RHODA BRINGS GOOD NEWS TO HER FRIEND.

Meantime, Rhoda found her way into Mrs. Wheeler's basement, up stairs to Mrs. Holt's room. She found that lady in deep distress; a letter had just reached her from her husband, in which he wrote, with some degree of tender regret at their enforced separation. Nothing, he said, but want of means would have forced him to leave her behind.

Perhaps there was something real in this; distance, and that profound solitude which men born in cities feel in the great waste of the prairies, might have aroused memories and regrets enough to make what he wrote a truth. Certainly it had this effect upon the poor lady to whom the letter came. Her desire to be with this idol of her life grew almost into a frenzy. She walked the room, wringing her hands. Again and again she searched in her mind for some means by which she could follow him into the solitude that presented itself to her imagination as a paradise; but all her resources were exhausted. She had already strained the means of her son, and nothing but the shawl was left. The last hope that she could cling to, lay in the little girl who sold matches for a living—a creature who only a short time before had been the object of her own charity.

What real hope could fasten itself on this child, bright and energetic as she was? If she failed, how could Mrs. Holt dispose of the property, to whom could she offer it?

Depressed by these thoughts, and sick at heart with a yearning wish to join the husband she loved with such forlorn adoration as age feels for its last object of love, the poor lady had crept into her easy-chair, resolved to wait patiently. She was kind-hearted and generous; but I fear in all her troubles she seldom remembered to pray either for mercies or fortitude. Instead of turning her disappointed and faint heart to God, who must, in his infinite goodness, have compassion on the creatures of his own making, sensitive, impulsive, full of faults, yet lovable from their very imperfections and their capacities for suffering, she took up her pride and her courage, and battled on with them. The world had buffeted her to the earth again and again, but she never quite gave way, though, at times, she longed with a terrible desire to lie down and be at rest forever.

Oh! if she could but get to him! The loneliness which had fallen upon her since he left had been so depressing, that she fretted under it like a sick child. Her health failed, her appetite fled; she grew pale and shadowy. Thus the woman sat, helpless, and still in that great easy-chair when Rhoda opened the door and stole in, so eager with the good news that she forgot to knock. Quick as a lapwing she crossed the room, and startled Mrs. Holt with her voice.

"I have got it—the shawl, you know!"

Mrs. Holt turned her wild face upon the child; it looked scared and unbelieving. Dying hopes will not revive in an old breast as they do among the blossoms of youth.

"Poor child! Poor, dear child! you have done your best, I know! Never mind, I did not expect it!"

"But I have sold it."

"What!"

The word came from her lips like a cry of pain. She could not yet realize that the girl was not mocking her.

"I sold it for a thousand dollars," whispered Rhoda, almost disbelieving herself.

"A thousand dollars! Dear, dear! if it could only be true, that would open heaven for me—absolute heaven!"

"It's true as the gospel, lady! Yes, if you throw in both the old Bible and all the New Testament. I've got the money in my hand. See!"

Mrs. Holt reached forth her thin, white hand, unfolded the notes, and counted them, one by one, but each moment her lips grew paler, and the broad lids settled slowly over her eyes, so slowly that it might have seemed as if she were falling asleep; but she had fainted into dead insensibility, while the loose notes fluttered down from her lap, and floated to her feet.

Rhoda neither screamed or ran, as another child might have done. She went to the bureau and searched among the toilet-bottles for hartshorn, camphor, or any of the common restoratives which she remembered to have been used about her mother. All the bottles were empty. It had been a long time since that poor lady had been able to indulge in dainty perfumes, or even restoratives. There was plenty of water, however, and the child dashed a glass full into that white face, and held another to the white lips, when they began to stir with a pang of returning life.

"Oh, dear! what have I done that you should go off so!" pleaded the child, shaking all over with affright. "I thought it would make you so happy!"

"Happy! What can make me happy? Only one thing! Only one thing!"

"Do tell me what it is. I wanted so much to make you happy, and have only done this," pleaded Rhoda, utterly despondent. If it isn't money you want, just say what it is. I didn't mean any harm; and now I've wet all your hair, and ever so much of your dress. The best thing I can do is to stick close to the matches; they are always to be depended on."

Mrs. Holt gathered herself up and made an effort to arrange her hair, which was, in truth, dripping wet, but her hands fell feebly away from the task, and she clasped them in her lap with a wan smile.

"But you were telling me something—what was it, little Rhoda?"

"Don't be angry and do that again, it frightens me almost to death. I didn't mean any wrong, and thought you wanted me to do it, so I sold your shawl for a thousand dollars, and brought you the money. Don't! Don't turn so white! I'll do my very best to get it back."

"Get it back! You have really sold it, then? And the money, where is it? So long as there is enough to carry me out to him, I do not care. Where is it, dear?"

"Here, and here, and here," cried Rhoda, brightening instantaneously, and picking up the bank-notes, one by one. "All good as gold—I looked out for that. Oh! now you are happy; you look like it—you are smiling. No, no! don't do that!"