At Christmas they were greatly surprised when a letter from Boston reached them, with a post-office order enclosed for one dollar.
"I am hungry for news of my baby," so the letter ran, "and will you please drop me a line to let me know how he is. I hope to send more money when I can. The above address will find me.
"ANNA LAYOR."
Parson Dan held the post-office order in his hand for some time after he had read the letter. His eyes stared straight before him into the fire, though he saw nothing there.
"That money goes into the bank, Martha," he at length remarked. "I shall open an account in Rodney's name. I could not use that money as it would weigh too heavily upon my conscience. A sacrifice has been made, there is no doubt of that. It is the price of blood, as truly as was the water brought to David from the well of Bethlehem."
"You are quite right, Daniel," his wife replied. "Something tells me that she is a good true woman, and that Rodney need never be ashamed of her. But do you notice her name, 'Anna Layor'?"
"Don't let that worry you, dear. I have the feeling that it is not her real name. Anyway, until we are sure let the boy keep ours."
That night Parson Dan wrote a long letter in answer to the brief one he had received that day. It was all about Rodney—in fact, a complete life history of the lad from the cold night he had been left at the rectory. Far away in the big American city a few days later, in a scantily furnished room, it was read by a woman whose tears fell upon the pages as she eagerly drank in every word which told her of the welfare of her darling child.
The next year Rodney's mother wrote every month, enclosing one dollar each time. This amount was duly deposited in the bank to the child's account. This was kept up with great regularity for several years, and during that time numerous letters were exchanged. The ones from the mother were always very brief, and never once did she mention anything about herself. It was all of Rodney she wrote, for her heart seemed full of love and longing for the child.
"Your letters are all too short," she once wrote. "I read them over and over again, and as you describe my little darling, how I long to see him and clasp him in my arms. God grant I may ere long have that blessed privilege. He is enshrined in my heart, and his sweet face is ever before me. I console myself with the thought that he is safe and well provided for. Some day, I feel sure, I shall to a certain extent repay you for all that you have done for him and me."