At length, one calm summer evening, about eight months after the child had been taken to the West, and placed in the power of his keeper, our little boy was made happy by a sight of his dear mother. It had been a day of unusual hardship—work too heavy for him to perform had been given him to do, and when he broke down under it he had been met with blows and curses. Smarting under the infliction, he had crept away to his humble room, beneath the eaves of the old house, and, throwing himself upon the lowly bed, had sobbed himself to sleep.
It was yet early evening, when our little boy suddenly awoke, to behold the well-remembered face of his mother beaming upon him, and to hear her well-known voice saying: “Come, my darling, you have remained here too long, I cannot see you suffer under the power of your cruel master another day; follow me, and God will take care of you.”
The child, bewildered and but half awake, not doubting but that his mother had found him, and had come to take him away—for he had never realized that she was dead—arose from his low couch and softly followed the spirit form as it glided from the room and down the stairs, out into the cool, sweet dusk of a summer evening.
In the glimmering twilight he stumbled on, still following that form which he believed to be his mother’s, yet half-awed and somewhat frightened that it did not speak, but only seemed to glide along as though barely touching the ground over which it passed. By-and-bye, the wandering child heard the noise and bustle of a large city, not yet settled into the quietude of night, but he lost sight of the form which had led him such a long distance, and realized that he was alone.
What a situation for a child of nine years to be in, alone in all the world, homeless and friendless, a waif upon the wide sea of humanity. But do you for a moment imagine that the good spirits had deserted this little one? Ah, no! Hopeless, helpless, and alone, the child sank down by the roadside; the night was warm, the stars gleamed above his head; he was footsore, tired and lame, from his long and wearisome journey. Soon he fell into a troubled slumber, his head rolled from side to side, and he moaned in his sleep. In this condition he was found by a passing traveller, a gentleman of business, who was journeying to his home in the suburbs of the city, not far away. Not having the heart to leave the child alone, and knowing of no habitation near at hand, this gentleman determined to convey him to his own home; and as he was travelling by carriage, this was easily accomplished.
Upon reaching his destination, the little boy was kindly received and tenderly cared for by Mrs. Webster, the wife of the gentleman who had found him, and her sister-in-law, Mrs. Harris, who, in company with her husband, was visiting this region from their home in the East.
The terrible hardships which little Georgie had undergone for months, together with the mental and physical strain of that one night’s journey, left him stranded upon a bed of sickness, which lasted many weeks, during which time he knew nothing of what was taking place around him; but careful nursing and skillful treatment at length triumphed over the dangerous fever, and the child once more awoke to life and consciousness. We must now leave our little orphan in the care of the kind friends who had found him, and return to the eastern city from which he had been taken by the western farmer.
Our readers will remember that about the time little Georgie wandered friendless and alone throughout the city’s streets while his mother lay ill in the public hospital, a young child, fair and innocent, lay dying in a sumptuously-furnished chamber of an up-town residence. Mr. and Mrs. Harris were religious people; they attended a respectable and fashionable church, listened to the teachings of their pastor, and believed the bible to be unqualifiedly the word of God. But in the hour of their bereavement they found no relief, no consolation in these things; theirs was utter and profound sadness.
VISIONS OF THE NIGHT.
The lady’s health, never robust, began to fail; she became easily wrought upon by her surroundings, and sensitive to the slightest influence brought to bear upon her; the nervous system was pronounced prostrated by her attending physician, who recommended a change of scene and associations for her benefit. At times, while her mortal senses were locked in slumber, Mrs. Harris would behold the face of her little boy, and hear his well-known tones calling to her in words of love. So real did these visions seem to the lady that she could hardly believe them to be dreams, although—as she said to her husband while relating them to him—her common-sense told her that they could be nothing else.