“I can do nothing now,” said she, “but who knows what the morrow may bring forth?”
“Who, indeed!” thought Louis, as he wended his solitary way homeward. “I know not why it is, but I cannot help having some reliance on the promises of this singular old woman. It was my perfect confidence in her truth and integrity that drew me to her. What her resources are, I know not; I fear they exist only in her own imagination; but if she should befriend me in this, mine extremity, may the holy angels guard and bless her. Alas! it is mockery for me to invoke them.”
The next day when he returned to her cabin, he found her spinning with all her accustomed solemnity. He blushed with shame, as he looked round on the appearance of poverty that met his eye, respectable and comfortable poverty, it is true—but for him to seek assistance of the inmate of such a dwelling! He must have thought her a sorceress, to have believed in the existence of such a thing. He must have been maddened to have admitted such an idea.
“Forgive me, Miss Thusa,” said he, with the frankness of the boy Louis, “forgive me for plaguing you with my troubles. I was not in my right senses yesterday, or I should not have done it. I have resolved to have no concealments from my father, and to tell him all.”
Miss Thusa dipped her hand in a pocket as deep as a well, which she wore at her right side, and taking out a well-filled and heavy purse, she put it in the hand of Louis.
“There is something to help you a little,” said she, without looking him in the face. “You must take it as a present from old Miss Thusa, and never say a word about it to a human being. That is all I ask of you—and it is not much. Don’t thank me. Don’t question me. The money was mine, honestly got and righteously given. One of these days I’ll tell you where it came from, but I can’t now.”
Louis held the purse with a bewildered air, his fingers trembling with emotion. Never before had he felt all the ignominy and all the shame which he had brought upon himself. A hot, scalding tide came rushing with the cataract’s speed through his veins, and spreading with burning hue over his face.
“No! I cannot, I cannot!” he exclaimed, dropping the purse, and clenching his hands on his brow. “I did not mean to beg of your bounty. I am not so lost as to wrench from your aged hand, the gold that may purchase comfort and luxuries for all your remaining years. No, Miss Thusa, my reason has returned—my sense of honor, too—I were worse than a robber, to take advantage of your generous offer.”
“Louis—Louis Gleason,” cried Miss Thusa, rising from her seat, her tall, ancestral-looking figure assuming an air of majesty and command—“listen to me; if you cast that purse from you, I will never make use of it as long as I live, which won’t be long. It will do no good to a human being. What do I want of money? I had rather live in this little, old, gray hut than the palace of the Queen of England. I had rather earn my bread by this wheel, than eat the food of idleness. Your father gives me fuel in winter, and his heart is warmed by the fire that he kindles for me. It does him good. It does everybody good to befriend another. What do I want of money? To whom in the wide world should I give it, but you and Helen? I have as much and more for her. My heart is drawn powerfully towards you two children, and it will continue to draw, while there is life in its fibres or blood in its veins. Take it, I say—and in the name of your mother in heaven, go, and sin no more.”
“I take it,” said Louis, awed into submission and humility by her prophetic solemnity, “I take it as a loan, which I will labor day and night to return. What would my father say, if he knew of this?”