The poor woman's story was not one of unparalleled misfortunes, but it was unusually interesting to her hearers—there was so much resolution and mildness blended in her countenance, such perfect cleanliness in her coarse apparel, and such an evident solicitude to avoid any exaggeration, or even display of her troubles, that could be an appeal to the charity of her auditors, that when she concluded, they felt convinced of her merit, and deeply interested in her welfare. They were now arrived at the inn, where they were to await the children, who arrived in the course of an hour, heated and dusty—but declaring they had never a more delightful walk.
“Lord bless you, Miss,” exclaimed Mrs. Barton, “you've heated yourself to that degree, that the blood seems ready to burst from your cheeks. I shall never forgive myself if you get sick by it.”
“Oh never fear,” replied Julia, “I did not feel the heat at all.”
“But there is such a thick sickly feeling in the air to-day.”
“Sickly feeling,” exclaimed Edward, “I am sure I thought the air was never fresher and sweeter.”
“You can now understand,” said Mrs. Sackville, speaking in a low voice to her children, “the charm of the ring in the Fairy tale, bestowed by the benevolent Genius; which whenever worn, produced a clear sky, a smooth path and fragrant air. There is a happiness, my dear children, in the simplest act of genuine kindness, which is much more than a compensation for the loss of any gratification of taste. The relief of this poor woman, and the sweet sleep into which her child has been lulled by the motion of the carriage, have quite reconciled me to the delay of the sight of the Falls; for which I confess I began to feel a little but here comes your uncle, full of concern about something.”
Mr. Morris entered the room in great perturbation. “Here is a pretty spot of work,” said he. “I believe in my soul, Mrs. Barton, that that scamp Tristy has gone off with your bundle.”
“Gone off with it!—God forbid!” exclaimed the poor woman,—“my money was all in it.”
“Oh uncle,” said Edward, “he has not gone off with it;—he laid himself down under a tree in the wood just back, and said he would follow on as soon as he had rested him.”
“Rested him! a mere pretence to get rid of you—you should have had more discretion than to have trusted him, Ned;—but when was ever discretion found in a boy?”