Too early had it flown from its southern abode; too early abandoned the warm airs, the flowers and leafage, of a more hospitable region, to find its way to a northern home; too early ventured into a rigorous clime; and now, shivering, faint, near to death, drooped its wings and hung its weary head, waiting for the end of its brief life to come.
Francesca, looking up with woeful eyes, beheld it, and, opening the window, softly took it in.

"Poor birdie!" she whispered, striving to warm it in her gentle hand and against her delicate cheek,--"poor little wanderer!--didst thou think to find thy mate, and build thy tiny nest, and be a happy mother through the long bright summer-time?
Ah, my pet, what a sad close is this to all these pleasant dreams!" The frail little creature could not eat even the bits of crumbs which she put into its mouth, nor taste a drop of water.

All her soothing presses failed to bring warmth and life to the tiny frame that presently stretched itself out, dead,--all its sweet songs sung, its brief, bright existence ended forever.

"Ah, my little birdie, it is all over," whispered Francesca, as she laid it softly down, and unconsciously lifted her hand to her own head with a self-pitying gesture that was sorrowful to behold.
"Like me," she did not say; yet a penetrating eye looking at them--the slight bird lying dead, its brilliant plumage already dimmed, the young girl gazing at it--would perceive that alike these two were fitted for the warmth and sunshine, would perceive that both had been thwarted and defrauded of their fair inheritance, would perceive that one lay spent and dead in its early spring.

What of the other?
"Aunt Alice," said Francesca a few days after that, "can you go to New York this afternoon or to-morrow morning ?" "Certainly, dear.