My father I had seldom seen, and now I saw less of him than before. I did not so much wonder, for it was not home to me, that little brown house perched like a bird’s nest on the shelf of the mountain. I did not like it, and often used to ask my mother why we were there. She never used to answer me; but putting her arm around me drew me closely to her, kissing me over and over again, while the tears fell on my face, but saying nothing.
It was not so with Jennie, the pretty golden-haired baby that I used to rock in a nice little crib in our first home. Then we had pretty carpeted floors, and I could ride my pony all day in a room made on purpose to play in.
But when I grew older I saw it all, and understood why my mother pressed me to her heart and wept. I then knew what made my father reel and stagger so as he came up the path; and why, when Jennie put up her hands, and crowed out her evening welcome, he took no notice of her, and one night came very near crushing the little creature as he fell over the threshold. Oh, sad, sad days, when he was so cross, declaring the house was cold and cheerless, or the rooms were so bare of comfort—when he went to the village at the foot of the hills every morning, and if he did not come back at night, mother took Jennie in her arms, and we went after him.
In this way we lived till Jennie was five years old; then mother grew sick, and for days lay on the bed so white and still, Jennie curling up beside her, putting her little chubby cheek close to the thin pallid one, while I dug up raspberry roots and boiled them into broth for mother and the baby to eat.
One day she spoke less frequently; I thought she was asleep, and walked about very carefully so as not to wake her: at length she looked up, beckoned me to her, put her arms about my neck, and kissed me. “Whatever happens,” she said, “you must be a good boy, Marston. You are now almost ten years old; you will take good care of Jennie, and never let her leave you.”
“I will, mother; but what makes you talk so?” and I cried aloud in grief and fear.
“I am very sick, Marston, and I may die. If I do, you will take care of Jennie; promise me.”
“Yes, mother; but you will not die. God must not—”
“Hush, my son; God knows what is best; you will always remember to love and obey Him.”
“How can I, mother, if he takes you? You are all we have in the world. What will Jennie and I do without you? No, mother, if he is good, he will not do this;” and I buried my face in the pillows. My poor sick mother put her thin arms about my neck, and drew me still nearer, her hot cheek meeting mine.