Turned atheist, and burnt the family Bible before his weeping wife and terrified children and gaping servant-girl, Mr. Williams, a Sunday-school teacher, known hitherto only as a mild, respectable man, a teetotaler, and a good parent and husband. He did not take to drinking; but he did to cursing, and forbade his own flesh and blood ever to enter a church again. This man became an outcast, shunned by all.
Three elderly sisters, the Misses Lunley, well born and bred, lived together on their funds, which, small singly, united made a decent competence. Two of them had refused marriage in early life for fear the third should fall into less tender hands than theirs. For Miss Blanche Lunley was a cripple: disorder of the spine had robbed her, in youth's very bloom, of the power not only to dance, as you girls do, but to walk or even stand upright, leaving her two active little hands, and a heart as nearly angelic as we are likely to see here on earth.
She lay all day long on a little iron bedstead at the window of their back-parlour, that looked on a sunny little lawn, working eagerly for the poor; teaching the poor, young and old, to read, chiefly those of her own sex; hearing the sorrows of the poor, composing the quarrels of the poor, relieving their genuine necessities with a little money and much ingenuity and labour.
Some poor woman, in a moment of inspiration, called Miss Blanche “The sunshine of the poor.” The word was instantly caught up in the parish, and had now this many years gently displaced “Lunley,” and settled on her here below, and its echo gone before her up to Heaven.
The poor “sunshine of the poor” was happy: life was sweet to her. To know whether this is so, it is useless to inquire of the backbone or the limbs: look at the face! She lay at her window in the kindred sunshine, and in a world of sturdy, able, agile cursers, grumblers, and yawners, her face, pale its ashes, wore the eternal sunshine of a happy, holy smile.
But there came one to her bedside and told her the bank was broken, and all the money gone she and her sisters had lent Mr. Hardie.
The saint clasped her hands and said, “Oh, my poor people! What will become of them?” And the tears ran down her pale and now sorrowful cheeks.
At this time she did not know the full extent of their losses. But they had given Mr. Hardie a power of attorney to draw out all their consols. That remorseless man had abused the discretion this gave him, and beggared them—they were his personal friends, too—to swell his secret hoard.
When “the sunshine of the poor” heard this, and knew that she was now the poorest of the poor, she clasped her hands and cried, “Oh, my poor sisters! my poor sisters!” and she could work no more for sighing.
The next morning found “the sunshine of the poor” extinct in her little bed: ay, died of grief with no grain of egotism in it; gone straight to heaven without one angry word against Richard Hardie or any other.