“Stop, little boy!” said a sweet voice from somewhere among the roses and heliotropes.  “Is your mother sick?”

Arch removed his cap—­some inborn spirit of courtesy prompting him to be reverent toward the glorious vision which burst upon him.  For a moment he thought he saw an angel, and almost expected that she would unfold her silvery wings, and vanish in a golden cloud from his sight.  But after the first glimpse he saw that she was a little girl about his own age—­eight or nine years, perhaps—­with yellow curls, deep hazel eyes, a mouth like a rosebud, and a blue silk frock.  She repeated the question: 

“Is your mother sick, little boy?”

“No, she is not sick, for she always sits up, and sews.  But she is not strong, and her cheeks never have any color in them, like yours.”

“And does she love flowers?”

“Yes, she loves them dearly.  She kisses them always, when she has any.  And that’s not often.”

“Does she?  That’s nice.  Just like I do!” said the little girl, in a pleased voice.  “Mr. Burns”—­to the gruff clerk—­“here is a dollar.  Give me some real nice roses, and two or three sweet pinks.  The lady shall have some flowers.  Tell her I sent them.”

“Who shall I say sent them?”

“Margie Harrison.  Will she know me, think?”

“I guess not.  But it’s all the same.  I shall tell her you are one of the angels, any way.  She knows about them, for she’s told me ever so much about them.”

The little girl laughed, and gave him the flowers.

“Don’t soil them with your grimy hands,” she said, a little saucily; “and when you get home—­let’s see, what’s your name?”

“Archer Trevlyn.”

“Why, what a nice name!  Just like names in a storybook.  I know some elegant people by the name of Trevlyn.  But they live in a big house, and have flowers enough of their own.  So they can’t be your folks, can they?”

“No, they’re not my folks,” replied the boy, with a touch of bitterness in his voice.

“Well, Archer when you get home, you wash your face, do!  It’s so dirty!”

The boy flushed hotly.  If one of his companions had said that to him, he would have knocked him down instantly.  But he forgave everything this little girl said, because she was so beautiful and so kind.

“I am a street-sweeper, miss.”

“Oh, that accounts for it, then.  It’s very muddy to-day, and you must be tired.  Hark! there’s Florine calling me.  Good-by, Archer.”

She vanished, and a moment later the boy saw her disappear within the glittering carriage, which, loaded down with fragrant blossoms, was driven slowly away.  He stood a little while looking after it, then, pulling his cap down over his eyes, and grasping the stems of her flowers tightly in his little purple hand, he started for home.

Home!  It could hardly be called so, and yet it was home to Archer.  His mother was there—­the dear mother who was all the world to him.  It was in a poor part of the city—­an old, tumble-down wooden house, swarming with tenants, teeming with misery, filth, and crime.