The English Orphans | Page 7

a vast
deal too small; and it was only in reply to a proposal from Frank that he
should buy it that he had casually offered him a shilling. But now,
when he saw the garment, and learned why it was sent he immediately
drew from his old leather wallet a quarter, all the money he had in the
world and giving it to Mary bade her keep it, as she would need it all.
Half an hour after a cooling orange was held to Frank's parched lips,
and Mary said, "Drink it, brother, I've got two more, besides some milk
and bread," but the ear she addressed was deaf and the eye dim with the
fast falling shadow of death. "Mother, mother!" cried the little girl,
"Franky won't drink and his forehead is all sweat. Can't I hold you up
while you come to him?"
Mrs. Howard had been much worse that day, but she did not need the
support of those feeble arms. She felt, rather than saw that her darling
boy was dying, and agony made her strong. Springing to his side she
wiped from his brow the cold moisture which had so alarmed her
daughter chafed his hands and feet, and bathed his head, until he
seemed better and fell asleep.
"Now, if the doctor would only come," said Mary; but the doctor was
hurrying from house to house, for more than one that night lay dying in
Chicopee. But on no hearthstone fell the gloom of death so darkly as
upon that low, brown house, where a trembling woman and a frail
young child watched and wept over the dying Frank. Fast the shades of
night came on, and when all was dark in the sick room, Mary sobbed
out, "We have no candle, mother, and if I go for one, and he should
die--"
The sound of her voice aroused Frank, and feeling for his sister's hand,
he said, "Don't go, Mary:--don't leave me,--the moon is shining bright,

and I guess I can find my way to God just as well."
Nine;--ten;--eleven;--and then through the dingy windows the silvery
moonlight fell, as if indeed to light the way of the early lost to heaven.
Mary had drawn her mother's lounge to the side of the trundlebed, and
in a state of almost perfect exhaustion, Mrs. Howard lay gasping for
breath while Mary, as if conscious of the dread reality about to occur,
knelt by her side, occasionally caressing her pale cheek and asking if
she were better. Once Mrs. Howard laid her hands on Mary's head, and
prayed that she might be preserved and kept from harm by the God of
the orphan, and that the sin of disobedience resting upon her own head
might not be visited upon her child.
After a time a troubled sleep came upon her, and she slept, until roused
by a low sob. Raising herself up, she looked anxiously towards her
children. The moonbeams fell full upon the white, placid face of Frank,
who seemed calmly sleeping, while over him Mary bent, pushing back
from his forehead the thick, clustering curls, and striving hard to
smother her sobs, so they might not disturb her mother.
"Does he sleep?" asked Mrs. Howard, and Mary, covering with her
hands the face of him who slept, answered, "Turn away, mother;--don't
look at him. Franky is dead. He died with his arms around my neck,
and told me not to wake you."
Mrs. Howard was in the last stages of consumption, and now after
weeping over her only boy until her tears seemed dried, she lay back
half fainting upon her pillow. Towards daylight a violent coughing fit
ensued, during which an ulcer was broken, and she knew that she was
dying. Beckoning Mary to her side, she whispered, "I am leaving you
alone, in the wide world. Be kind to Ella, and our dear little Allie, and
go with her where she goes. May God keep and bless my precious
children,--and reward you as you deserve, my darling--"
The sentence was unfinished, and in unspeakable awe the orphan girl
knelt between her mother and brother, shuddering in the presence of
death, and then weeping to think she was alone.

CHAPTER III.
BILLY BENDER.
Just on the corner of Chicopee Common, and under the shadow of the
century-old elms which skirt the borders of the grass plat called by the
villagers the "Mall," stands the small red cottage of widow Bender,
who in her way was quite a curiosity. All the "ills which flesh is heir
to," seemed by some strange fatality to fall upon her, and never did a
new disease appear in any quarter of the globe, which widow Bender, if
by any means she could ascertain the symptoms, was not sure