A shabby room, a hovel, a morgue of hope, a mausoleum of joy, in which dwell only care and woe, and an invalid and her little daughter. There is no more medicine, no money to buy more. But the brave spirit of the child knows no daunt, and she determines to beg the druggist for more medicine. She braves the storm outside, wends her way to the drug store. But druggists are prosaic; there is little poetry or philanthropy in pharmacy. The child’s pitiful pleadings are in vain. Disheartened, she leaves the store and walks outside. Suddenly she sees in the sky a wonderful thing, a marvelous blending of radiant colors. She asks -a passerby what it is, and he tells her it is a rainbow, and that at the end of it is a large pot of gold. A pot of gold! Gold, with which to buy medicine, lots of it, enough to cure her sick mother all at once. And the child sets out to find the gold that the golden colors lead to. She comes to a place of many brilliant lights. Here must be the entrance to the fairyland where she will find the gold. She mounts a flight of stairs, and timidly enters, Paradise! For an angel voice is singing, and heavenly music is playing, and other angels in wonderful gowns are sitting at tables, and bright stars are gleaming, or are they diamonds? And a wonderful, celestial glare is over all. But a rough hand reaches suddenly out to seize her, and a gruff voice, a voice very unlike an angel’s, tells her to leave the enchanted land, but a strong man’s voice gives a command, and a beautiful angel’s soft arms entwine about her little form, and a sweet voice questions and surprised ears listen to the child’s strange, sad story. The actress on the roof garden learns the situation and, yes, actresses have hearts, big, throbbing, tender hearts. A collection is made; the child gets her pot of gold. It means life for the sick mother, happiness for both, and happiness for those who gave as well.