In one hand she held a pretty vinaigrette, and the other was bound in soft cloths, and slightly confined to her waist by a silken sash. As the door of the room opened, she flung off the shawl that covered her, and tried to rise; but the effort was too much for her exhausted frame, and she fell faintly back, murmuring "Mother, dearest mother!"
In one moment the poor woman was kneeling beside the couch, clasping the sweet child to her bosom, who with her one little arm girdled that sacred neck, and with smiles and kisses awakened her to a perfect consciousness of her safety and of her happy position.
Mrs. Dunmore had all this time been partially concealed by the drapery of the window, but as she moved from the recess Jennie's quick ear caught the sound of her step, and she whispered to her mother, who arose, and with some confusion at the novelty of her situation and the meanness of her attire, advanced to meet the gentle widow, saying, "Jennie tells me you are the kind lady who befriended her in her distress—I have not words to thank you, dear madam, for your pity, and care for my unfortunate child; but if the prayers of an earnest heart will avail before God, the choicest of Heaven's blessings shall be your reward."
"A glance at that portrait," said Mrs. Dunmore, "will betray to you the motive for any unwonted interest in your precious child; but were it simply a humane act, the thought of having performed one's duty is a sufficient recompense—still, I ask another, and that is, that your little one may supply to me the place of my darling 'Bella.' I know," continued she, as she noticed the flush upon the mother's face, and the increased pulsations of her heart, "how great a sacrifice I ask, and I can not press you to give up your own right over the treasure God has bestowed upon you; but I would so far share that blessing with you, as to keep your little Jennie always near me, and to assist you in your care for her comfort and advancement."
Mrs. Grig was struck with the delicacy and refinement of Mrs. Dunmore's manner toward her; instead of bluntly offering to adopt her child, with the evident feeling that it was too good a bargain to require a moment's wavering, she proposed it to her in the light of a favor conferred upon herself, and in which they would both ever have a mutual interest. The poor woman could not see that her own apparent good breeding had—in Mrs. Dunmore's estimation—diminished the distance in their relative positions, so that a free and full sympathy was compatible with her dignity, as well as the dictate of her heart. She looked upon her child as she lay there, in her now adorned loveliness; she gazed about the room so filled with comfort and delight, and as her thoughts wandered from these blessings to her own cheerless home, and to the past few months of destitution; and as visions of weary days of toil, and nights of cold and hunger and wretchedness, and the shadow of that lovely little one returning from her loathsome labors, with muddy garments, and a worn and saddened face, passed before her, she shrunk from the latter alternative, and placing the hand of her child in that of her adopted mother she said, with the calmness of a settled purpose—"It will make a sad void in our desolate home, but God has opened your heart to her before she is left alone, and His goodness shall be my constant theme of gratitude; you will allow her to come to us every day while her poor father lives; his pains will be lightened by her presence, and 'twill comfort me to see the eyes that have beamed upon me these nine long years, more joyously beaming as I hasten to the end of my pilgrimage. You will love this kind lady, will you not, my child?" said she to the little girl, by whom she was again kneeling—"and be to her a dear and dutiful daughter, if you would please your own parents."
"Love her, dear mother? Who could help loving the beautiful and kind, and good!—and is she not beautiful, and has she not been kind and good to me when others did but rail at me, and jostle me down in the crowded street! Oh! yes, I will indeed love her, very, very dearly!" and she clung to the hand of the widow that held her own, and caressingly fondled and kissed it, until her mother laid her gently back upon her pillow, and arose to return to her home.
CHAPTER IV.
The sick husband lay watching the moonbeams as they came through the window and played fantastically upon the walls, and his thoughts went far away to a pleasant spot beneath a group of willows, by a gently flowing stream, where the moonbeams once played upon the fair face of his Mary, and he sighed heavily as he reviewed the many changes that had brought them where they now were. Many a sunny hour came flashing upon his memory, with its dear and hallowed associations; the early days of their marriage when their home was green and sylvan—the gathering of friends on every festive occasion—the birth of their sweet babe that brought with it such new and blessed ties; and then the sunny hours departed, and the clouds covered them; the days of sickness came and their property fled away, and with their wealth went their friends from them. Weary months of toil in a strange city was thenceforward their portion; a sick-bed was the strong man's heritage, and days of fasting and misery and labor devolved on the delicate wife. The child that had been nursed in the lap of luxury went out into dirty streets to get her bread from pitying strangers, and the three—husband, wife, and child—were alone in the wide world, with their burden of poverty and woe, all the harder to bear from the fact that they were unused to it. Thus mused the sick man in the solitude of his chamber, and while he mused a mellower gleam of light fell upon his pillow and illumined his shrunken features, and a soft step was by the bed-side, and a beloved voice in his ear, telling him news that made him willing to die. God had sent them a friend! Even when he had been repining at the decrees of His Providence, that Providence was working out his best and truest good. He felt that his days would be few upon the earth, and that his Mary would soon follow him; but their darling Jennie would be sheltered and taught, and that by a true disciple of their Lord and Master. No more anguish lest his precious child should become a prey to the wary and dissolute; no more grief at her withered, cheerless youth; no more sorrowings for the wants that he could not appease. "Oh! too much! too much mercy and goodness hast thou shown toward Thine unworthy servants, my Saviour and my God!" murmured he, and a violent hemorrhage ensued, occasioned by the sudden shock of the unlooked for joy.