It required not this remark from her to satisfy the beholder of her inability to proceed, for extreme fatigue and exhaustion were visible in her every motion.

She approached the door of a handsome dwelling situated in the central portion of the village, and rang the bell. The door was opened by an elderly-looking man, who accosted her civilly and seemed waiting for her to make known her errand.

In a low and timid voice the woman asked him if he would allow herself and child to rest for the night beneath his roof?

He replied, in a voice that was decidedly gruff and crusty,--

"There are two hotels in the village; we keep no travellers here," and immediately closed the door in her face.

Could he have seen the forlorn expression that settled on her countenance when, on regaining the street, she took her little boy by the hand and again walked slowly onward--his heart must indeed have been hard if he had not repented of his unkindness.

After walking a short distance further, the woman paused before a house of much humbler appearance than the former one, and, encouraged by the motherly appearance of an elderly lady who sat knitting at her open door in the lingering twilight, she drew nigh to her, and asked if she would shelter herself and child for the night.

The old lady regarded her earnestly for a moment; she seemed, however, to be impressed favorably by her appearance, for her voice was very pleasant, as she replied to her request,--

"Certainly you can remain for the night, for I have never yet denied so small a favor (as a shelter for the night) to any one who sought it.

Come in at once, and I will endeavor to make you and your little boy comfortable, for you look very much fatigued."

The woman gladly followed the kind old lady into the house, and seated herself in the comfortable rocking chair which she had kindly placed for her; she also placed a seat for the child, but he refused to leave his mother's side, and stood leaning upon the arm of her chair. The old lady soon after left the room saying, as she did so, that she would soon bring them some refreshment, of which they evidently stood much in need.

Mr. Humphrey, the husband of the old lady, soon came in, and his wife said a few words to him in a low voice in the adjoining room; a kind expression was upon his countenance when he entered the room where were the strangers. He coaxed the little boy to come and sit upon his knee, by the offer of a large red-cheeked apple which he took from his pocket.

He stroked his brown curls and asked him to tell him his name.

"Ernest Harwood," replied the boy.

Mr. Humphrey told him he thought it a very nice name, and also that he thought him a very fine little boy. The little fellow blushed, and hid his face at the praise thus bestowed upon him.

Mrs. Humphrey soon after re-entered the room, bringing a small tea-tray, on which was a cup of tea and some other suitable refreshment for the weary woman; she also brought a bowl of bread and milk for the child.

The woman drank the tea eagerly, like one athirst, but partook sparingly of the more substantial refreshment which Mrs. Humphrey urged upon her; but the sight of the brim-full bowl of bread and milk caused the eyes of the little boy to glisten with pleasure, and he did ample justice to the hospitality of the benevolent old lady.

Mrs. Harwood wished to give Mrs. Humphrey some account of the circ.u.mstances which caused her to be travelling alone with her child, but the worthy and considerate lady would not allow her to further fatigue herself by talking that night, and insisted upon her retiring at once to rest.

"To-morrow," said she, "I shall be happy to listen to any thing you may wish to communicate."

Mrs. Humphrey conducted the woman and her child up stairs to a neat bed-room where, after making every arrangement necessary to their comfort, she bade them a kind good night, and left them to enjoy the rest which they so much needed.

CHAPTER II.

When Mrs. Humphrey rejoined her husband in the sitting-room, their conversation very naturally turned to the stranger who was resting beneath their roof. They evidently felt deeply interested by her delicate and lady-like appearance.

"I am sure of one thing," said Mrs. Humphrey, "that this woman has seen better days, notwithstanding the poverty which her present appearance indicates."

"And I am convinced of another thing," replied Mr. Humphrey, "that no fault of her's has reduced her to her present circ.u.mstances, for her countenance shews her to be a worthy and true-souled woman; and she shall freely remain beneath my roof until it shall be her wish to leave it."

Little did Mr. Humphrey think, when he made this remark, how soon the poor woman would exchange the shelter of his roof for that of the grave.

Next morning on visiting the room of the stranger, Mrs. Humphrey found her too ill to rise from the bed. She complained of no pain, but seemed very weak and languid. Mrs. Humphrey did all that lay in her power for the comfort of the sick woman. Taking little Ernest down stairs she beguiled him with amusing stories, as she attended to her domestic duties, so that his mother might be left in quiet; and when the child grew weary of the confinement of the house Mr. Humphrey took him to walk with him while he attended to some business in the village. Before returning home Mr. Humphrey called upon Dr. Merton, with whom he was intimately acquainted, and spoke to him concerning the sick woman at his house. He requested the physician to call to see her in the course of the day, saying, that if the woman was not able to pay him he would himself see him paid for his services.

