Chapter III: The Sick Widow

"HE'S a bad boy, ma'am," urged the cook following her mistress into the hall. "I stepped out a moment, and I heard him say to the other one:

"'You wouldn't have got such a nice breakfast if I hadn't called you. I sha'n't work, though. I sarsed her well when she tried to make me, so you'd better believe I'm not going to be her slave.'"

"What did Arthur reply to this, Jane?"

"Not a word, ma'am. The two are as different as our two cats; one is all white, and the other is all black."

"Well, we shall see," replied the lady.

Quickly placing some food in a small basket, she arrayed herself in a street dress, and joined Arthur at the door. On her way, she passed a grocer's, and added a couple of fine oranges to her store.

"Are those for mother?" inquired the boy, his large, blue eyes filling with tears of delight.

"Yes, do you think she will relish them?"

"And will you please tell her, mum, that I didn't beg, and that you're going to give me a job?"

"Yes, I will tell her."

When they came to the house, Arthur merely opened the outer door and ran up the crooked, creaking stairs as nimbly as a cat. But suddenly recollecting that Mrs. Irvington was a stranger, he returned, and preceded her slowly to the room.

On a stool close by the low window, for the room was poorly lighted, a woman, bent and feeble, was trying to draw her needle through a coarse meal-bag, a pile of which lay on the floor by her side. She was greatly emaciated, and to the visitor appeared to be in the last stages of consumption.

She tried to rise and receive the lady, but almost fell to the floor, gasping for breath.

"Mother! Mother! See what the lady has brought for you. I didn't have to beg to-day. She is going to let me work. Aren't you glad?"

"Eat this orange at once," urged Mrs. Irvington, hastily peeling it.

Mrs. Thompson almost snatched at it and devoured several pieces without speaking. Then, with a glance at the lady, held out the remainder to her son.

"No, mother, eat it all; and I saved a piece of my bread for you. I've had ever so much breakfast."

"Thank God!" came feebly from the white lips.

She ate the bread Arthur had brought in his hand, and then, with a grateful glance, said:

"God will reward you, ma'am, I cannot. I was starving. Not a mouthful have I eaten for two days."

"You are too ill to work," said Mrs. Irvington. "Have you had a doctor?"

"I went to the dispensary once; but the doctor told me medicine could not help me." She sighed repeatedly, as she said this, fixing her eyes tenderly on her boy.

"Is there no one here who could take care of you? I don't think you are well enough to be left alone."

"There is a tailoress in the room opposite who is very kind. She has gone now to take home her work."

"I belong to a society who wish to help those who are really in need," explained Mrs. Irvington. "Your son has told me that you are unwilling he should beg, so I intend to give him work. When he is a little stronger, he can earn half a dollar a day."

The sick woman clasped her hands joyfully to her breast.

"In the meantime," the visitor added, "I will gladly pay the tailoress to remain with you. All this work must be taken away; it is entirely too hard for you. I have brought you some food for to-night; and to-morrow, I will come again."

She rose to go; and at that moment a slight figure passed the door, and went into the room opposite.

"There's Matilda," said Arthur.

"Will you ask her to come here a minute?"

In a few words, Mrs. Irvington explained her wishes, and then asked, "How much can you make in a day, by sewing?"

"From two to three shillings. It is slop-work. My rent is five dollars a month; but when I am well, I can do admirably."

"My advice is that you move your bed in here, and give up your room. I will pay you four dollars a week, while Mrs. Thompson needs your care, which with your board will be better than what you now get."

"Come, Arthur, we must go."

"I cannot say what I feel," gasped Mrs. Thompson, seizing her visitor's hand. "I'm almost home; and for myself I have no anxiety, but for your kindness to my boy—I've prayed that I might have faith to give him up, and now the answer has come."

As my story is more of Arthur than of his mother, I will only say here that by the kindness of Mrs. Irvington, the widow was provided with every thing necessary for her comfort. She lived, however, but a few weeks, and died rejoicing in the assurance that the God of the widow and the fatherless would protect her boy.