And the baby slept, lulled by Sunbeam's song, rocked on Sunbeam's wings, soothed by Sunbeam's smile, the reflection of which she must surely have caught there and then, to gladden the hearts of many; for as she grew older, she was blessed with one of the cheeriest, sunniest smiles you ever saw. The mother slept too, worn out and exhausted, and Sunbeam busied herself about her, fanning her feverish brow with her gossamer wings, taking her by the hand, and leading her forth in pleasant places; showing her the shadows of things that should be, and taking from her all regret at leaving her little one behind her in a world that had dealt so hardly with her. It was indeed a refreshing slumber; she was watched over by Sunbeam and the child Jane. She awoke, but not for long: her spirit was called away; her thin and wasted body was laid beneath the sods of the earth; but Sunbeam long lingered about the spot, hallowed by the holiest affection that can enter the human heart,— the love of a mother. When the sufferer had been called to her final rest, the widow woman that dwelt in the shop below took the orphan babe in her arms, carried it downstairs, and she and the child Jane sat down to think over their plans for the future, aided by Sunbeam, for they were simplehearted, uneducated beings; they were, moreover, very poor: but never did it enter their heads to

seek another home for baby.

Their own little

Norah was a strong, hearty little maiden, who had thriven in that lowly spot as well as she could have done had she been born in a palace, and she was six months old. She had outgrown what few. clothes she had, so they would do nicely for Dora. Yes, they had made up their minds to call her Dora! Strange that they had hit upon the name; I am quite sure they had not the least idea of its meaning: Dora, or God-sent. Perhaps Sunbeam had found it out, and whispered it to them. I should not be surprised in the least if such were the case, for she was frequently present at many a learned conversation, and was an apt scholar. Be this as it may, the new baby was christened in due time by the name of Dora. But to return to the question of the clothes: there would be enough of Norah's for the moment, and Jane set about seeking among her own scanty wardrobe for something. to make up for Norah.

'But how is she to be fed, Mother?' asked Jane. 'Why, Jane, our baby is so strong and fat, that I am sure she will take no harm, if we begin to feed her on bread and milk, and wean her by degrees. We must contrive in some way or other to take in an extra cup of milk every day, and bread will be sure to come; so Norah must be weaned, and Dora must take her place.'

'As to the milk, Mother, that can easily be managed; I will drink my tea without any, and save half my bread morning and evening.'

'Your bread you must eat yourself, child; you don't get too much of it, and you are growing very fast; besides, you will have more work to do now there are two babies instead of one.'

And thus it was settled, in this simple straightforward manner, and Norah and Dora grew and throve, and were as happy as happy could be.

Sunbeam never lost sight of them. Though her duties sometimes called her to regions far away, she never failed to return to that dirty alley with peculiar affection. It is true she saw no flowers there, and she literally adored flowers; but what then? she hovered over a little nest of real love. Here there was none of the poetry of poverty she had witnessed in the tiny room she had first entered on her descent into our planet. Neither mother nor daughter knew how to read a line; but love is better than knowledge.

Up early, always hard at work, they went to bed completely tired out, but never did they lay their heads on their pillow before they had washed the two little ones, who were, you may be sure, dirty enough, tumbling over each other in one corner of the shop. They grew fat, however, in spite of dirt, and were

hardy, rolly-polly little things, although they had never breathed the fresh air of the country.

Perhaps some day we shall hear more about them, for we may be quite sure that Sunbeam did not forsake them, and you know she has promised to relate me all her adventures.

CHAPTER IX.

THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT.

UNBEAM one summer's morning lighted on the window of a handsome house in the Regent's Park, when Regent's Park was still in its infancy; and a pretty place it was even then, although it boasted not of the Zoological Gardens, which now attract so many visitors. At this particular window, which was open, there sat a lady and a little girl, the latter about twelve years of age. No one was stirring; not even a servant was up; the rest of the household were buried in profound tranquillity. The little girl was, however, at work, and the lady, who was her aunt, was reading to her, and Sunbeam listened to the following story, or fable, written by that dear good Krummacher :

< THE NEW CREATION.

'A nobleman had inherited from a rich uncle an