Mr. Adrian concluded to go to B——, about two days' journey by the railroad. So their trunks were taken from the ship and carried to the baggage cars. Little Julien and Victor had nice seats by the window, and it was very delightful to see the green fields after having seen nothing but the dashing billows for so many weeks. They felt as glad as Noah's dove did, when she spread her wings from the door of the ark, after "the waters were abated." They threw their limbs about, whenever the cars stopped for the great "iron horse" to lay in some wood for his supper, as if they were determined to make up for the time they had been cramped on ship-board.
"Things are not so very cheap after all, over here in America," said Mr. Adrian, with a sigh, as he took possession of the room that was to serve them for shop, parlor, kitchen and bed-room. "Well, we must be patient and industrious; I will put up my sign to-day, and if you and the children (turning to his wife) are only in good health, I shall have courage to work."
So the sign was put up: "John Adrian, tailor, from England—all orders promptly and neatly executed." Then John took out his shears and "goose," crossed his legs and seated himself with a jacket to make, in front of the window, where pedestrians could see that he was at his post, ready for orders.
Julien and Victor, the rosy little Englishmen, didn't fancy much the small room they lived in. It was almost as much of a prison to them as the vessel; they liked better to play in the streets. Their mother looked out the window at them, with a sigh, for her children had been carefully brought up, and she shuddered at the bad words they were hearing, and the groups of idle, noisy, vicious children, swarming about the neighborhood. Oh, how should she keep her little boys pure and unspotted?
Three weeks had passed by. Little Julien came in, one day, from his play, when his mother met him at the door, saying, "Run, Julien, quick—quick—for the doctor."
"Where, mother—where shall I find him?"
"Oh! I don't know," said the distracted woman, chafing her husband's temples; "ask somebody—quick, dear Julien, for the love of God!—the death dew is on your father's forehead."
"Cholera," said the doctor. "I can do nothing for him, my poor woman; the disease is raging fearfully here; he cannot live an hour."
"Nothing to be done?" said the poor wife, fixing her eyes on her dying husband, and watching his spasms; "nothing to be done? Oh, sir, don't tell me that."
But even while she spoke the dark shadow fell. The loving eyes grew glassy; the hand she held relaxed its hold, and that "change," so subtle, so fearful, (that all have seen yet none may tell,) flitted over his face.