"It makes no difference," replied the humane physician, "whether she is rich or poor, if she requires the attention of a physician she must not be neglected; I will certainly call in the afternoon."

The physician accordingly called in the afternoon, and, after some conversation with Mrs. Harwood, prescribed for her some medicines, and left her, promising to call again in a short time. Before leaving the house, however, he informed Mrs. Humphrey that he thought the woman alarmingly ill. "As near," said he, "as I can judge from her appearance, I think that consumption has been for a long time preying upon her const.i.tution, and over-fatigue has thus suddenly prostrated her. The powers of life," continued Dr. Merton, "are fast failing, and in my opinion a few weeks will terminate her earthly existence. I have prescribed for her some simple medicines, but I fear her case is already beyond the aid of medicine. All we can do," said the physician in conclusion, "is to render her as comfortable as may be, for she will soon require nothing which this world affords."

The lonely situation of the stranger had deeply touched the kind heart of Dr. Merton.

As the Doctor had predicted, Mrs. Harwood failed rapidly. She suffered but little bodily pain, but her strength failed her daily, and it soon became evident to all who saw her, that the day of her death could not be far distant.

She gave to Mrs. Humphrey a brief sketch of her past life, which will be made the subject of another chapter.

Mr. and Mrs. Humphrey had reared a family of five children; three of them now slept in the village church-yard; the remaining two had married, and removed to a long distance from their paternal home, consequently the worthy couple had for some years dwelt alone in the home where once had echoed the glad voices of their children.

They soon decided that, should Mrs. Harwood not recover, they would gladly adopt her little boy as their own, if she felt willing to leave him to their care. So great was the anxiety of Mrs. Harwood regarding her child, that it was long ere she gave up hopes of recovery, but when she at length became aware that she must die, she at first found it very difficult to resign herself to the will of Heaven.

"Were it not for my child," she would often say, "the prospect of death would not be unpleasant to me, for I have a comforting hope of a life beyond the grave; but who will care for my orphan boy when I am no more?

I must not distrust the goodness of the orphans' G.o.d."

Mr. Humphrey, in reply to these remarks one day, said to her--

"I hope you will make your mind perfectly easy in regard to your child; for, should it please G.o.d to remove you by death, I have already decided to adopt little Ernest as my own son, if you feel willing to consign him to my care; and you may rest a.s.sured that while my life is spared he shall be tenderly cared for, as though he were my own son."

"Now," replied Mrs. Harwood, "can I die willingly. Since my illness it has been my daily and nightly prayer, that should it be the will of Heaven that I should not recover, G.o.d would raise up friends to care for my orphan boy, and that prayer is now answered."

Just six weeks from the evening on which Mrs. Harwood entered the dwelling of Mr. Humphrey, her eyes were closed in death. The last day of her life was pa.s.sed mostly in a kind of lethargy, from which it was almost impossible to arouse her. Toward evening she rallied, and her mind seemed clear and calm. She was aware that the hour of her death had arrived; but she felt no fears in the prospect of her approaching dissolution. She thanked Mr. and Mrs. Humphrey for their kindness to her, and again tenderly committed to their care her boy, who would soon become an orphan.

"I am powerless to reward you," said the dying woman, "but G.o.d will certainly reward you for your kindness to the widow and orphan."

She requested that her child might be brought and placed by her side.

Placing her thin wasted hands upon his head she said, in a voice scarcely audible,--

"May the G.o.d who never forsakes the orphan preserve my precious boy amid the perils and dangers of the sinful world!"

She drew the face of the child close to her own, and imprinted a mother's last kiss upon his brow, and sank back exhausted upon her pillow. A few more fluttering quick drawn breaths and her spirit had winged its way from earth, and no one who witnessed her death felt a doubt that its flight was heavenward.

CHAPTER III.

