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As Jane passed frequently through her mother’s room during the morning, pausing almost every time to ask if she wanted anything; she saw, too plainly, that she was not as well as on the day before–that she had a high fever, indicated to her by her hot skin and constant request for cool water.

“I wish I had an orange,” the poor woman said, as Jane came up to her bed-side, for the twentieth time, “it would taste so good to me.”

She had been thinking about an orange all the morning; and notwithstanding her effort to drive the thought from her mind, the form of an orange would ever picture itself before her, and its grateful flavour ever seem about to thrill upon her taste. At last she uttered her wish–not so much with the hope of having it gratified, as from an involuntary impulse to speak out her desire.

There was not a single cent in the house, for the father rarely trusted his wife with money–he could not confide in her judicious expenditure of it!

“Let me go and buy you an orange, mother,” Jane said; “they have oranges at the shop.”

“I have no change, my dear; and if I had, I should not think it right to spend four or five cents for an orange, when we have so little. Get me a cool drink of water; that will do now.”

Jane brought the poor sufferer a glass of cool water, and she drank it off eagerly. Then she lay back upon her pillow with a sigh, and her little girl went out to attend to the household duties that devolved upon her. But all the while Jane thought of the orange, and of how she should get it for her mother.

When her father came home to dinner, he looked crosser than he did in the morning. He sat down to the table and eat his dinner in moody silence, and then arose to depart, without so much as asking after his sick wife, or going into her chamber. As he moved towards the door, his hat already on his head, Jane went up to him, and looking timidly in his face, said, with a hesitating voice–

“Mother wants an orange so bad. Won’t you give me some money to buy her one?”

“No, I will not! Your mother had better be thinking about something else than wasting money for oranges!” was the angry reply, as the father passed out, and shut the door hard after him.

Jane stood for a moment, frightened at the angry vehemence of her father, and then burst into tears. She said nothing to her mother of what had passed, but after the agitation of her mind had somewhat subsided, began to cast about in her thoughts for some plan by which she might obtain an orange. At last it occurred to her, that at the shop where she got liquor for her father, they bought rags and old iron.

“How much do you give a pound for rags?” she asked, in a minute or two after the idea had occurred to her, standing at the counter of the shop.

“Three cents a pound,” was the reply.

“How much for old iron?”

“A cent a pound.”

“What’s the price of them oranges?”

“Four cents apiece.”

With this information, Jane hurried back. After she had cleared away the dinner-table, she went down into the cellar and looked up all the old bits of iron that she could find. Then she searched the yard, and found some eight or ten rusty nails, an old bolt, and a broken hinge. These she laid away in a little nook in the cellar. Afterwards she gathered together all the old rags that she could find about the house, and in the cellar, and laid them with her old iron. But she saw plainly enough that her iron would not weigh over two pounds, nor her rags over a quarter of a pound. If time would have permitted, she would have gone into the street to look for old iron, but this she could not do; and disappointed at not being able to get the orange for her mother, she went about her work during the afternoon with sad and desponding thoughts and feelings.