Motherkin—pray let us go to those poor little children. Quick! quick! they must be suffering so much."

She fell on her knees before the Motherkin in her great anxiety and excitement, and the tears of pity rolled down from her blue eyes.

Grim nodded his head with satisfaction.

"Ay, my lady, do go; do not wait for my lame leg to get well. The way is rough and fatiguing, but by all means let Lady Laura go and do what she can for those suffering little ones."

Laura did not want to wait a moment; she begged the Motherkin to start at once, that very night; but the old lady insisted upon the night's rest.

"But I cannot sleep, dear Motherkin— I am sure I cannot sleep; pray let us go. I am so afraid they are suffering dreadfully."

"We have to arrange matters a little, Laura," urged the Motherkin, pleased at the child's earnest desire to aid the little unfortunates. "I will go as early as we can to-morrow; and now let me see you show prudence as well as zeal by sleeping soundly, and so fitting yourself for the fatigue of a journey. Come, dear, to bed, and hope that the good angels are caring for the little ones we are so sorry for."

Grim, too, assured Laura that this plan was best, and that he felt confident the woodsman would do all he could until they reached the little sufferers.

So Laura went to bed, her heart stirred with very new emotions, that were both happy and painful; the desire to do good, the hope that she might relieve the poor little objects of her pity, made her glad, while the thought of their pain and poverty caused her real sorrow. Her bed no longer seemed hard, nor her little room empty of any luxuries; and, as she looked out at the stars glittering in the sky and listened to the running of the brook, she prayed that she might be of use to the poor children of the forest.

CHAPTER VI.

"I have decided not to go upon this journey, Laura," were the first words the Motherkin spoke after she had given her a morning embrace, as the child came briskly in haste to receive it, and hear the plans which she supposed Grim and the Motherkin had made after she had gone to bed the night previous.

"Oh, dear Motherkin," exclaimed Laura, "how can you forget those poor little suffering creatures! My heart has ached for them even in my dreams. All night I have been climbing rocks and wading brooks to get to them, and now you tell me I cannot go. Oh, it is too, too hard!"

"Gently, gently, Lady Laura. I have not said you could not go."

"Well, what do you mean, dear Motherkin? Is Grim to go?"

"No, Grim cannot go either," said the Motherkin, with a peculiar little smile upon her face; and Grim twisted the scarlet tassel of his cap mysteriously. Laura looked at one, then at the other: what did it mean?

"Are you sure you wish to befriend those children, Laura?" asked the old lady.

Still more surprised, and not a little indignant, Laura answered, quickly, "Indeed I do; I long to aid them."

"And you are willing to make some sacrifice, some unusual effort, to do this?"

"Yes," again answered Laura, very quickly.

"Then, my child, you must go alone to their relief."

Laura's eyes opened very wide at this.

"How can I? I do not know the way."

"We will guide you, if you have resolution enough to undertake it."

Perplexed, Laura knew not what to say. How could she go alone? All sorts of dangers rose before her—great gloomy forests to traverse, wild beasts to meet, perhaps. She stood irresolute, her hand on the Motherkin's shoulder.

The old lady took her hand in hers as she said, "I do not compel it, Laura."

"But the poor little children—how can I be of service to them? I do not know how."

"I will instruct you; I will aid you. All I ask is for you to go alone: will you, or will you not?"

A vision of the little lonely hut and the suffering child and the ministering sister rose before Laura.

"I will go," she said, no longer irresolute.

"The blessing of the poor be upon you!" said Grim, and the Motherkin kissed her brow.

"Now, my child, have a good breakfast, and then I will tell you what you are to do."

Laura obeyed very willingly, no longer disdaining good substantial food or the simple manner of its preparation. After breakfast the Motherkin opened her closets and chose a few garments for the poor children. These, with a small flask of wine and some oat-cakes, were packed in a basket which had leather straps attached to go over Laura's shoulder. Then she was arrayed in a flannel costume that her kind mother had sent with all her fineries. It was blue, with delicate traceries of silver, silver buttons, and a silver belt, from which depended a pocket, a fruit-knife, and a little drinking-cup. In the pocket the Motherkin placed a few coins, and then assured Laura that there was but one thing needed.

"And what is that, dear Motherkin?" asked Laura.

"I will show you," was the reply.

"Grim! Grim!" called the Motherkin to the dwarf, who was sunning himself out-of-doors.

"Yes, madam," said Grim, hurriedly stirring himself.

"Do you think you can cut me a good stout staff for Lady Laura, without any injury to your lame ankle?"

"Of course, madam, of course. What wood shall it be?"

"Of wood that shall serve her well—you know their qualities even better than I; and whether it be ash or birch, you can get the elves to charm it, that it may have the power to guide her aright."

Grim hobbled off in haste, and was soon seen emerging from the forest with the charmed staff in his hand. It was a light, pretty stick, and the Motherkin bade Laura be very careful not to lose it, as it could not be replaced by any ordinary wood.