"Oh, you will—you will get better, as the spring comes on," exclaimed Nelly; "and we'll go into the country, on the first sunny day, and gather flowers there."
John drew forth from his vest pocket certain pieces of paper, which he spread forth upon his knee. Bank notes, each marked with the figure 2, and signed by the name of Israel Yorke, (a prominent banker of the bogus stamp,) in a bold hand. There were four in all.
"This is the eight dollars, Annie, which I saved to pay our rent," said the artist.
The wife and sister gazed upon the bank notes earnestly—for those bank notes were their last hope. Those bank notes were "rent money;" and of all money on the earth of God, none is so bitterly earned by Poverty, nor so pitilessly torn from its grasp by the hand of Avarice, as "rent money."
"Well,—well;"—and John paused, as if the words choked him. "These notes are not worth one penny. All of Israel Yorke's banks broke to-day."
There was not a word spoken for five minutes, or more. This news went like an ice-bolt through the hearts of the wife and sister.
"And to-morrow we'll be put into the street by this same Israel Yorke, who is also our landlord;" said John, breaking the long pause. "Put the window a little lower, Nelly—it feels close—I want air."
Nelly obeyed; and resumed her seat at her brother's face, which now glowed on the cheeks and shone in the eyes with an expression which she could not define.
"Oh, wouldn't it be good, Annie—would not it be glorious, Nelly—if I could gather you all up in my arms and take you with me, whither I am going?" he said, with a sort of rapture, looking from his children to his wife and sister. And then, in a gentler tone: "Kneel down, Nelly, and say a prayer, and ask God to forgive us all our sins—all, remember,—and to smooth the way for us, so that we may all go to Him."
Neither Nelly nor Annie remarked the singular emphasis which accompanied these words.