oppressing him. But this was a vain effort. Her eyes seemed never a moment from his face.
“What is the matter, dear?” she asked, as soon as they had left the table. “Are you not well?”
“No; I am sick,” he replied, sadly.
“Sick?” ejaculated the wife, in alarm.
“Yes, sick at heart.”
Mrs. Bancroft sighed deeply.
“My cup is not yet full, Mary,” he said, in a bitter tone. “There is yet more gall and wormwood to be added. We must go back to the two rooms, and live as we began some sixteen or seventeen years ago. My salary, from this day, is to be only five hundred dollars. It is useless to try for a better place—all is ill-luck now. We must go down, down, down!”
Mrs. Bancroft wept bitterly, but did not reply.
Back to the two rooms they went, but oh! how sad and weary-hearted they were. It was not with them as when with the first dear pledge of their love, they drew close together in the small bounds of a chamber and parlor, and were happy. Why could they not be happy now? They still had three children, and an income equal to their necessities, if dispensed with prudent care. They were relieved from a world of labor and anxiety. No—no—they could not be happy. Their hearts were larger now, for they had been expanding for years, as objects of love came one after the other in quick succession; but these objects of love, with two or three solitary exceptions, had been taken away from them, and there was silence, vacancy, and desolation in their bosoms.
“My cup is not yet full, Mary.” No, it seemed that it was not yet full, for a few days only had elapsed, after the family had contracted itself to meet the diminished income, before little Harry began to droop about. Mr. Bancroft noticed this, but he was afraid to speak of it, lest the very expression of his fear should produce the evil dreaded. He came and went to and from his daily tasks with an oppressive weight ever at his heart. He looked for evil and only evil; but without the bravery to meet it and bear it like a man.
One night, after having, before retiring to bed, bent long in anxious solicitude over the child for whom all his fears was aroused, he was awakened by a cry of anguish from his wife. He started up in alarm, and sprung upon the floor, exclaiming:
“In Heaven’s name, Mary! what is the matter?”
His wife made no answer. She was lying with her face pressed close to that of little Harry, and both were pale as ashes. The father placed his hand upon the cheek of his boy, and found it marble cold. Clasping his hands tightly against his forehead, he staggered backward and fell; but he did not strike the floor, but seemed falling, falling, falling from a fearful height. Suddenly he was conscious that he had been standing on a lofty tower—had missed his footing, and was now about being dashed to pieces to the earth. Before reaching the ground, horror overcame him, and he lost, for a moment, his sense of peril.
“Thank God!” was uttered, most fervently, in the next instant.
“For what, dear?” asked Mrs. Bancroft, rising up partly from her pillow, and looking at her husband with a half- serious, half-laughing face.
“That little Harry is not dead.” And Mr. Bancroft bent over and fixed his eyes with loving earnestness upon the rosy-cheeked, sleeping child.
Just then there came from the adjoining room a wild burst of girlish laughter.
“What’s that?” A strange surprise flashed over the face of Mr. Bancroft.
“Kate and Mary are in a gay humor this morning,” said the mother. “But what have you been dreaming about, dear?”
As this question was asked, a strain of music was heard floating up from the parlor, and the voice of Flora came sweetly warbling a familiar air.
The father buried his face in the pillow, and wept for joy. He had awakened from a long, long dream of horror.
From that time Mr. Bancroft became a wiser man. He was no longer a murmurer, but a thankful recipient of the good gifts sent him by Providence. His wife bore him, in all, ten children, five of whom have already attained their majority. He never wanted a loaf of bread for them, nor anything needful for their comfort and happiness. True, he did not “get ahead” in the world, that is, did not lay up money; but One, wiser than he, saw that more than enough would not be good for him, and, therefore, no efforts that he could make would have given him more than what was needed for their “daily bread.” There was always enough, but none to spare.
I’LL SEE ABOUT IT.
BY T. S. ARTHUR.
MR. EASY sat alone in his counting-room, one afternoon, in a most comfortable frame, both as regards mind and body. A profitable speculation in the morning had brought the former into a state of great complacency, and a good dinner had done all that was required for the repose of the latter. He was in that delicious, half-asleep, half-awake condition, which, occurring after dinner, is so very pleasant. The newspaper, whose pages at first possessed a charm for his eye, had fallen, with the hand that held it, upon his knee. His head was gently reclined backward against the top of a high, leather-cushioned chair; while his eyes, half-opened, saw all things around him but imperfectly. Just at this time the door was quietly opened, and a lad of some fifteen or sixteen years, with a pale, thin face, high forehead, and large dark eyes, entered. He approached the merchant with a hesitating step, and soon stood directly before him.
Mr. Easy felt disturbed at this intrusion, for so he felt it. He knew the lad to be the son of a poor widow, who had once seen better circumstances than those that now surrounded her. Her husband had, while living, been his intimate friend, and he had promised him at his dying hour to be the protector and adviser of his wife and children. He had meant to do all he promised, but not being very fond of trouble, except where stimulated to activity by the hope of gaining some good for himself, he had not been as thoughtful in regard to Mrs. Mayberry as he ought to have been. She was a modest, shrinking, sensitive woman, and had, notwithstanding her need of a friend and adviser, never called upon Mr. Easy, or even sent to request him to act for her in any thing, except once. Her husband had left her poor. She knew little of the world. She had three quite young children, and one, the oldest, about sixteen. Had Mr. Easy been true to his pledge, he might have thrown many a ray upon her dark path, and lightened her burdened heart of many a doubt and fear. But he had permitted more than a year to pass since the death of her husband, without having once called upon her. This neglect had not been intentional. His will was good but never active at the present moment. “To-morrow,” or “next week,” or “very soon,” he would call upon Mrs. Mayberry; but to-morrow, or next week, or very soon, had never yet come.
