For hours the young girl searched among the several rooms which her cousin had told her belonged to her mother, when suddenly she came upon a little closet tightly locked.
With a set of keys which she had found she opened it, and before her glistening eyes were a number of things which evidently belonged to a little girl.
A broken French doll, with one eye gone, grinned at Nellie from the corner. In a chair in the middle of the small room was another doll made of rags, and it still showed signs of childish teeth.
The long stringy hair which hung over the dirty face brought the tears to Helen’s eyes. She sat down upon the floor and began to cry.
“Why, darlint,” cried Biddy, “and you are a-crying. I wouldn’t look at them little things if they make your heart ache. Come to your Biddy’s heart.”
“Oh, Biddy, Biddy, I can’t help but cry over my mother. I wish she had lived and been with us. Oh, how hard fate was to her when she had such a home as this to die in a dreadful prison.”
“Well, well, it must have been the Good Father’s wish,” cried the woman, “or it would not have happened. Now, cheer up, dear, and be happy.”
“But, look at this little doll,” said the girl sorrowfully; “she must have loved this one, for she has used it so much.”
“So she has, sweet, but she did not want her own little girl to cry over it.”
“But she didn’t have any nice mother like you, dear,” said Nellie.