Perdita had all the while been kneeling, admiring in silence her beautiful mother.  Paulina presently said that she possessed the power to make the statue move, if such were the king’s pleasure; and as some soft music was heard, the figure stirred.  Ah! it was no sculptured marble, but Hermione, living and breathing, who hung upon her husband and her long-lost child!

It is needless to tell that Paulina’s story of her royal mistress’ death was an invention to save her life, and that for all those years she had kept the queen secluded, so that Leontes should not hear that she was living until Perdita was found.

All was happiness; but none was greater than that of Camillo and Paulina, who saw the reward of their long faithfulness.  One more person was to arrive upon the scene; even Polixenes, who came in search of Florizel, and was thus in time to bless the union of the young people, and take a share in the general joy.

A GRACIOUS DEED.

In an humble room in one of the poorest streets in London, Pierre, a faithful French boy, sat humming by the bedside of his sick mother.  There was no bread in the closet, and for the whole day he had not tasted food.  Yet he sat humming to keep up his spirits.  Still at times he thought of his loneliness and hunger, and he could scarcely keep the tears from his eyes, for he knew that nothing would be so grateful to his poor mother as a good, sweet orange, and yet he had not a penny in the world.

The little song he was singing was his own; one he had composed, both air and words—­for the child was a genius.

He went to the window, and looking out, he saw a man putting up a great bill with yellow letters announcing that Mme. Malibran would sing that night in public.

“Oh, if I could only go,” thought little Pierre; and then pausing a moment he clasped his hands, his eyes lighting with new hope.  Running to the little stand, he smoothed his yellow curls, and taking from a little box some old stained paper, gave one eager glance at his mother, who slept, and ran speedily from the house.

“Who did you say was waiting for me?” said madame to her servant.  “I am already worn with company.”

“It’s only a very pretty little boy with yellow curls, who said if he can just see you he is sure you will not be sorry, and he will not keep you a moment.”

“Oh, well, let him come,” said the beautiful singer, with a smile.  “I can never refuse children.”

Little Pierre came in, his hat under his arm, and in his hand a little roll of paper.  With manliness unusual for a child he walked straight to the lady and, bowing, said:  “I came to see you because my mother is very sick, and we are too poor to get food and medicine.  I thought, perhaps, that if you would sing my little song at some of your grand concerts, maybe some publisher would buy it for a small sum and so I could get food and medicine for my mother.”