Stephen Grattans Faith | Page 4

log-house on the hill. Stephen would have liked to go up to the cottage; but the storm still continued. The snow lay deep and unbroken on the road, and it would have been a dangerous walk.
"Besides, I could not tell her truly that his courage was good--poor soul!--and without that I might as well stay at home." That worse news awaited them Stephen himself did not know as yet.
CHAPTER TWO.
A SNOW STORM.
Perched on a hill-top overlooking the village of Littleton, stood the humble log-house in which the Morelys had taken refuge. It was on the other side of the river from the village, and was by the road full two miles distant. It had been a poor place when they took possession of it; and it was a poor place still--though Morely's skilful hands had greatly improved it.
In summer it was a very pleasant place. Behind it lay a wide stretch of sloping pasture-land, and the forest crowned the hill. It was not a very fertile spot, to be sure. It was full of hillocks and hollows, and there were great rocks scattered here and there through it, and places where the underwood had sprung up again after the first clearing. Later, when the November rains fell, and the wind blew through the hollows, it was dreary enough. It needed the sunshine to make it bright. But the hill screened it from the bitter north; and it was with a thankful heart that poor Alice Morely looked forward to a safe and sheltered winter for her children.
At the time when the merry boys and girls of Littleton were enjoying the last of the skating on the mill-pond, the little Morelys were watching the departure of their father for the distant city of Montreal. Their clothes looked scant and threadbare, and quite too thin for the season; but there was an air of cleanliness, and order about them which is rarely seen in connection with the poverty which comes of evil-doing. Only five gravely watched the retreating form of their father; the youngest--a babe of three months--lay in the cradle, and little Ben was in heaven.
There was something more than gravity in the mother's face as she stood watching also,--something more even than the sadness that would naturally follow the separation from her husband. It was an unchanging look--not of pain exactly, but as if the face could not easily be made to express any pleasing emotion, such as hope or joy. She was a brave little woman. She had dared much, and borne much, for her husband's sake; she had accepted the sorrowful necessities of her lot with a patient courage which could not have been predicted of one whose girlhood had been so carefully sheltered from evil. Through all her troubles she had been strong to endure, and never, even in the worst times, had she quite lost faith in her husband.
But as she saw him disappear round the turn of the hill, and then came out of the sunshine into the dimness of the deserted room, where her baby lay in his cradle, a sense of being utterly forsaken came over her, and for the moment she sank beneath it. The want to which her children might be soon exposed, the danger of temptation which she had so dreaded for her husband, and the bitter feeling of utter friendlessness and loneliness, overcame her. She did not hear her baby cry, nor did she see her little daughter's look of wonder and terror, as, with bitter weeping, she cast herself down, calling aloud upon her father and her mother.
It was only for a moment. The child's terrified face recalled her to herself, and by a great effort she grew quiet again. Well might poor little Sophy look on with wonder and terror. She had seen many sorrowful sights, but never, even when they left their old home, or when little Ben died, had her mother given way like this. "What is the matter, mother? Are you ill? Speak to me, mother."
But her mother had no power to speak; she could only lay herself down by her wailing baby, quite exhausted. Sophy took up the child, and cared for it and soothed it. She shut the door, to keep her brothers out of the room, and in a little while she said again--
"What is it, mother? Can I do anything?"
"Yes, love; you must do all for me and your brothers. I am quite unfitted for anything to-night. If I can keep quiet, I shall be better to-morrow. Give me baby, and keep the boys out a little while. Oh! I must get strong again!"
The house was quiet enough; the boys needed no bidding to stay out among the falling snow; and Sophy, having covered the window, that her mother might