“What did you spoil it for by saying that?” said John Pray. “I was just going to clap you on the back for a clever fellow.”
“You might go further, and clap a worse fellow on the back,” answered Zekiel. “But I never boasts, I don’t. ’Tain’t no use. If the ministers tell the truth, we’ve all got to be weighed in the big scales up above, where there ain’t no false weights—bad deeds agin good deeds. Farmer Reed, I’m thinking, will be astonished when the balance on his account is struck. But, good day; my parsnips and cabbages ought to be in the market, instead of wilting at your door—even though you city folks don’t know the taste of a fresh vegetable. Good day.”
CHAPTER XVI.
Rain—rain—rain; patter, patter. No sunshine to help Lucy’s purblind eyes in stitching the dark vests; no sunshine to kiss open the buttercups for Fanny. The birds took short and hasty flights from tree to tree; the farmers slouched their hats over their faces, and whipped up their teams; the little school children hurried back and forth with their satchels, without stopping to look for chipmunks or for ground-birds’ nests; the bells on the baker’s cart lost their usual merry tinkle, and the old fishman’s horn, as he went his Friday round, gave forth a discordant, spiritless whine.
Little Fanny had righted her grandmother’s work-basket, read “Jack and his Bean-Stalk,” made houses on the slate, put the black kitten to sleep in the old barrel, blown soap bubbles, till she was tired, in the tin bowl, and had finally crept up on the little cot bed and fallen asleep.
Lucy sat back in her chair, and began counting over the money Zekiel had brought her. It would relieve their present necessities. Fanny should have some new clothes out of it, when farmer Smith’s rent was paid. But the future? Lucy’s eyes were growing dimmer every day, and her limbs more feeble. She might drop off suddenly, and then who would befriend poor little Fanny? What lessons of sorrow had that loving little heart to learn? By what thorny path would she thread life’s toilsome journey?
Dear little Fanny! She could no more live without love than flowers without sunshine. That she should ever weep tears, that no kindly hand should wipe away; that she should hunger or thirst—shiver with winter’s cold—faint under summer heat; that a harsh voice should ever drive the blood from her lip or cheek—that her round limbs should bend with premature toil—that sin should tempt her helplessness—that sorrow should invite despair—that wrong should ever seem right to Mary’s child! Poor Lucy bowed her head and wept.
The peddler looked in through the little casement window. He saw the falling tears, he saw Lucy’s sorrowful gaze at the rosy little dreamer. He needed no explanation of the tableau. He knocked at the door; Lucy’s tones were tremulous, as she bade him come in.
“I thought you might be wanting some more silk,” said he, respectfully, with his eyes fixed upon little Fanny.
“Sit down—sit down,” said Lucy; for the tones of his voice were kindly, and her heart in its loneliness craved sympathy. “It is dull weather we have, sir; one don’t mind it when all is right here,” and she laid her hand on her heart.