The following brief account of the early life of Mrs. Harwood I give as nearly as possible in her own words:--

"My earliest recollection carries me back to a small village in Scotland, about one hundred miles distant from the city of Edinburgh, where I was born the daughter of a minister of the Church of Scotland. I was an only child. The salary which my father received was moderate, but was nevertheless sufficient to support us respectably. When I became of suitable age I was sent to school, and continued to pursue my studies until I arrived at the age of fourteen years. At that period I was deprived by death of a fond and indulgent father. Previous to the death of my father neither my mother nor myself had ever experienced an anxious thought as regarded the future. The salary my father received had enabled us to live in comfort and respectability; and we do not often antic.i.p.ate the death of a strong and healthy man. He died very suddenly; and when my mother's grief at our sudden bereavement had so far subsided as to allow her taking some thought for the future, she found that although my father had died free from debt he had been unable to lay by anything for our future support. During my father's lifetime we had occupied the parsonage, rent free, as had been stipulated when my father became pastor of the church over which he presided till his death. Consequently we had no longer any rightful claim to the dwelling which had been our home for so many years. They kindly gave us permission however, to occupy the house for one year, but my mother liked not to continue to occupy a home which, in reality, was no longer ours. After some deliberation upon the subject, my mother decided upon teaching, as a means of support, as her own education had been sufficiently thorough to render her competent for the undertaking. But, as the village where we resided was small and already well supplied with schools, she wrote to an old friend of my father's, who resided in Edinburgh, as to what he thought of her removing to that city, for the purpose of opening a school. She received a very encouraging reply from the old gentleman, in which he promised to render her all the a.s.sistance in his power in the way of obtaining pupils, and as the gentleman was well known and much respected in the city, we found his a.s.sistance in this respect to be of much value. The task of breaking up our old home proved a very sad one both to my mother and myself. The furniture of the parsonage was our own. My father had left quite an extensive library, considering his limited means. With the exception of a few volumes which my mother reserved for ourselves, she disposed of the books among our acquaintances at a fair value, as each was anxious to obtain some relic of their beloved pastor. The kind people, among whom we had resided, expressed many kind wishes for our future welfare, when we left them to seek a home in the great city. The school which my mother opened upon our removal to the city proved very successful, and soon yielded us a comfortable support. I a.s.sisted my mother both in the duties of the school-room and also in our household work. We were prospered and lived contentedly in our new home. We missed, it is true, the familiar faces of our old friends, but we soon found friends in our new home; we were cheerful, and should have been happy but for the sad loss we had recently sustained. Four years thus glided by, during which time our school continued to afford us a comfortable support. About this time I became acquainted with Mr. Harwood, who had a short time before commenced the practice of law in the city of Edinburgh, and one year later I became his wife. His pecuniary circ.u.mstances were but moderate, as he had been only a short time engaged in the practice of his profession. We resided with my mother, as she could not bear the idea of being separated from me. I continued as usual to a.s.sist her in the duties of her school. We, in this way, lived happily, till the event of my mother's death, which took place two years after my marriage. She took a sudden cold, which settled upon her lungs, and terminated in a quick consumption, which, after a short period of suffering, closed her life. She died as she had lived, full of religious hope and trust. Of my own sorrow I will not now speak; the only thought which afforded me the least consolation was--that what was my loss, was her eternal gain.

About a year after the death of my mother my husband formed the idea of going to America. He had little difficulty in gaining my consent to accompany him. Had my mother still lived the case would have been very different; as it was, I had no remaining tie to bind me to Scotland, and wherever he deemed it for the best to go, I felt willing to accompany him, for he was my all in the wide world. We left the British sh.o.r.es on the tenth of June, and after a prosperous voyage, we found ourselves safely landed in the city of Boston. We brought with us money sufficient to secure us from want for a time, and my husband soon began to acquire quite a lucrative practice in his profession, and our prospects for the future seemed bright. For a long time my spirits were weighed down by home-sickness. I felt an intense desire to return to the home we had left beyond the sea, but in time this feeling wore away, and I began to feel interested in our new home, which appeared likely to be a permanent one.

When we had resided for a little more than a year in our adopted country, my little Ernest was born, and the lovely babe, with my additional cares, doubly reconciled me to my new home. When my little boy was about a year old I was attacked by a contagious fever, which at that time prevailed in the city. By this fever I was brought very near to death. I was delirious most of the time, and was thereby spared the sorrow of knowing that my child was consigned to the care of strangers.

But the fever at length ran its course, and I began slowly to recover.