Good old soul! she did not know how miraculously city children live on, in spite of crowded streets, schoolteachers, milk-men, and foolish mammas.
But at length, a stable is reached near Mrs. Howe's; and the jolly hostlers nudge each other in the ribs, as the old ark rattles into the paved yard; and Mrs. Bond climbs carefully out, and resigns old Gray into their hands, with many charges as to his plentiful supply of water and oats. As the nice old lady turns her back, they go into convulsions of merriment over the whole establishment, from harness to hub; interrogating old Gray about his pedigree in a way which they think immensely funny.
Mrs. Bond threads her way along on foot, now good-naturedly picking up a parcel for some person who had unconsciously dropped one, now fumbling from out her pocket a penny for the little vagrants who are tossing mud back and forth over the crossings, with very questionable stubs of brooms, to the imminent risk of pedestrians; and now she slides a newspaper, which the truant wind has displaced, under the door crack for which it was destined.
Now she sees a group of ragged, dirty little children, nestled upon a door-step, upon which they have spread out a dingy cloth, containing old bones, bits of meat, cold potatoes, and crusts of bread, upon which their hungry eyes are gloating. It is too much for the old lady. She points to the gutter, where she wishes their unwholesome meal thrown, and beckoning them toward a baker's window, plentifully supplies the whole party with fresh bread and crackers.
And now she stops short, for she hears a name uttered dear as her hopes of heaven.
"Jesus Christ!"
The speaker's hands are not clasped, his head is not bowed, no prayer followed that dear name; it was not reverently spoken. She turns on the gentleman who uttered it a look, not of reproof but pity—such a look as might have lingered on the Saviour's face when he said, "Father forgive them; they know not what they do."
A crimson blush overspread his face, and his "Pardon me, madam" was answered only by a gathering tear in the old lady's eye as she bowed her head and turned slowly away, her lips moving as if in prayer. He felt it—and the jest died upon his lip as his eyes involuntarily followed her feeble footsteps, and thoughts of a sainted mother's long-forgotten prayers came rushing through his mind with childhood's freshness.
Ah, who shall say into what pits of selfish and unhallowed pleasure that look shall haunt the recipient? What night shall be dark enough to hide it, what day bright enough to absorb its intensity? Who shall say that hallelujahs shall not yet tremble on the lips where erst were curses?