The Worthington advance. [volume] (Worthington, Minn.) 1874-1908, 1879-12-25

ton, more interested than she cared to
show.
"Only papa was tall, and had pretty
buttons on his coat; and he went away
once andscame back, and he went away
again and didn't come back; and mamma
was sick. and then I lived with Sandy
and Mamma Dooley,"
t'Thank you, dear. But tell me, did
mamma call you Norah?"
"Mamma called me sweet and sDet:'
and papa said Lilly, Lly,' just like mu.
SIC"
By that time Sandy had the tree cut
down, and the children were watching
him get it to the wagon, and were won
dering where and how they. could sit
without breaking the prettyabranchcs.
That night Mrs. Winnerton called Mrs.
*Dooley into her room and asked her
about Norab.
Its little to tell, and not satisfyin' to
hear, mum; for I can never just fix it in
my own mind. Ye see, when first see
the lady she was sick, ind she used to
get me to do errands for her-selling her
pretty trinkets, and the like, to get her a
bit Of coal or sup to drink. And new
er thought of her dyin',., until one morn
in went up to see would she drink
some hot tea before she tried to get up.
And there she lay, with the child on her
arm, q sleepin' sweet as you please, an
she cold an: still: my lady. 1t would
have broke your heart to sec her, the
poor dear; and all could do was to take
the little one and bury her mother de-
cent. She was qnality, my lady-that
am sure OF; for her clothes were beaut1-
full. And when I laid her out there was
a locket on her breast, with two pictures
in 1t; and tied to the string was little
card, which Sandy read out to me (for
Sandy has bit Of iearnin', you know,
and it said: please, kind stranger, sell
this, and bury me properly. NJ. H. s.
There was two pictures in it, and /
thought they would be of no account to
the jewellers; so, I took them out and sold
the gold part. And we buried her de-
cent, the poor soul; and her pretty cloth
es is all saving for her chiid.'
"Wlll you let me have those p1ctures2"
asked Mrs. WlnncrtOn.
"Indade an will, mum. I was think
ing maybe had better speak to you
about it or put the child with the sisters.
Only I'm a-th,nkin' would her poor
mother like it. But she's foine child,
and needs some learnin' like her moth
er."
Mr.. and Mrs, Winnerton pondered
over the pictures for an hour that night;
also little praycr-book and Bible,
which had written in them only s'Io nv
darling, from Will" But they could
make nothing of them, and decided to
dream over it.
The result Of the nights sleep was
decision OH Mr.. Winncrton's part to put
a notice in the paper and await results.
The notice appeared but no response
came: and little Norah, al unconscious
of what was going On: laughed and play
ed with the other children. The notice
had been in all the city papers for three
days when Christmas morning came,
bright and rosy. And great was the joy
at Cmberly, for every one had gift pur-
chased for every one else. and
the Christmas tree, which no one had
seen, fairly blossomed with presents.
Christmas night came, and papa Winner
ton sat perehed on some steps, dressed in
a new dressing gown and smoking cap,
which Santa Claus had just brought
him, while he took presents for others
OFT the tree. There he sat making funny
speeches about tho gifts, when suddenly
tile door-bell rang. ''Dcar me-" said
Mrs. Winnerton. "Who can come now7
Everybody is supposed to be at home on
Christmas night
''Is this Mr.. Winnerton's rcsidence?'
asked somewhat hoarse voice.
"Yes, sir. Will you walk in?' said
who opened the door.
And the stranger walked in, and found
Mr.. Winnerton ON the very top seat Of
the step-ladder, holding huge doll in
his hand, which was marked "For Noral,."
When the gentleman entered Mr.. Win
merton sprang down, threw his smoking
cap oil, gave the doll into Norahs ready
arms. and extended his hand.
"You are a stranger, sir, and find me
playing Harlequin for ny little folks,
but you are right welcome
''You wrote a notice tor the paper,
sir, and gave some initials. It was
brought to my notice about ten o'clock
last night. l have travelled every mo-
ment since, and am here to know the
worst or best you can tell me. My name
is unlerland-William Sunderland;
and I was captain Of cavalry company
during our war. Lett my wife in Eu-
rope, with our child, too weak, after a
long illness, to come with me when the
call came for more troops. She urged
me to leave her, and I did so, after re-
celving promise that her family in
would send her to me. She
sailed, learned; on the ill-fated Aurora,
and no tidings ever reached me. I sup
posed all lost. Indeed the papers said
so. The anxiety threw me into fever.
For months was in the hospital, and
on recovering, I plunged again into the
thickest of the fight. Last evening,
while sitting with an old friend, picked
up New York paper and read your no.
tice; in five minutes was on the cars.
What can you tell me, sir?'
The stranger had spoke rapidly, and
every one stood breathless, looking in
tently at him.
"My dear FRIEND" said Mr.. Winnerton,
while tho tears stood in his eyes, II
think we have your child here with us.
And this kind Irish friend of ours will
tell you the story of your wife's last
days"
Mrs. Dooley ran from the room, and
brought the pictures, carefully wrapped
in cotton. Mrs. Winnerton greeted the
stranger, and then produced the prayer
book and Bible.
"They were Marlan's," he said, sadly.
my poor, poor darllng!"
For few moments no one spoke in
the room and the captain buried his face