“It seems the worst that could have happened, Samuel,” said the old woman, her voice choked with sorrow.
“The worst!—oh, no! Think if we had been parted by death, Hannah; or if Sophy had gone off with some wild, idle fellow, or many another thing that might befall us. Don’t cry, Sophy, darling, grandfather specially grieves on your account. But it’s all for the best, dear child. I feel as sure of that as I do that I sit here this moment. Wife, don’t moan so; it isn’t Christian-like to despair. God’s will be done.”
“Ah! husband, if I had your faith; but it comes so sudden, I can’t seem to bear it.”
“Bring the Bible, Sophy,” said her grandfather, “and read to grandmother and me how Job bore the loss of all his possessions.”
Sophy brought the Bible, and read with trembling voice, as Mr. Middleton directed. When she had finished, the old man knelt down, and reverently clasped his hands. He prayed for the patience of the patriarch of old; for faith to believe it was in love as well as wisdom they had been afflicted; for entire and cheerful submission to the Divine will; and strengthened by this near approach to the Great Chastener of his children, the little family lay down to rest that sorrowful night, tranquil at least, if not altogether resigned.
Before noon the next day, everybody in Brookville had been made acquainted with the misfortune of the Middletons; and neighbors came with kind offers, which the old man could not accept. He had settled what to do, he told them, and thought it was the best plan. The white cottage must be sold or rented, and, indeed, he had already dictated a letter, which Sophy had written, to a gentleman in New York, who was looking for a summer residence, and had once expressed himself pleased with the situation of Mr. Middleton’s house, and the scenery about Brookville. The income accruing from this would enable him to hire an old broken-down tenement, about five miles off, where they would remove without delay, and with strict economy, and good use of a little garden-plot, become as contented, he hoped, if not as happy, as they once were.
To this arrangement, reasonable as it appeared, everybody objected, and suggested, of course, something else. One would take Sophy to live with him; another would help to pay the rent of a better place; and a third proposed some other grand expedient; but the old gentleman was firm.
“I thank you, my friends,” he said, “but I would keep my independence if I can. Let me feel that I still eat my own bread, though it be coarser and harder than it once was, and pray for a contented heart, which seems to lighten almost any burden.”
A purchaser for the neat homestead was easily found, in the gentleman to whom Sophy had written by her grandfather’s dictation; and at the appointed time, Samuel Middleton and his family removed to their new abode, not, however, until kind hearts and willing hands had contributed to make the old place tolerably comfortable; to lay out and improve the garden, long run to waste, and even to plant a few rose-bushes and flowering shrubs about the door-way, that Sophy’s eyes, if not her grandfather’s, might find some pleasant memento of Brookville and its inhabitants, in these silent marks of their affection and respect.
When moving-day came, everybody came to help. Squire Edgewood’s men and fine team, and Mr. Harris, with his strong market cart, to transport the furniture, and when these were fairly off, arrived neighbor Maynard’s light wagon, to carry Sophy and her grandmother down, with sundry small baskets and boxes, while the minister himself drove the old gentleman in his gig; and it was sad, though soothing, to catch the kind farewell words as they passed down the village street, when many a one pressed forward to shake hands, and to wish “good health, and God’s blessing on their new home.”