They were such as might have depressed a stronger and less sensitive person. When Theodore had gone away, and the children were in bed, and the widow sat alone in the mean little room which, small as it was, was but dimly illuminated by one candle, the sense of her forlorn position weighed her down, and seemed to make the atmosphere thick with misery. It was not the loss of material luxuries which afflicted her. A month ago she would have felt that keenly; but now her great sorrow had absorbed all minor troubles. Poverty! What was poverty, compared with desolation of spirit? How willingly would she have faced severer bodily hardships than any which threatened her if her lost husband could be restored to her!
She dropped her head on her folded arms resting on the table. The widow's cap slipped aside, and a veil of bright, brown, waving hair fell over her bowed face. She had been forced to restrain her tears all day. There were the children to be thought of. There were Theodore's cold, clear questions and suggestions to be answered. But now, in solitude, her tears gushed out. She wept with long, deep-drawn sobs. The words of the Litany seemed to be repeated over and over again, as by a voice whispering in her ear, "The fatherless children, and widows, and all who are desolate and oppressed." She rocked herself from side to side, and moaned out, "Oh, come back to us! Come back, Martin—Martin!"
A hand was gently laid on her shoulder. With a great start she raised her head, and saw her eldest boy standing by her side.
He was a handsome boy, very like his father. But now his naturally ruddy face was pale, and his eyes had a depth of yearning tenderness in them which went to his mother's heart.
"Don't cry so, mother dear!" he said. "Father couldn't bear to see it, if he knew."
She clasped the boy in her arms; and, although she still wept, her sobs were less convulsive, and she gradually grew calmer. Martin stood beside her very quietly, occasionally stroking back the pretty soft hair which strayed over her face, and was damp with tears.
Presently Mrs. Bransby said, "I thought you were in bed, Martin. How silently you came downstairs!"
"I took off my shoes, mother," he answered, showing his feet. "I didn't want to disturb the others. The children are asleep, and Phœbe is snoring away."
Phœbe was their one servant, a housemaid from their Oldchester home—who had volunteered to remain with them and follow their fortunes.
"Poor Phœbe! I dare say she is tired," said Mrs. Bransby.