"I did want to keep him, but Hannah was set in her way, and would not hear of it. She never looked at the helpless little fellow, as he slept there in Anna's bed, like a forsaken bird, without turning pale to the lips. It was enough to kill her!"
"You must have hated to give it up so much though," said Mary.
"She did her duty—Hannah always does, let what will come. Money has been sent, every year, to help bring the boy up. Let what would come she always scrimps and saves enough out of the old place for that."
"Perhaps it is this that has put you so behind-hand," suggested the child, thoughtfully.
"I've often misdoubted it—but she's right. I'd rather see the Homestead sold, than have Anna's boy want anything; but, somehow, the drain comes heavier and heavier every year."
"And I! what am I but a burden?" said Mary, in a heart-broken voice. "What can I do? Surely, God intended some walk of usefulness to every one of his creation. Oh, uncle Nathan, tell me where mine lies!"
"You ain't much more helpless than I am," answered uncle Nathan, sadly. "It seems as if the more things go wrong, the more clumsy I grow, and the heavier I weigh. The chair is getting almost too small for me, and I ain't fit for anything but sitting now."
Mary shook her head, and a quaint smile stole across her lips in the darkness.
"You are too large, uncle Nathan, and I am too helpless; we are good for nothing but to comfort one another."
"Aunt Hannah, you don't know how much she loves us both."