Harry has spent more than an hour with me this evening. I never saw a poor lad so overwhelmed with grief. He, the rosy-cheeked fellow! who would have you believe—in his verses—that his tears were his meat day and night, is now positively ashamed of crying bitterly over an irreparable loss. I honour him for so deeply lamenting a good father; it raises him in the scale of human being—as genuine, well-placed affection always does. He will now have to exchange imaginary woes for stern realities.
He came quite at dusk. I did not think, at first, it was his voice, asking if he might come in, it was so subdued. I said, “Ah, Harry!” and held out my hand. He grasped it in his, and then sat down and sobbed. I waited a little while in silence; then, when his emotion had somewhat spent itself, I said—
“I thank you very much for coming—it is very kind of you, for I was longing to hear many things that no one else could so well tell.”
“Oh!” said he, drying his eyes, “the kindness is to myself—I could not stand it at home any longer!”
“How does your dear mother bear up?”
“Wonderfully!”—crying again. “But she quite broke down this evening: so my sisters persuaded her to go to bed; and as they are sitting with her, I was quite alone, and thought I would steal out to you for a little while. What a shocking thing it is!”
I knew to what he referred, and said, “It is indeed, my dear Harry. For your comfort, you must reflect that our heavenly Father is peculiarly the God of the widow and orphan. He makes them his special charge.”
“I can’t think what we shall do!”
“Do your best, my dear boy, and you will be sure to do well.”