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“Sister, do you think this can be the Heaven we hear people talk about? It is so still and white, and may be these children are angels,” whispered Dora, looking at the sweet face turned toward her with the long lashes lying on the colorless cheek, and the arms outstretched like wings.

“No, dear, it is a hospital, I heard that man say so, and those are sick children come to be cured. It is a sweet place, I think, and this child much nicer than that horrid Clara,” answered Flo, who was quicker to hear, see and understand what went on than Dora.

“I love to lie here safe and warm, but there doesn’t seem to be much breath to rock me,” said Do, who lay nearest the little bosom that very slowly rose and fell with the feeble flutter of the heart below.

“Hush, we may disturb her,” and lively Flo controlled her curiosity, contenting herself with looking at the other children and listening to their quiet voices, for pain seemed to have hushed them all.

For a week the dolls lay in Midge’s bed, and though their breasts were full of saw-dust and their heads were only wood, the sweet patience of the little creature seemed to waken something like a heart in them, and set them thinking, for dolls don’t live in vain, I am firmly persuaded.

All day she tended them till the small hands could no longer hold them, and through the weary nights she tried to murmur bits of lullabies lest the dollies would not be able to sleep because of the crying or the moans some of the poor babies could not repress. She often sent one or the other to cheer up some little neighbor, and in this way Do and Flo became small sisters of charity, welcomed eagerly, reluctantly returned, and loved by all, although they never uttered a word and their dingy faces could not express the emotion that stirred their saw-dust bosoms.

When Saturday night came they were laid in their usual place on Midge’s arm. She was too weak to kiss them now, and nurse laid their battered cheeks against the lips that whispered faintly, “Be sure you send ’em to the little girl, and tell her–tell her–all about it.” Then she turned her cheek to the pillow with a little sigh and lay so still the dolls thought she had gone to sleep.

She had, but the sweet eyes did not open in the morning, and there was no breath in the little breast to rock the dolls any more.

“I knew she was an angel, and now she has flown away,” said Dora softly, as they watched the white image carried out in the weeping nurse’s arms, with the early sunshine turning all the pretty hair to gold.

“I think that is what they call dying, sister. It is a much lovelier way to end than as we do in the dust bin or rag-bag. I wonder if there is a little Heaven anywhere for good dolls?” answered Flora, with what looked like a tear on her cheek; but it was only a drop from the violets sent by the kind Doctor last night.

“I hope so, for I think the souls of little children might miss us if they loved us as dear Midge did,” whispered Dora, trying to kiss the blue flower in her hand, for the child had shared her last gift with these friends.

“Why didn’t you let her take them along, poor motherless baby?” asked the doctor when he saw the dolls lying as she had left them.

“I promised her they should go to the girl they were sent to, and please, I’d like to keep my word to the little darling,” answered Nurse with a sob.

“You shall,” said the Doctor, and put them in his breast pocket with the faded violets, for everybody loved the pauper child sent to die in a hospital, because Christian charity makes every man and woman father and mother to these little ones.