"I never heard my mother complain," replied Jennie, "There was one time when our miserable room was quite cheerless and cold, and we knew not where to look for fuel or food, then my poor father seemed almost frantic with grief for my mother and myself; but I well remember her holy smile, as she calmly said, 'My husband, trust in the Lord, and verily thou shalt be fed.' I never met with a firmer confidence in the love and over-ruling providence of God than my mother possessed," continued Jennie. "Her example is ever before me, and yet how difficult to attain to!"
"Were you often in so desperate a condition, my child?" asked Mr. Halberg; "and did your mother's patience never fail her, so that she would speak accusingly of her relatives?"
"There was seldom a day," replied Jennie, "after my father's illness, that we knew how to provide the necessaries of life; and the only time I ever surprised my mother in an outburst of sorrow was when I took my broom for the first time, and went out to sweep the crossings. That day she called me to her, and tying back my curls, so that none of them could be seen beneath my hood, she clasped me convulsively to her, and wept until I ran away to escape the agony."
"Were you not afraid in the crowded streets?" inquired the uncle, as Jennie paused.
"Oh, yes! very often, dear uncle—that is, of the ugly wheels; but there seemed a guardian presence around me and few ever spoke rudely to me; and I was never injured, excepting on that blessed night when God's time had come to help us through my physical hurt. Don't let us think any more about it," continued she, looking up at her uncle, and perceiving how deeply he was moved; "it was all right, and if it had not happened we might have been wicked and thoughtless instead of feeling that our heavenly Father's will is always better than our own."
Mr. Halberg arose and walked around on the other side of the church, and on his return to his niece he said, in a calm yet earnest tone, "My child, you must pray for your uncle—his life will be weary indeed without you!" and pressing her fondly to him as they stood by the old man's grave, he too murmured "Dear little Jennie!" and they left the spot to the breath of the winds and the twittering of the birds that hopped about upon the willow branches.
CHAPTER XXVII.
Meantime Ellen lay upon her couch, tossed with many conflicting emotions. Her better nature reproached her for her injustice and cruelty toward her innocent cousin, and almost persuaded her to cease her persecutions, and even to strive to imitate her winning virtues; but the remembrance of the scene in the summer-house, and of Henry's contemptuous look as he left her, without even a parting salutation, awakened the bitter thought that she had fallen in his estimation, perhaps beyond the power of retrieval, and she resolved to keep up the semblance of a pride and indifference which she was far from feeling. For her cousin's opinion she little cared, nor was she influenced by the thought of an invisible yet heart-searching eye. No wonder, then, that she clung to her perverseness, and moved about on her restless pillow with no sweet or refreshing sleep to quiet the throbbings of her heavy brow.
The noonday sun was streaming through her window making the autumnal air seem warm and cheery, when a gentle rap was heard at her door, and her cousin entered. Her countenance was serene and peaceful, and her voice soothing and mild, as she said, "I have come to bathe your head, dear Nellie, Carrie told me you were ill, and I could not feel easy nor happy until I came to you."