She was a widow, too, and had no one to depend upon.  Her husband died last spring.  During the summer she had provided for her family by washing and cleaning, but this winter she finds it almost impossible to get work.  One of the children is a babe, who was lying on a rough, unpainted board-cradle, rudely put together by some unaccustomed hand.  This infant had been taken care of during the summer by his brother, not more than ten or twelve years old, while his mother was absent at work.  There was a little girl, about eight years old, who attends the Industrial School.  She was quite unwell, and had not been able to go out for several days.  She sat in the great rocking-chair, looking sad and disconsolate, as most sick children do.  She was comfortably clothed.  Her dress she had received at the school, and had sewed on it herself doing all her little fingers could do to make it.  Her hair was neatly combed.  She was feverish and very thirsty.  Sometimes she went to the pail herself for a cup of water, and sometimes her brother would get it for her.  He seemed kind, gentle, and sympathizing—­a good example for some more favoured boys.

Pretty soon the door opened, and an aged woman, bent with years and breathing hard and painfully, entered the room.  A boy, with a complexion fair and transparent, through which the blue veins showed themselves, immediately followed her.  She greeted us kindly, and took a chair by my side, bending towards us that she might hear more easily, for she was almost deaf.  She told us that since her daughter’s death she had been entirely dependent on charity.

After talking with her a short time, Mrs. B——­, the lady accompanying me, gave her little grandson a penny to buy some candy.  She did so, because she wished to talk with his grandmother about him, and thought he had, perhaps, better not be in the room.  So soon as he left, she asked the old lady if she had made up her mind to part with the child.  She had been spoken to a fortnight previously in regard to it by another lady, and seemed then unwilling that he should leave her.  She said she had come to the conclusion that she must give him up, for she was too old and feeble to take care of him, and she was constantly anxious about him.  She could not do for him all that he needed, and she knew it would be much better for him to be adopted in some kind family, where he could be brought up as a son.  She spoke of him most tenderly and affectionately.  He was her earthly all.  She had taken care of him from his infancy.  She came from Ireland for that very purpose.  His father had died before he was old enough to remember him, and his mother had supported him by her own industry.

The grandmother’s name was not Smith, as we called her.  It was, as she said, widow Cahoon.  The daughter’s name was Smith, and the sunny-haired boy was David.  Last May, Mrs. Smith died of cholera, leaving her aged mother homeless, and her beautiful boy an orphan.