depended on the flowers than the mere pleasure of the buyer.

'No. We don't want any flowers; we've plenty at home,' said the first speaker, drawing her companion away. 'Don't follow us, little girl; we can't give you anything.'

'Oh stop, Lizzie,' said the younger of the two children, looking back wistfully to the bunches of primroses, which lay among moss and leaves in the basket.

Those

flowers are very pretty, and she does look so hungry, poor thing!'

'Only a penny a bunch, miss; fresh picked this morning. Please, miss, do buy some.'

Well,' said Lizzie, impatiently, if you will stop, you must; but I can't wait for you. Besides, papa says we oughtn't to give anything to beggars.'

She isn't begging, she's selling,' said Alice. But Lizzie had walked hastily on, leaving her friend searching for the penny which she knew was in some corner of her pocket.

'Did you pick them yourself?' she asked, when the penny was found, and her little fingers were daintily choosing the largest and freshest bunch.

'Yes, miss. Will and I went and picked them first thing this morning.'

'Is Will your brother?'

'Yes, miss. He goes errands, Will does, when he can get any.'

'Do you get plenty to eat?' asked Alice, suddenly struck by the thin, pale face of her new acquaintance.

'Not for a good bit, miss. Father's out of work.'

'I'm very sorry; I don't like to be hungry. I haven't another penny I could give you. What will you do with that?-go and buy a bun with it ?'

The girl's hungry eyes glistened at the thought, but it was only for a moment.

'No, I must take it home. Father wants all the pennies, and little Bess.'

'Where is home? Where do you live?'
'Down in Spencer Street; a way off here.'

'Well, I mustn't stay,' said Alice, remembering that dinner time would be at hand. 'I hope somebody else will buy your flowers, and then you'll get something to eat.' And, with a kind, bright smile, which did as much good as the penny, she hastened home, too late to overtake Lizzie, and only just in time to prevent Mrs. Linton from sending a maid to look for her.

'Where have you been, my child ?' asked Mrs. Linton, as Alice, with her flushed, eager face, entered the diningroom, where the younger children were already seated at table. 'I saw Lizzie Bennet pass without you, and I could not imagine what could be the matter. You haven't been kept at school, have you?'

'No, mamma; but I stopped to speak to a girl selling primroses, and I gave her a penny for these. Aren't they beauties ?'

And then, looking half regretfully at her own wellfilled plate, Alice told the story of the little girl who 'didn't get plenty to eat,' which at that moment, hungry as she was with her quick run through the keen March air, seemed to her very terrible.

'I should so like to do something for that little girl, mamma,' she said, as she lingered by her mother's side when dinner was over.

'Why, you gave her a penny,' said Lizzie Bennet, who had just come in.

Alice and Lizzie were schoolfellows, and Lizzie generally called for her friend both morning and afternoon. 'That isn't much,' said Alice. 'She looked so hungry, mamma, and her hands were so blue and cold!'

'Well, dear, we'll try and find out something about her. To-morrow afternoon you may go with me to Spencer Street. But it was a pity you didn't ask her

name.'

'I did,' said Alice. Her name is Belle, and her brother's name is Will.'

'People generally have more names than one,' said Lizzie, laughing. That won't help you much.'

And Alice remembered with dismay that she had forgotten to make any closer inquiry; but Mrs. Linton promised that she would do what she could to help in the search.

There was a birthday party that evening at the home of one of Alice's cousins, and very merry and noisy was the group gathered in the large dining-room to see the magic-lantern slides which were being exhibited for their amusement. Alice, who was not very strong, was rather tired with one or two noisy games, and glad to get into a quiet corner to rest, slipping her hand into Aunt Mary's lap, and feeling, in the darkened room, the soft touch of loving lips upon her forehead.

'You are very quiet, darling,' said Aunt Mary at last, noticing that Alice seldom joined in the shouts and laughter of the rest of the party. 'Are you not well ?'

Oh! quite, Aunt Mary.' 'Then what is the matter ?'

'I was thinking,' said Alice; and then she stopped, as if she found it very difficult to put her thought into words. 'I know you were thinking; won't you tell me what about?'

I was thinking,' said Alice at last, speaking very slowly; 'I was wondering what could be the meaning of the text I learned out of Daily Food this morning.' 'What was it, darling?'

"Blessed is he that considereth the poor." What does it mean, Aunt Mary? I asked Lizzie Bennet, and she said it meant giving them money.'

'More than that, I think, Alice. Many give money who don't get the blessing promised here, and those who have very little to bestow often receive a full share of it. There are many ways of "considering the poor :" spending our time in working for them, or in helping them to find work for themselves; or denying ourselves some little article-of luxury-I mean something that we like,

but don't really need—that we may have more to give to those who are in want. But we can hardly speak about this now, the children are making so much noise.'

And indeed there began such a screaming, and talking, and clapping of hands, that Aunt Mary's quiet tones were almost drowned; for the last slide had been shown, and the restless limbs and merry voices which had been held in check for a while, were now doing their best to make up for lost time.

And now let us leave the birthday party, and take a peep at the home of the little flower-girl. It was almost dark when she returned to it; two or three bunches of primroses still in her basket, and a very scanty store of pennies in the dirty bag which served her for a purse. A drizzling rain had begun to fall; and wet, cold, and hungry, poor little Belle looked miserable enough.

Down three or four steps, dirty and slippery, through a low doorway, then down steps again, home was reached at last. Such a home! Not like yours, little reader, full of warmth, and light, and comfort; but dark and damp, and, I am sorry to say, not as clean as it might have been.

'I haven't had a good day, father,' said Belle, going up to the fire-place, for fire there was none, near which sat a pale, haggard man, with his arm in a sling. He looked up with a face from which all hope of 'good days' seemed to have long died out.

6

'How much?' he asked, turning out the money-bag, which Belle put into his hands. One, two, three, four, five-better than nothing. Go and get us some bread, Belle; the little 'un's been crying till I couldn't bear to hear her.'

Belle's eyes wandered sadly from her father's face to the little wasted form which lay cradled within his one sound arm, sleeping now, for the pitiful cry for 'something to eat' was quiet at last, and the weary eyes were closed. But if they had been open, they would have given you no answering look of intelligence, for poor little Bess was blind.

Just then Will came in,-a bright-looking boy of twelve.

'Hurrah! father; hurrah! Belle, we'll have a rare supper to-night. See here!' and he laid a sixpence on the table.

'That must go for the rent, lad,' said his father, taking up the little coin, and putting it in his pocket. 'Landlord said he'd turn us out if we didn't pay this week.'

Poor Will looked rather blank. He was very hungry, and had been pleasing himself with the thought of the good meal which would make up for his hard day's work. But there was no help for it. Belle's pence must be made to go as far as they would, and the 'rare supper' must be still a thing to be hoped for.

Dear little reader, God has given you many comforts. Do you ever think of those to whom food and fire come only now and then ?

CHAPTER II.

'Mamma, what do you think I can do for little Belle, if we find her?' asked Alice, as she and her mother set forth on their walk to Spencer Street the following afternoon. Her head was still full of the new thoughts and plans which had been put into it by Aunt Mary's explanation of considering the poor,' which she had just been repeating to Mrs. Linton.

'We must see first what she most wants, Alice. Perhaps, if her parents are really poor and deserving, you rnight give half an hour a day to making some clothes for her.'

'But I don't like sewing. Oh, mamma, I would rather do anything than that!'

'I dare say you would. But, Alice, didn't you say something about self-denial just now? And I thought it was the poor we were to consider, and not our own pleasure only.'

Which Alice had for the moment forgotten. What a