On the next morning, the father of little Jane went away to his work, and she was left alone with her mother and her younger sister.  They were very poor, and could not afford to employ any one to do the house-work, and so, young as she was, while her mother was sick, Jane had everything to do:—­the cooking, and cleaning, and even the washing and ironing—­a hard task, indeed, for her little hands.  But she never murmured—­never seemed to think that she was overburdened; How cheerfully would all have been done, if her father’s smiles had only fallen like sunshine upon her heart!  But that face, into which her eyes looked so often and so anxiously, was ever hid in clouds—­clouds arising from the consciousness that he was abusing his family while seeking his own base gratification, and from perceiving the evidences of his evil works stamped on all things around him.

As Jane passed frequently through her mother’s room during the morning, pausing almost every time to ask if she wanted anything; she saw, too plainly, that she was not as well as on the day before—­that she had a high fever, indicated to her by her hot skin and constant request for cool water.

“I wish I had an orange,” the poor woman said, as Jane came up to her bed-side, for the twentieth time, “it would taste so good to me.”

She had been thinking about an orange all the morning; and notwithstanding her effort to drive the thought from her mind, the form of an orange would ever picture itself before her, and its grateful flavour ever seem about to thrill upon her taste.  At last she uttered her wish—­not so much with the hope of having it gratified, as from an involuntary impulse to speak out her desire.

There was not a single cent in the house, for the father rarely trusted his wife with money—­he could not confide in her judicious expenditure of it!

“Let me go and buy you an orange, mother,” Jane said; “they have oranges at the shop.”

“I have no change, my dear; and if I had, I should not think it right to spend four or five cents for an orange, when we have so little.  Get me a cool drink of water; that will do now.”

Jane brought the poor sufferer a glass of cool water, and she drank it off eagerly.  Then she lay back upon her pillow with a sigh, and her little girl went out to attend to the household duties that devolved upon her.  But all the while Jane thought of the orange, and of how she should get it for her mother.

When her father came home to dinner, he looked crosser than he did in the morning.  He sat down to the table and eat his dinner in moody silence, and then arose to depart, without so much as asking after his sick wife, or going into her chamber.  As he moved towards the door, his hat already on his head, Jane went up to him, and looking timidly in his face, said, with a hesitating voice—­

“Mother wants an orange so bad.  Won’t you give me some money to buy her one?”