“And you have been lying round ever since. Why did not you jump up and try it again, as the fellows down there are doing?”
“But I did, and that’s all gone too, in the fire. I only got here yesterday, and the house I slept in was burnt down, and now I don’t know what to do.”
“A mighty hard case,” said the clerk, appearing again. “One letter, sir—here’s your change;” for Hadley was walking Sam off as fast as possible, in utter forgetfulness of the five dollar piece he had thrown down.
“I’ll tell you what to do; read your mother’s letter right off, and see what she says. No—come along and get some breakfast”—he said, thrusting the change uncounted into his pocket. You look as thin as a weasel. Well, Colcord’s got his deserts, that’s one consolation. I always thought he had a hang dog look.
“Robbed and murdered, coming from the mines,” he answered to Sam’s questioning eyes, as the boy tried to keep pace with his quick strides down the hill. “I should have thought you’d have heard of it—’twas in all the papers; there, read your letter—and break your neck stumbling, if you want to, I’ll pick you up”—and the good-natured fellow broke the seal of his own by way of example. Sam tried to read, but the words were blurred and confused, and he comprehended little more than that all were well, until he was seated in the comparative quiet of a little restaurant, and Hadley was calling for coffee and mutton chops.
CHAPTER XIV.
NEW PROSPECTS.
“My dear, dear child” (Sam could almost hear his mother say these precious words), “I am writing to you to-night, though our Heavenly Father only can tell whether you will ever know from this how my heart aches for you. I have just got your letter with its dreadful news, but I feel more for the poor girls and for you than I do for myself. I am used to trouble. I don’t mean to murmur, but it seems to me as if I’d had hardly any thing else since my father and mother died. God forgive me! when my children have been such a comfort to me, you especially, Sam.
“I know it’s all right; but if I could only have been with your poor father and taken care of him, if he was only buried here among his own people, where I could go and see his grave sometimes, it seems as if I could submit. But I know you did every thing, Sam. I knew you would when I let you go. God will reward you for being a good, dutiful boy. I know it; I feel it; and that’s all that keeps me up when I think about your being alone, so far off, without a friend to look to. O if you could only get home to us! I only ask to see you again, and I could die in peace.
“Poor Abby has cried herself to sleep these two nights, and hasn’t eaten a meal. You know she was always his favorite—and Hannah doesn’t seem well this cold weather; she never was very strong. All the neighbors are very kind, especially Squire Merrill and Mrs. Chase—she sends Ben over almost every day, to see if he can do any thing, and I don’t know how we should get along sometimes, if they did not send in something every little while. Squire Merrill was in here this afternoon, and says I had better send this to San Francisco, for you might get enough to come home with, and think to ask at the post-office there before you do. He thinks you will come right home as soon as you can. It seems to me as if it would be best, but I don’t know. My only comfort is, God knows what is best for all of us; if we didn’t need trouble he wouldn’t send it; I say that to myself over and over again, and I pray for you, morning, noon, and night. He has been my guide from my youth up, only make Him yours, my son, and He will take care of you. Whether I ever see you again in this world or not, I hope to see you in another, for absence or death can make no difference in my love for you.