THE LADIES' FLORAL CABINET 
159 
The woman looks at her; “What do the likes of us 
have to eat?” she asks, half sullenly. “He has had 
bread—and tea—and- ’’ 
“O my boy, my boy!” she cries, flinging out her 
hands with a wail of anguish. “The doctor said he 
must have broth and beef-tea, and milk and wine, or he 
would die. Broth and wine ! and them cut of slop 
shirts ! And he is dying, my boy, my only one ! ” 
Miss Montrose does not stop to console her. “ It was 
the Lord who sent me here to-day ! ” she murmurs, 
then. “ Is there any one I can send on an errand? I 
want some one to go to a drug-store and bring me a 
little brandy and a bottle of Valentine’s beef-juice. I 
would rather have milk, but if you cannot get that 
bring the beef-juice.” 
The mother catches the money which she holds out. 
“ I will go, Miss,” she says; “ I can go faster than any 
one else. God bless you for what you are doing this 
day! ” 
It is only starvation that ails the child, and under 
Miss Montrose’s treatment the breath begins to pass 
more freely over the pallied lips, into which a faint 
tinge of pink has even crept. 
“ He will do, now,” Miss Montrose says, at last. “ An 
hour longer and I am afraid it w mid have been too late, 
but the milk and brandy have saved him. Keep up the 
doses, Mrs. Morrow, and I will come again to-morrow.” 
As she speaks, she presses a bill into Mrs. Morrow’s 
hand, but the woman recoils, crying, “It is too much, 
Miss, too much. You have saved my child, and how 
can I take more from you ? ” 
“ You-will take it to continue the. work which I have 
only begun,” says Miss Montrose, softly. “ Presently, 
he will require stronger food, you know, and you will 
need money for that.” 
Before the next day is very far advanced, Miss Mon¬ 
trose is again climbing the stairs to that little room. 
The same dirt, the same foul, polluted air, in which 
linger the blended smell of all the meals which have 
been cooked over the little stove for weeks. On the 
bed the same little figure, still lying limp and motion¬ 
less, but with a tinge more of color in the pale face and 
a look as if the blue-veined lids might open sometime 
to the light of day. As she stands beside the bed, the 
odor of the small bunch of purple Violets which she 
wears in the bosom of her dress floats softly out upon 
the foul air and hovers like a spirit of blessing over the 
little face. It is like a magic touch, for the thin nos¬ 
trils quiver, the fringed lids rise slowly, and the blue 
eyes peer languidly forth. The pale lips murmur some¬ 
thing, and Miss Montrose, bending over him, catches 
the words, shaped rather than spoken: 
“ Pretty flowers ! ” • 
“Does he love flowers?” she asks, turning to Mrs. 
Morrow, but the woman shakes her head. 
“ How should I know?” she says. “You don’t sup¬ 
pose flowers ever come to this place ? Now, I think of 
it, though, I remember that one day last summer he 
came in with a Dandelion in his hand. It had found a 
growing place somehow in the court. You never saw 
a child so happy as he was. He kept it in water until 
it vv as quite dead, and even then he cried as if his heart 
was broke when I threw it away. He’s looked for them 
many a time since, but he never found one again.” 
Miss Montrose says nothing, but her eyes fill with 
tears as she lays the Violets softly in the thin little hand. 
The lids open again, and a faint ghost of a smile hovers 
around the pallid lips. 
Jamie grows stronger day by day, but still he does 
nbt gain as he ought to do. Nothing interests him; he 
takes no notice of anything, and never seems to care to 
move from the bed. 
“ It is partly the dreadful air,” thinks Miss Montrose, 
but even when she has persuaded Mrs. Morrow to open 
the window a very little way the condition of the pa¬ 
tient remains unchanged. 
“You see, Miss,” says Mrs. Morrow, “it’s hard lines 
for the poor little chap, lying there with nothing to 
amuse him, day in and day out. It’s little enough I 
can make, work as I will, and I can’t spare the time to 
be talking to him. If he had something to take an in¬ 
terest in, maybe he’d be better, but now the only things 
he seems to care foi* are the flowers you bring him. 
That yellow Rose he kept by him till it dropped to 
pieces of its own richness, and the Daisies he never 
took his eyes off till they faded quite crisp. It’s flowers 
that does him all the good in life, Miss, and isn’t he like 
a flower himself, with his wee white face and his yellow 
hair and his blue eyes with lashes like streaks of tar ? ’ 
“ I would bring him flowers every day if I were to be 
here,” says Miss Montrose, thoughtfully; “ but I am 
going away to-morrow to stay a fortnight. I must 
think what I can do.” 
Just then Miss Montrose drops the handkerchief which 
was tied about her throat, a filmy trifle of linen cambric, 
covered with delicate embroidery. Mrs. Morrow picks 
it up and returns it to her, but her eyes linger admir¬ 
ingly upon it. 
“ It takes me back to the old days,” she says, apolo¬ 
getically. “ Long ago, when I was little better than a 
child, I used to do such work. There was a pretty penny 
to be made at it then, but it has gone out of fashion 
since—worse luck !” 
Miss Montrose starts and seems about to speak, but 
checks herself. 
“ Did you do it well?” she asks at last. 
“They said so,” answers Mrs. Morrow, modestly. 
“Wait and I’ll show you a bit. It’s in rags now, or it 
would have been sold long ago; but you can see the 
work, for all that.” 
It is in rags, truly; a collar yellow, tumbled, dilapi¬ 
dated, but Miss Montrose exclaims at the beauty of the 
work, and casts her caution to the winds. 
“You are making slop-shirts for a mere pittance,” 
she cries, “when you can do such work as this ! And 
you do not know that this sort of embroidery has come 
up again and is all the rage. I was just on my way to 
an embroideress, but she can work no better than you, 
if as well. You shall have the job if you choose, and I 
will pay you just what I would her.” 
As she speaks she unfolds the parcel which she carries, 
and Mrs. Morrow’s eyes sparkle as they fall on the filmy 
web, with its tracery of vines and tendrils in delicate, 
intricate curves. 
“It is for a Yveddingpresent,” says Miss Morrow,“and 
I have no time to do it myself. If you do it as well as 
that collar is done, I can get you plenty more of the 
same sort of work. Now I must go, but I will remem¬ 
ber Jamie.” 
All the way home Miss Montrose’s thoughts are running 
upon the little sick boy, pondering what she can do to 
bring the light of life into the weary, wistful eyes. If 
