My mother's voice had sunk lower and lower, falling almost into a whisper, as it always did when she was greatly moved. Sometimes I used to fancy that my mother was not so clever as my father. He could add up sums for you, and tell you about the presidents, and who were the greatest generals in the world; but my mother knew quite different things, the kind that stay with you forever. To her life was a poem and a dream. She was her happiest when she could help somebody, so that for any one to be poor, and very unfortunate, was an open sesame to her heart.
I heard a good deal about Burton Raymond that night, and when I went to bed I asked a sudden question, staring with wide open eyes at my mother over the white coverlet.
"Mother, how poor is Burton Raymond?"
She was taking away the light; but she came back again.
"He is so poor," she said, dramatically, "that he lives in a garret room at Widow Denton's. It is quite a cold room, without a fire, and the bed is not soft like yours, Rhoda. He has a few books on the end of the shelf by his violin box. He plays whenever he can get a chance. Sometimes, perhaps, he is hungry! Yes, sometimes he is hungry!"
I shivered.
"But it's no sin to be poor, is it, mother?" I demanded, anxiously. "We can love people who are poor?"
She put down the light on the bureau before she answered me.
"Money never bought the real things of life," she said, slowly. "To be good and true is the greatest of all. It is sincerity that counts. And when we see some one very noble, and very poor, we must help them, and love them always. Yes, love them always!"
She gave me a sudden kiss, and took the lamp away.