A drizzling rain kept falling the day on which little Jimmy was to be laid in his narrow home. They had found beneath his ragged jacket a little packet, carefully tied with a piece of thread, and on opening it, something dried and shrivelled fell to the ground. It was the bunch of violets, now withered, Pollie’s first gift to him-the only gift he had ever received, and which came fraught with such peace to him. With tender pity Mrs. Turner refolded the tiny packet, and placed the faded flowers again where they had been so carefully treasured.

His unhappy mother was in prison, which place she only quitted to be confined for life in a criminal lunatic asylum, driven mad by that fearful curse of England-drink! drink! so that there would have been no one to follow him to his last resting-place had not good Mrs. Turner offered to go. She could not bear to think of the poor child being laid to rest so friendlessly, and little Pollie pleaded to be taken. Then Lizzie Stevens begged to be allowed to accompany the widow in her pious task, and just as the humble parish funeral was leaving the house, which had been but a miserable home for the dead child, Sally Grimes came up, and, taking Lizzie’s hand silently, joined the three mourners. A large black cloak covered her patched but clean frock, and she wore an old black bonnet of her mother’s, which had outlived many fashions. It was the only outward semblance of mourning she could get, but her heart sorrowed sincerely for the crippled boy whom she had seen for many years, desolate and uncared for, crouching in the dingy doorway-desolate until little Pollie found him there, and shed some brightness around his hitherto lonely life; and another thing, he was a sort of link between her and Pollie.

The London streets looked dismal and dirty on this autumn afternoon with the pitiless rain and murky sky; but when the little party reached the quiet suburban cemetery, the clouds had somewhat dispersed, though the late flowers which yet remained to gladden the earth drooped with the heavy moisture; and when the last words were spoken, and all that remained of Crippled Jimmy had been laid in his narrow bed, the four kindly mourners turned tearfully from the spot, leaving him alone in his poor humble grave.

At that moment a robin perched himself on a bush close by, and warbled forth such a hymn, so full of gladness, it seemed as though the bird sang the echo of those joyful words-

“I am the Resurrection and the Life.”

And so they left little Jimmy. Nothing could harm him now. Twas but his frail mortality they mourned; his blest spirit, freed from earthly stains, was now with his Saviour and God.

On their return home they found that Mrs. Flanagan had prepared a comfortable tea for them all in Mrs. Turner’s room; and it looked so cosy and home-like, humble though it was, with Mrs. Flanagan’s kindly face to greet them.

Poor Mrs. Flanagan-she was greatly changed; no longer the same cheerful person, but calm and subdued, as if she dwelt beneath some dark shadow that clouded her existence.

She did not now, when her day’s work was ended, come into Mrs. Turner’s room to have a friendly chat, or interest herself in Pollie’s fortune-making, as she used to do. It is true, she still brought the flowers for the child, but her whole mind seemed too absorbed to dwell on these trivial matters which formerly possessed such an interest for her. Her entire thoughts were centred on Nora.

No one, save good Mrs. Turner, had seen the poor girl since the evening Pollie had brought the lost one home. The poor mother hid, as it were, her recovered treasure, fearful that even the mere passing glance of scorn should for a moment rest on her blighted child. So up in that little room, away from prying eyes, lived the mother and daughter. Nora was not idle. Not for worlds would she have rested dependent on that dear forgiving mother’s hard earnings for her daily food; therefore, whilst Mrs. Flanagan toiled in Covent Garden Market, her daughter’s slender fingers diligently laboured at bookbinding, the trade she had pursued years ago, in the time when her heart was innocent and happy.

On the evening of which we write, when Sally Grimes and Lizzie Stevens had gone to their own homes after the peaceful hours spent with Mrs. Turner, the old woman sat for some time silent and sad, with elbows resting on the table, and her face buried in her hands.

At length she looked up.

“My Nora’s very sadly,” she observed.

The widow paused in her needlework, and gazed at the troubled countenance of her old friend.

“She is not ill, is she?” was the question: “I saw her this morning, and then she seemed pretty much the same.”

“No, not ill in body, at least not much,” replied the poor mother; “but oh! Mrs. Turner, my Nora is not like my Nora of days gone by.”

And the grey head bent low upon the table, and the worn wrinkled face was hidden, to hide the bitter tears which fell.

Her sympathising listener put down her work, and rising softly, laid her hand gently upon her neighbour’s sorrow-bent head.

“Take heart, Mrs. Flanagan,” she soothed; “it will all come right at last, in God’s own time. Just think how once you feared you should never see your daughter again, and then” -

“Oh, but she’s not the same; no longer gay, or even cheerful, as she used to be,” was sobbed forth; “sits for hours looking far-away like, as if she saw me not; yet once I was all to her. Ah, woe is me that I should be sorry she was not laid to rest years ago, when a sinless child, like little Jimmy was to-day!”

Whilst the unhappy mother was thus pouring out her heart sorrow, Pollie had crept up, and in loving pity had slidden her small hand into her aged friend’s in token of sympathy with her grief. For some time Mrs. Flanagan was too absorbed with her great woe to heed that gentle caress, but when alluding to the dead boy she raised her head, and saw the little girl’s tearful eyes lifted to hers.

“Please, don’t cry, dear Mrs. Flanagan,” she said timidly. “Nora will soon be like she once was; won’t she, mother?”

“Bless you, my precious,” cried the poor old woman, laying her hand lovingly on the child’s curly head, “you’re a real comfort to me.”

“O mother,” murmured a soft voice, “have patience with me, dearest; I am still your own Nora; only-oh, so worn and sin-stained!”

They started in surprise. Unseen she had entered the room, and had overheard her poor mother mourning for her child.

Meekly she knelt at her parent’s feet, with tearless eyes upraised, but clasping the hard rough hand that had so toiled for her in the years gone by, and was willing still to toil, could it but bring back some few gleams of former brightness to her child.

“I am not changed in heart to you, dear mother,” she continued, “but when I sit and think, my sad thoughts fly back over the dreary desert of the past; and I know what I am, and what I might have been.”

All trembling with emotion, the poor old woman held out her arms to clasp her penitent child; then laying her head upon her bosom, she smoothed the beautiful hair caressingly, as in the days when as an infant she nestled there.

“Yes, yes, dear mother,” pursued the poor girl; “let me lay my weary head where I can hear the beating of your heart, whose every throb, I know, is full of love for me. I will pray to forget the sad, sad past, and be to you once more your Nora of the long ago. We were so happy then!”

“Yes, we were happy in those days,” murmured the mother, to herself as it were; “though often hungry, and often cold; but the wide world was our garden, and we had to pluck what flowers we could from it. You, my poor child, passed by the blossoms, and gathered only weeds; but take heart, my darling, there are yet some bonnie buds to cull, and life after all will not be quite a barren wilderness to you and your poor old mother.”

Then Mrs. Flanagan fairly broke down. But the icy barrier which had divided the mother and daughter was fallen, and they now knew what they were-all in all-to each other once again.