THE LADIES' FLORAL CABINET. 
IV 
child, they said, allowed to go into society when she 
ought to have been in the nursery. Ah, well! maybe 
it’s a good thing that she had a taste of pleasure then. 
It’s little enough of it she has now.” 
“ O look mamma ! ” cried Effie, as a pale, sweet face 
was pressed for a moment to the window opposite and 
then vanished. 
Outside all was dull and dreary. Low, gray clouds 
hung over the city, and a wild wind sent the rain in 
whirling gusts against the panes. Inside Mrs. Camp¬ 
bell’s room all was warm and bright, in the light of the 
fire which glowed and sparkled upon the hearth. Mrs. 
Campbell sat beside the fire busily sewing, and pale- 
faced little Efiie, well wrapped up, half sat, half lay, in 
a big, old-fashioned chair drawn up near the window. 
For Effie had been very ill in the fall, and, though 
better, was still but a frail ghost of the child who had 
made the little room ring with her joyous laughter, all 
through the long, bright summer. She was easily tired 
in mind, as well as in body, and she sighed wearily as 
she fixed her eyes upon a single plant, in a common red 
flower-pot, which stood near the window, but not so 
near as to catch the draught from the cracks in the 
frame. 
“Tired, Effie?” said Mx - s. Campbell, cheerfully. 
“Not par-tic-u-lar-ly,” said Effie, stumbling a little 
over the big word. “ I was only wondering how soon 
my Daphne would bloom. It seems a very long time ! 
How kind Mrs. Lawrence was to give it to me, wasn’t 
she, mother ? ” 
“Very, but Mrs. Lawrfincealways is kind,” said Mrs. 
Campbell, cheerfully. “ For all she is such a rich lady, 
she hasn’t abit of pride about her. Such a grand store her 
husband has, full of books and pictures, and, oh! the 
beautifulest Christinas cards ! How you would like to 
see them, Effie ! There are ink-stands of all sorts, glass 
and china, and carved wood and metal; and portfolios 
and albums, and—why, bless the child ! she’s asleep.” 
And Mrs. Campbell got up to lift the light little form 
softly from the. big chair and cover it up carefully in 
bed. 
Across the way, the room was not bright and cheery, 
like Mrs. Campbell’s. It was warm enough, but there 
was no bright fire to be seen, for the heat came up 
through a black register. The room which Sylvia and 
her mother occupied was large and well-furnished, 
though in somewhat sombre style, but it was on the 
north side of the house and there was none of that glow 
and glory of sunlight, which, on clear days, rollicked 
and rioted in all the corners of Mrs. Campbell’s little 
room, finding out every atom of shine, and lighting up 
unexpected sparkles in the darkest nooks. It was a dark 
and gloomy cage for so bright a bird as Sylvia, and 
dark and gloomy she seemed to find it, as she laid 
her head back against her chair, with a sigh of weari¬ 
ness. 
“Tired, Sylvia?” said a soft voice from the bed, and 
Sylvia answered, as Effie had done; “ Not particularly.” 
“ Only it is so dismal here,” she added, after a pause. 
“ It is hard for you, I know, my child,” said Mrs. 
Nesbitt, “but think how much worse* it would have 
been to be turned out in the world, without even this 
shelter. Our tiny income would hardly have provided 
us with the meanest lodging, you know, and, even then, 
every cent must have gone for the rent alone.” 
“Yes,” said Sylvia, dejectedly. “ It would not be so 
bad for either of us,” she added, after a moment, “ if 
we only had something to do. If I had money to sub¬ 
scribe to a library, and could read to you, or even if we 
had a sunny room and could raise flowers, but you 
know how it was with that poor little Rose-bud I tried, 
how it dwindled and pined until I could not bear to see 
it, and it was almost a relief when it died outright. If 
there were only some way in which I could earn even 
a little extra money, mamma, just enough for a few 
books and now and then some cut flowers for you. And, 
oh ! to think of the flowers we used to have, the blaze 
of the little garden, and the heavy fragrance of our 
tiny conservatory, and the cool, quiet woods, all starred 
with violets. O, mamma! mamma ! if I could but see 
them again ! Aunt Lucretia gives us all that we really 
need for our bodies, and how is she to guess that we 
have feelings, who has none herself ? ” 
“Hush, Sylvia, hush!” cried Mrs. Nesbitt. “You 
forget all that she has done for us, who have no shadow 
of claim upon her.” 
“No, I do not forget,” said Sylvia, “and I am grate¬ 
ful in general, but once in a while the old man gets the 
better of me. Wouldn't it be lovely, mamma, if we could 
live together in a bright, cozy little room like that one 
opposite, where that pleasant-faced woman and the 
frail little child live ? They seem so happy, though they 
are poor, and the child looks so delicate. They even 
have flowers, or a flower at least. I fancy from here 
that it' looks like a Daphne, and I am watching every 
day to see whether my fancy is correct. It is very long 
in blossoming.” 
“ The woman’s face looks very familiar to nie, but I 
cannot think where I have seen it,” said Mrs. Nesbitt. 
“ I should like to see her nearer, but I cannot go there, 
and I should not like to send for her to come here.” 
“Perhaps it may come of itself some day,” said 
Sylvia. “Things often do. And now, mamma, it is 
time for your beef-tea—Aunt Lucretia has just sent it 
up—and your nap. Let me cover you up warm. Now 
go to sleep and dream of flowers and sunshine. I can 
wish you no happier dreams.” 
“ My flower has bloomed at last, mother,” cried Effie, 
a few days later. “Look at it. Isn’t it white and soft, 
and just tinged with pink on the outside, like the little 
flue clouds that come over the sky at sunset ? I think 
the angels’ wings must look like it, don’t you ? Only, if 
they did I don’t see how they could bear the angels up 
in their long flies. Mother, there’s Miss Sylvia looking 
over here. I wonder whether she sees my flower. O, 
how sad she looks, and how pale and thin ! and to think 
of the pretty young princess she was once. They have 
no flowers over there, mother, and ”— 
Then Effie fell into silence and was still a long, long 
time, tenderly and absently stroking the green leaves of 
her plant, or touching, with delicate fingers, the pearly 
blossoms and rosy-tinted buds. 
“ Mother,” she said, at last, “ I want you to do some¬ 
thing for me. See, I am going to break off the flower 
and I want you to take it over to Miss Sylvia and 
tell her it is from me. They have no flowers over 
there and I think she looks as if it was flowers she 
wanted.” 
“But, Effie, child !” cried Mrs. Campbell, “it is your 
only one, and you have been watching for it to bloom so 
long. There are no more buds on the plant and ” — 
“I know all that, mother,” said Effie, “but lam sure 
