It was little comfort life had ever brought to her, what with harsh treatment from a cruel father, and the woman's work that came upon her young shoulders, while her mother traveled up and down the streets with her basket of small-wares, trying to get the wherewithal to keep soul and body together. The lazy husband droned away the hours in the dram-shops, gulping down the hard earnings of his busy wife, or he staggered home with his reeling brain, to vent his ill-nature on the little pale thing that kept the house. It was "Nannie, do this," or, "Nannie, do that," or, "Nannie, mind the baby," all the live-long time, when he was sufficiently sober to know what was going on about him; and if the tired little feet loitered at all at his bidding, a wicked oath or a villainous blow hastened her weary steps. "What was she born for, any way?" She looked down upon the face of the sleeping babe whose cradle her foot was rocking, but it gave her no satisfactory answer. It was not a bright rosy-cheeked thing such as she met every day just round the corner, where she went to the pump for water! She must have been just so white and sickly, for the bit of a looking-glass that she picked up from an old ash-barrel in the street gives her back no round and healthy cheeks, but the reflection of a meager, sad-looking face, that nobody can care to look upon! And they must always be so, both baby and she, for one of her teachers in the Industrial School told her that nothing could be strong and healthy without the sun, and there was never a single ray in that dreary basement.
Oh! no, they needn't be weak and sickly! A thought has occurred to her--she wonders why she never had it before! Perhaps father wouldn't like it if he should come home and find her away. But love for baby is stronger than fear of father, and so she tidies herself up as well as she can, and wrapping the little one in a piece of an old blanket, takes it out where it is the brightest and sunniest, and there she sits on the broad stone-steps of some great house, watching the merry children who play upon the walk, and wondering if she can ever hope to see dear little Winnie as joyous and happy.
"Look at that poor girl," said one of the gay children, stopping her hoop and touching her brother upon the back with her stick; "she's got a little baby in her arms just as big as sissy--hasn't she Willie? And only see what an old ragged blanket it has on! Haven't you got any nice clothes for the baby?" said she to the young girl, who had heard her, and was moving off with the wee child hugged closely to her breast--"because sissy has a great many, and I know mother can spare you one," and with that she ran up the steps, and pulled the bell as hard as she could.
