“Madam!” cried I, starting up.
“I am sorry to disturb you, sir, but I wish to know if there are any letters from my son?”
Honest creature: she looked the picture of distress; the widow of hope as well as kin, her age apparently about fifty, her dress neat but indicating poverty,—the hand of Time had furrowed her cheek and left his impress there.
“From your son, madam?”
“Yes, sir, my only son: a good, brave boy, and my only dependence; he lives in New Orleans, and sends me my little allowance every month. Is there any, sir?”
“What is your name?”
“Williams, sir,—Mary Williams.”
“Here are two letters, ma’am, for Mary Williams.”
“That is me, sir; and that is his handwriting, dear, good boy! he never will forget his aged mother.”
“Fifty cents, ma’am.”