Lizzy Glenn | Page 9

for so long. You can eat it all by yourself, for
Emma is fast asleep on the floor, and can't cry for it."
But Emma roused up, at the moment, and began to fret and cry for
something to eat.
"Don't cry, dear. You shall have your supper in a little while. I have
brought you home some nice bread and molasses," said the mother, in
tones meant to soothe and quiet her hungry and impatient little one. But
Emma continued to fret and cry on.
"It's so cold, mamma!" she said. "It's so cold, and I'm hungry!"
"Don't cry, dear," again urged the mother. "I'll make the fire up nice
and warm in a little while, and then you shall have something good to
eat."
But--"It's so cold, mamma! it's so cold, and I'm hungry!" was the
continued and incessant complaint of the poor child.

All this time, Ella had been busily engaged in peeling her orange, and
dividing it into four quarters.
"See here, Emma! Look what I've got!" she said, in a lively, cheerful
tone, as soon as her orange had been properly divided. "Come, cover up
in bed here with me, until the fire's made, and you shall have this nice
bit of orange."
Emma's complaints ceased in a moment, and she turned toward her
sister, and clambered upon the bed.
"And here's a piece for you, Henry, and a piece for mother, too,"
continued Ella, reaching out two other portions.
"No, dear, keep it for yourself. I don't want it," said the mother.
"And Emma shall have my piece," responded Henry; "she wants it
worse than I do."
"That is right. Be good children, and, love one another," said Mrs.
Gaston, encouragingly. "But Emma don't want brother Henry's piece,
does she?"
"No, Emma don't want brother Henry's piece," repeated the child; and
she took up a portion of the orange as she spoke, and handed it to her
brother.
Henry received it; and, getting upon the bed with his sisters, shared
with them not only the orange, but kind fraternal feelings. The taste of
the fruit revived Ella a good deal and she, with the assistance of Henry,
succeeded in amusing Emma until their mother had made the fire, and
boiled some water. Into a portion of the water she poured about half of
the milk she had brought home, and, filling a couple of tin cups with
this, set it with bread and molasses upon a little table, and called Henry
and Emma to supper. The children, at this announcement, scrambled
from the bed, and, pushing chairs up to the table, commenced eating
the supper provided for them with keen appetites. Into what remained
of the pint of milk, Mrs. Gaston poured a small portion of hot water,

and then crumbled some bread, and put a few grains of salt into it, and
took this to the bed for Ella. The child ate two or three spoonsful; but
her stomach soon turned against the food.
"I don't feel hungry, mother," said she, as she laid herself back upon the
pillow.
"But you've eaten scarcely any thing to-day: Try and take a little more,
dear. It will do you good."
"I can't, indeed, mother." And a slight expression of loathing passed
over the child's face.
"Can't you think of something you could eat?" urged the mother.
"I don't want any thing. The orange tasted good, and that is enough for
to-night," Ella replied, in a cheerful voice.
Mrs. Gaston then sat down by the table with Henry and Emma, and ate
a small portion of bread and molasses. But this food touched not her
palate with any pleasurable sensation. She ate, only because she knew
that, unless, she took food, she would not have strength to perform her
duties to her children. For a long series of years, her system had been
accustomed to the generous excitement of tea at the evening meal. A
cup of good tea had become almost indispensable to her. It braced her
system, cleared her head, and refreshed her after the unremitting toils of
the day. But, for some time past, she had felt called upon, for the sake
of her children, to deny herself this luxury--no, comfort--no, this, to her,
one of the necessaries of life. The consequence was that her appetite
lost its tone. No food tasted pleasantly to her; and the labors of the
evening were performed under depression of spirits and nervous
relaxation of body.
This evening she ate, compulsorily, as usual, a small portion of dry
bread, and drank a few mouthfuls of warm water, in which a little milk
had been poured. As she did so, her eyes turned frequently upon the
face of Henry, a fair-haired, sweet-faced, delicate boy, her eldest
born--the first pledge of