“This,” thought Nettie, “is the place.”  So she entered confidently, and said to the big baker, “I’ve come for it.”

“Come for what?”

“My daily bread,” she said, pointing to the tempting loaves.  “I’ll take two, if you please—­one for mother and one for me.”

“All right,” said the baker, putting them into a bag, and giving them to his little customer, who started at once into the street.

“Stop, you little rogue!” he said, roughly; “where is your money?”

“I haven’t any,” she said simply.

“Haven’t any!” he repeated, angrily; “you little thief, what brought you here, then?”

The hard words frightened the little girl, who, bursting into tears, said:  “Mother is sick, and I am so hungry.  In my prayers I said, ’Give us this day our daily bread,’ and then I thought God meant me to fetch it, and so I came.”

The rough, but kind-hearted baker was softened by the child’s simple tale, and instead of chiding her or visiting threats of punishment, as is usually the case, he said:  “You poor, dear girl; here, take this to your mother,” and he filled a large basketful and gave it to her.

THE BROTHER’S PRAYER.

A physician, who for many years practiced his profession in the State of California, was called once to see the child of Mr. Doak, of Calveras County, living on the road between San Andreas and Stockton, and not far from the mining town of Campo Seco, or Dry Camp.  He says:  The patient was a little girl about ten years of age, bright and intelligent and one of twins, the other being a boy, equally bright and well-disposed.  The primary symptoms had indicated inflammation of the stomach, which the attending physician had hopelessly combated, and finally, when by metastasis it attacked the brain, with other unfavorable symptoms, he was inclined to abandon the case in despair.

It was at this juncture I was called in.  The symptoms were exceedingly unfavorable, and my own opinion coincided with my professional brother’s.  However, we determined to go to work.  A day and night of incessant watching, and the state of the patient caused us both to feel the case hopeless, and we only continued our attendance at the earnest solicitation of the child’s mother.  The anxious, care-worn and restless sorrow of the little brother, his deep grief as he saw his sister given over to the power of the King of Terrors, had attracted our attention.  He would creep up to the bedside of his sister silently, with pale and tearful face, controlling his emotion with great effort, and then steal away again and weep bitterly.  With a vague, indefinite idea of comforting the little fellow, I took him to my knee, and was about to utter some platitude, when the little fellow, looking me in the face, his own the very picture of grief, burst out with—­

“Oh, Doctor, must sister die?”