a vague sadness in his bearing. Involuntarily, the scene and conditions were changed, and, instead of poor Margaret, she herself had passed away and was lying out there in a new-made grave in bleak and dreary Woodland. She thought how her own bairns would be as motherless and forlorn as the child before her, and yet not quite, either, for they had a father who loved them in his own quiet undemonstrative way. This should have consoled her in the sorrows she had conjured up, but, like a woman, she thought of the father helpless and lonely when she had gone, with the children huddled cheerlessly about him, and a veil of tears came between her and the youngsters on the floor. With a great rush of tenderness, she went and picked the motherless boy up and laid his head on her breast.
"Pore Freddie," she said, "I wish you could stay here all the time and play with the other little ones."
The child looked up at her with wondering eyes. "I kin stay till mamma comes back," he answered.
"But, Freddie dear, mamma won't come back any more. She 's"—the woman hesitated—"she's in heaven."
