Seated upon her low door-stone was Mrs. Graffam, the poor woman of the plain. It was almost night; the sun had gone down, leaving a long red line upon the western horizon, which cast a lurid ray upon the gathering twilight. The poor children of that log-house were fast asleep: for all that day they had been out upon the plain, where the sun, from a cloudless sky, glared down upon them; and now the evening shade was beautiful, and so soothing too, that neither the hard pallet of straw, nor the hungry musquitoes could drive sleep from eyes so weary. The sick babe was asleep too: all day it had moaned in its comfortless little cradle, for the mother had work to do—hard work, and abundant—for a family so large and poor. Heavily sat poor Mrs. Graffam upon the door-stone, waiting, she could not tell for what. Many years before she had waited at twilight for her husband's return, and listened, as the wind rustled the leaves, because she loved to go out and meet him as he neared their home. But those years were gone, and with them the lovelight and beauty of both heart and home. The contrast between that barren, desolate plain and her former home, was not greater than the contrast between the glad heart of other years, and the one sinking despairingly as she sat upon the door-stone that night.
At last she heard a heavy step along the path leading from the narrow road to that lone hut; but the sound of that step only deepened the shadow that gloomed around her. She sat motionless; and there was something in her manner like the resignation of a stricken, but trusting heart: but it was not that; it was only the sullen gloom of despair. Nearer and nearer drew the footstep, and she rose from her seat, that her poor besotted husband might pass to his bed of straw; but he did not pass in,—he only looked at her for a moment, and then averted his eye, for very shame because she had perceived that he was not drunk. The bag which he had carried week after week to the mills and brought home every night empty, because he deemed rum more necessary for himself than food for his family, was now filled with flour; but he said nothing, and she too was silent, as she followed him into the hut, and took the large basket which he offered her. Opening this basket, she found a note, and returning to the door, read as follows:—
"MRS. GRAFFAM:—Dear Madam,—I was not able to come and fetch our good Dora to see you to-day; but your husband has kindly promised to call this evening, and take the little matters which I have put up for the dear sick baby; and to-morrow, if it please God, we will see you at your own house.
"Your friend, EMMA LINDSAY."
Graffam looked at his wife as she came in with the note, and, notwithstanding she had lately spoken very harsh words to him, he pitied her, and somehow felt as though she was not greatly to blame for calling him an "unfeeling brute." On the other hand, as Mrs. Graffam took the things from the basket, she glanced toward her husband, and thought to herself, "He is sober to-night, and it is all owing to the kind politeness of that dear girl. His self-respect is not entirely gone, for he would not appear drunk before Emma. If I could command patience to treat him with civility, there might be some hope in that;" so turning toward him she asked, "Have you taken supper, Mr. Graffam?"
The poor man hesitated. He was really hungry; for that which had proved to him both victuals and drink, was now wanting; but he feared to speak of his hunger, lest his wife should say, "The children have no rum to drink, and it takes all the food I can supply, to keep them from starving."
"Here is a nice loaf of bread," continued Mrs. Graffam, cheerfully, as she took the things from the basket, "and a paper of tea; Miss Emma could not have intended these for poor little Sammy: so, if you please, Mr. Graffam, just light a fire under the kettle, and I will make you a cup of tea."
"And a cup for yourself," said Graffam, as he lighted the dry sticks in the large stone chimney, and then peered into the corners of the room in search of his children.
"They are all asleep," said his wife; and the poor man turned quickly toward the fire again, for he feared that she would add, "The poor creatures have been out upon the plains all day: Heaven knows what we shall do when the berries are gone." But Mrs. Graffam said nothing more. She set out the pine table, and going to an old chest brought a white cloth; it was of bird's-eye diaper. Graffam remembered well who wove it; and a pleasant vision came along with that white table-cloth. He saw his mother, as in olden times, weaving; while he stood by her side, wondering at the skill with which she sent the shuttle through its wiry arch, and noticing how the little matter of adding thread to thread filled the "cloth beam" little by little, until the long "web" was done. "Such is life," thought Graffam; "the little by little of human action goes to fill up the warp of time, and decides the worth of what we manufacture for eternity." Then he looked sadly over his own work, and could but say to himself, "It is all loose ends, loose ends. What a web for eternity!"
"Supper is ready," said Mrs. Graffam, and the poor man turned toward the table. The white loaf was there, and a basin of the berries his little ones had picked from the plain. In a solitary cup (for it was the only one saved from their wreck of crockery) Graffam saw his tea, and offered to exchange with his wife for the broken mug, into which was poured a scanty portion for herself.