“Tell me your troubles,” urged Ernest kindly, “and, perhaps, I can be of service.”
“It is humiliating to confess,” she said, turning her blushing face, “but the truth is, I can get no work to do. I have had nothing to eat since yesterday. It seems that I must starve, and that, too, when I am willing to labor. But don’t misconstrue my motives. I’m no beggar. I’m not appealing to you for relief, and I don’t want you to mention what I have told you. I tell it to you to show you how difficult it would be for me to be good, when I hate people for my misfortunes.”
Ernest expressed no surprise at this distressing information, but he said no more on the subject of religion, well knowing that hunger is not very compatible with spirituality.
“The world is not so bad as you think it,” he replied. “You do your neighbors injustice by concealing your condition.”
“Don’t,” cried Clara, starting up, “don’t tell them for the world. I despise to be regarded as an object of pity.”
“Trust me,” rising to leave. “I shall not betray your confidence.”
In a little while after his departure, a cart drove up to Clara’s door, and the driver unloaded sufficient provisions to last for several weeks. Poor Clara was overwhelmed by this expression of kindness, and she went to her room, and “wept bitterly.” Several lady members of Ernest’s church called the next evening with offers of employment. They acted and talked in such a manner that she was satisfied they were not acquainted with her true condition. In her heart she thanked Ernest for the delicacy with which he had come to her relief. The ladies spoke words of sympathy. All this had a tendency to open the woman’s darkened heart to spiritual influences.
Ernest waited two days before he called at the prison to see Comston. Not being able to procure strong drink, the prisoner was perfectly sober. The poor fellow was humbled and subdued by the misfortunes which darkened his pathway.