A song-bird

by Eleanora H. Stooke

Mavis knew by experience, that when her mother had quite made up her mind that a certain course of action was right, she would certainly pursue it. So by-and-by, she dried her eyes and tried to compose herself, but her heart was dreadfully sore. Mrs. Grey went on to explain that Miss Dawson was very young—only seventeen—and that the doctors hoped the long voyage and a few months' sojourn in Australia might do much for her health.

"I am very, very sorry for her, for she is terribly delicate," she said, pityingly. "She is motherless, too, poor girl! Her father has business engagements to keep him in England, or he would make the trip to Australia with her, himself. She will be completely in my charge, so mine will be a responsible position. It is very sad to see one so young, so weak and ill. Don't you feel sorry for her, Mavis?"

"Yes, of course I do," Mavis answered.

Then she added, with a touch of jealousy in her tone, "She will have you all to herself; but you won't forget your own little girl, will you?"

"Do you think that is likely?" Mrs. Grey asked, seriously.

"No, mother, indeed I don't," Mavis replied, feeling rather ashamed of herself; "but it is so very hard that we should be parted."

"It does appear so, dear; but, depend upon it, God knows best. You don't realize how worried I've been lately, wondering how we should manage, if I didn't get an engagement soon. Of course, I ought not to have felt like that. I ought to have remembered that 'sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.' And now it seems to me, that this work is the answer to my prayers, and that therefore it is the work God wishes me to do. It has come like light in darkness, and I want you to rejoice with me. Come, little song-bird, it grieves me to look at your gloomy face; let me see you smile."

Mavis tried to obey, but it was a sorry attempt. Her dead father had chosen her somewhat fanciful name, and it suited her well. For she was the possessor of a voice as sweet and clear as the bird—the song-thrush—after which she had been named. She was a healthy, bright, happy child who had never had a real trouble in her life till now. She remembered her father quite well, but he had died when she had been too young to realize her loss. She had certainly cried when, on inquiring for him, she had been told he had gone a long journey to a far country. But she had soon dried her eyes, and been consoled by the assurance that if she was a good girl, she would go to him some day.

Mavis had never thought much about her relatives. She knew her mother was an orphan who had been brought up at a charitable institution. And she had frequently heard her remark that she did not think she had any one near akin to her in the world, and that, but for her husband's brother, who wrote to her very kindly from time to time, there was no one to whom she could go for assistance or advice.

Now, as she sat at her mother's feet and tried to reconcile herself to the parting which seemed inevitable, the little girl reflected that it would be rather nice to have companions of her own age, and that it would be pleasant to live in the country. By-and-by, she looked up with a smile, and her mother saw that she meant to make the best of things.