“‘Nobody,’ said Clary—‘and I’ve been nowhere,—only to the office, the same as usual. But I read some beautiful verses there, mother—at dinner-time—that they were printing off on my press; and they made me feel so—I can’t tell you how. But oh mother, they told about some great rich friend of poor people—poor people like us, mother—worth nothing at all, they said; and that everybody who obeyed him was happy.’
“‘You’d better not plague your head with such stuff,’ said her mother. ‘Nobody cares about poor folks like us. Why child, rich people wouldn’t touch us with a pair of tongs! Haven’t I seen ’em draw up their frocks as I went by—because mine was calico, and maybe not over clean because I couldn’t buy soap and bread both? I tell you Clary, rich folks thinks the poor has no right to breathe in the same world with ’em. I don’t want to long, for one.’
“‘I didn’t say rich people,’ said Clary thoughtfully, but only this one:—
‘Poor, weak, and worthless, though I am,
I have a rich almighty Friend.’
O mother! I wish I had!’
“‘Come child, shut up!’ said her mother, but not unkindly, for something in Clary’s look and tone had stirred the long deadened feeling within her. ‘I tell you child we must eat, and how is your work to get done if you sit there crying in that fashion? The candle’s ’most burnt out, too, and not another scrap in the house.’
“Clary dried her tears and went on with the overalls until the candle had flickered its last; and then groped her way in the dark to the little bed she and her mother occupied by that of the five children. For sleeping all together thus, the coverings went further. Dark and miserable it was; and yet when Clary laid herself down, overtaken at last by the sleep which had pursued her all the evening; the last thought in the poor child’s mind was of those hymns,—the word on which her heart went to sleep was that ‘name which is above every name.’
‘How sweet the name of Jesus sounds
In a believer’s ear!’