A light, quick, bounding step echoed in the little court—the mother knew it well: she arose, as if uncertain what to do—she shuddered—she sat down—took up her work, and when Richard, in passing, tapped against the window, she met the flushed, excited face of her son with her usual calm, quiet smile.
“Here’s a bright new-year’s-day, mother!” he exclaimed.
“Where?” she said, looking drearily out at the falling snow, and dusting it off her son’s coat with her hand.
“Every where, mother!”—he laid the book on the table—“I earned a penny, and I’ve got a place—there!”
“Got a place!” repeated the woman; and then her face flushed—“with whom? how?”
He detailed the particulars. “And I gave the penny, mother dear,” he added, “to read the ‘Works of Benjamin Franklin,’ which will teach me how to grow rich and good; I’ll read the book to you this evening, while you work.”
The flush on her cheek faded to deadly paleness.
“I don’t know what’s the matter with my eyes, Richard—they are so weak.”
“Looking on the snow, mother; mine grow weak when I look on the snow.”
How she caught at the straw!—“I never thought of that, Richard; I dare say it is bad. And what did ye with the penny, dear?”