a calm as to fill Cybele with a joyful awe. The tambourine slid from her lap; she crossed her hands upon her breast, and bent forward her head with closed eyes. Low notes of the sweetest music swelled on the air; louder they grew; until they seemed like the voices of those rejoicing for deliverance from great sorrow. Louder, louder yet the voices of angels mingled with them. As Cybele looked up there she saw great bands of holy angels rejoicing over her; among them the very one whose words of consolation had been with her so many days. Quickly to him she stretched out her arms, and he reached low down and raised her up to him. And they soared up, up to the region of the sun and the moon, hearing about them the soft voices of loving angels; the air was loaded with the perfumes of celestial flowers, while every angel they met gave them a word of welcome.

The angel did as he had promised, and the heavenly Father, whom Cybele had prayed to take her, gave her into the loving arms of the mother, who dwelt in lovelier gardens than those of fair Italy, even the gardens of heaven.

When the people next opened the church, they found a dead child in one of its corners. A little tambourine lay by its side, which, when they picked it up, gave out pleasant, cheering tones; but, when they laid the dead body of the child in a cold, damp grave, they little thought what happy songs the living spirit of it sang with its mother in the lovely gardens of God.