"MOTHER, how fast the days go by!" remarked little Dick one evening after the other children had gone to bed. "The year is nearly out—only a few days left of it now. O mother, don't you hope the next will be a better one for us all than this has been?"
"Indeed I do!" sighed Mrs. Wilkins, and a hot tear fell upon her work; she was knitting to-night by the uncertain light of the fire. "Life's a struggle at the best of-times for poor people," she went on; "and when the father of a family is taken, it's bound to go hard with those he leaves behind."
"Ain't you straining your eyes?" asked the boy anxiously. "Do let me light the lamp for you! We've been more sparing than ever over oil of late, and I can't bear to think you may be hurting your sight."
"I don't need the use of my eyes to knit, dear," was the widow's return. "If I was sewing, 'twould be different."
"But the room looks so dark and gloomy," persisted Dick. "And for some reason or other, it seems more silent than usual. I wonder," turning his head to look about him, "what it is I miss. Oh! oh!" To Mrs. Wilkins's dire dismay, he started to his feet and pointed at an empty corner near the door—"I know now!" he gasped forth. "It's the clock that's gone! O mother! Mother! Where is it? What has become of it? 'Twas the one thing that father prized above all else we had, 'cos grandfather gave it to him on his wedding-day."
"Ah, my child," sobbed the poor woman, "I have been forced to sell it to Squire Filmer in order to pay the rent. The landlord was here yesterday, and he threatened to sell us up if the money wasn't paid by to-morrow. It's a great blow to me, but we must live."
There was a long pause; then Dick said: "O mother, however can we get the money for poor Stranger's tax? O mother! Mother! Whatever happens, we can't part with our dog."
Laying aside her knitting, Dick's mother placed a tender hand upon his heaving shoulder. "My dear," she said, "the thought of it has worried me nearly as much as the trouble about the rent; but I can't see any chance of our being able to get the money to pay his tax."
"Then you really think we shall have to part with him?" cried Dick. "Oh! God must be very cruel if He lets it come to that. I know our Stranger wouldn't ever love other folks as he loves you and me and the children. And if we sold him or gave him away, his new owner might kick him about as—as some people do their dogs."
"Well, there's all next month for us to look around and try to serape the money together, dear," the widow summoned heart enough to remind her little boy. "As long as it's paid by the last day of January it will be in time; and if 'tis right for us to keep our dog, why then we shall find ways and means for doing so. Don't fret, child, more than you can help. Whatever happens will be sure to be for the best. Now, dry your eyes, and we'll have our supper cosy like in front of the fire. If you lose heart, Dick, what'll become of us all?"