It was hard to hurry him off so and to cover him up from the face of his own wife, even if he was a loathsome drunkard! But they couldn't keep him there long, for new victims were constantly arriving, and he must give place to them, and so they hustled him off in a deal box, without pall, or procession, or priest, and they did not mind the woman and child that followed on and stood side by side at the place of his burial; but they covered him over with the damp earth, and never a prayer above his head; and so they went away again, perchance to repeat the office for another miserable one.

"Mother," says Nannie, as the hardened band moved away leaving the one mourning heart by itself, "mother, come home now, 'tis no use staying here, and baby'll be crying for ye, ye know."

Baby!—oh! what a link to earth was that!

"Where is the child?" said the mother, with a frantic start, as if just awakened from a frightful dream. "Isn't she dead, Nannie? Didn't they just bury her with your father?" and she cast herself upon the moist turf, and tore her disheveled hair until the very wildness of her sorrow calmed her. Then she suffered Nannie to lead her away. It was a long distance; but they reached it at last, and the mother rushed quickly up the stairs, not seeming conscious of the change, as she heard the child's cries; for the poor little thing, unused to such long neglect, made all ring again with its screams.

"Did you say this was home, Nannie, or is it heaven, child?" said the woman, as her babe was hushed, and she became somewhat awake to her new position.

The sun was streaming upon the floor, and wall, and the snowy curtains were fluttering in the pure breeze, and the blue waves were dancing and sparkling in the bay, and white sails were moving rapidly about, and from the windows two beautiful islands were visible with their summer verdure, and the bewildered mother pressed her hand to her forehead, as if trying to unravel the mystery, when Mr. Bond's fat and merry face peered in at the door.

"All right," said he, with a glad smile, "how are you getting along here, eh? Rather better than the old cellar, isn't it, Nannie?" and helping himself to a chair, he took the baby from its mother, pinching its cheeks and chirruping to make it laugh, until even Mrs. Bates was forced into a more cheerful mood. But the tears would not stay long away, and as the memory of her loss came from her from time to time, she burst forth in a bewailing strain to her kind benefactor,

"Ye's too good to me, sir, and it's thankful to ye I am for it all; but it's my own husband that's taken suddenly from me, and ye'll not be minding the grief."

"I know all about it, my good woman," said he, the muscles about his mouth quivering with emotion. He was thinking of a green grave afar off, with a maiden name upon it, and a true heart moldering beneath. "But don't tell me any more, think of the living that have got to be cared for, and you'll have no time to lament the dead," and he chucked the baby under the chin, and dandled it upon his fat knees, as if he had been used to it all his life.

"It's the Lord will reward ye, sir, for looking after the fatherless and widowed," said the woman, as she cast a thankful glance about the cheerful room, and then upon the benevolent face before her. "There'll be three witnesses for ye if ever we get to the blessed land, and sure ye'll not need them either, I'm thinking!"

"Never mind, never mind," said the kind man; "I like to help them that are trying to get up in the world, and you'll know where to find a friend whenever you are in trouble—I'll look in upon you once in a while to see how the children get on," and he handed her a card with the number of his lodging upon it, saying as he went out the door,

"Don't forget to send for Peter Bond, when you need any thing."

"Blessings on his big soul!" says the poor woman, as his retreating footsteps die upon the stairs. "It is like taking away the light, to lose sight of his merry countenance!"