CHAPTER I.

A FRIEND IN NEED.

God help the poor who have ever known the refinements of comfort! God help that little family, for it had been driven first from comfortable apartments, where many a tasteful object had rendered home cheerful, to the garret rooms of a poor house in one of the most neglected streets of Philadelphia. Upward, from story to story, those helpless ones had been forced by that hard task master poverty, till they found shelter at last under the very roof. Their attic had only one window, a small dormer one, which looked out upon stacks of chimneys, grouped like black sentinels huddled over uneven roofs, and down upon yards full of broken barrels, old fragments of sheet-iron, scraps of oil-cloth, piles of brick and broken stoves, rusted lengths of refuse pipe, and all the odds and ends which scores of poverty-stricken families had cast forth from their dwellings. Above these, from window to window, swinging high in the wind, lines, heavy with wet clothes, were fluttering dismally, giving forth a sudden rush of sound now and then like broken-winged birds making wild efforts to fly.

This was the scene upon which that quiet old woman looked, as she sat in a low chair close by the window. Not a scrap of green—not a tree-bough broke the coarse monotony when her eyes turned earthward. But it was near sunset, and over the house-tops came a flood of burning light, bronzing the chimneys and scattering rich scintillations of gold on the roofs; and this poor old woman smiled thoughtfully as she saw it, praising God in her heart that he gave the glory of sunset and of the dawn alike to the poor and the rich. She was a plain, simple, pleasant-faced old woman, with a cap of soft, white muslin, harmonizing sweetly with the hair folded back from her forehead, white as snow, and soft as floss silk. Her dress, an old brown merino, had been darned and patched, and turned in all its breadths more than once; but it was so neat and fitted her dainty old figure so perfectly, that you could not help admiring it. Over this she wore an old-fashioned kerchief, cut from some linen garment, which lay in folds across her bosom, like the marble drapery sculptured around a statue.

The old woman had her spectacles on, and her withered fingers were busy with a child’s shoe. They trembled a good deal, and seemed scarcely able to force her needle through the tough leather, which broke away from her stitches with crisp obstinacy. Still she toiled on, striving to close a great rent in the side of the shoe, till a stronger pull at the thread tore the leather half across the instep, and rendered her task utterly hopeless. That good old creature dropped the shoe to her lap, sighed heavily, and, turning her eyes on the sunset, softened into patient composure.

Just then two boys, the elder ten, the younger, perhaps, seven years of age, came into the room very softly—for those bare feet made no noise on the floor—each carrying a quantity of freshly-opened oyster-shells in his arms. The two children sat down in a corner of the room, and began to sort over the shells with eager haste.

“Here is one—here is one!” whispered the elder boy; “not so very small either. Get me a knife.”

The little fellow went to a pine table close by, took a broken case-knife from the drawer, and ran back with it to his brother, who held a huge oyster-shell in his hand, to which was attached a tolerably sized oyster still unopened. The elder boy snatched at the knife, beat the oyster open, and, pressing the shell back, lifted it greedily toward his lips; but when he caught the wistful look of his half-famished brother, the generous child withdrew the morsel slowly from his mouth, and gave it up to the two little, eager hands held forth to receive it. The moment his fingers closed on the shell, this little hero sprang away with it to his grandmother’s side.

“Here, grandma, grandma! take it quick—take it quick!” he cried, breathless, with a spirit of self-sacrifice that might have honored a strong man.

The grandmother turned her mild, brown eyes on the little, famished face uplifted so eagerly to hers, and, understanding all the heroism expressed there, gently shook her head, while a sweet, patient smile crept around her lips.

“Eat it yourself, Joseph,” she said, patting him on the shoulder with her withered hand. “There is only a mouthful, and you are the youngest.”

“No, no, grandma! It is for you—for you.”

“Hollo, I have found another, two, three—one apiece; and another left for Anna, when she comes in. Eat away, grandma, there is enough for all. That man who keeps the stand at the corner is a famous fellow; he threw them in, I’ll be bound.”

Little Joseph thrust the open oyster into his grandmother’s hand, cut a caper with his bare feet, and rushed back to the pile of shells in hot haste.

“Save the biggest for Anna,” he shouted; “don’t touch that.”

With that the two children huddled themselves down among the shells; and Robert, the elder, opened the two oysters that fell to their portion with great ostentation, as if he delighted in prolonging his pleasure by anticipation.

“Now,” he said, “eat slow and get the whole taste. It isn’t every day that we get a treat like this.”

Joseph did his best to obey, but the greed of protracted hunger made short work with his morsel. Still he smacked his lips and made motions with his mouth, as if enjoying the treat long after it was devoured.

“Now,” said Robert, “let’s build a bridge across the hearth; or a railroad, or something worth while.”

“A bridge—a pontoon bridge, such as Anna told us of when father’s regiment crossed that river. Every oyster-shell shall be a boat, and the hearth shall be a river; and—and—but there comes Anna, walking so tired, I know it by her step. Open that other oyster, Robert, for she hasn’t tasted a mouthful since yesterday; be quick.”

Robert seized his knife, and was using it vigorously when his sister Anna came in, pale, weary, and so dispirited, that the heaviness of utter despair seemed upon her.

“Oh, grandmother! she is not at home. I have not been able to collect one cent. What shall we do?”

The young girl flung herself on a chair by the table, and, covering her face, began to cry very noiselessly, but in the deep bitterness of distress. “Not one cent, grandma, and I worked so hard.”

The old lady arose from her place by the window, where the sunset had kindled up her meek face like a picture, and went quietly up to the weeping girl.

“Don’t cry, Anna,” she said, smoothing the hair back from her granddaughter’s forehead. “We have all had a little of something; and to-morrow will be a new day. I suppose the lady is busy about the fair.”

“But I had depended on it so thoroughly,” sobbed the girl, looking drearily at the oyster-shells scattered on the hearth. “I had promised the boys _such_ a supper, and now all is emptiness; their poor, bare feet, how cold they look!”

“But we are not cold, we rather like it,” cried Robert, forcing a laugh through the tears that quivered in his voice. “Arn’t we learning to be tough against the time that drummer-boys will be wanted?”

Anna smiled so drearily that Robert had no heart to go on. The old lady bent over her granddaughter and asked, in a whisper, if any thing else had happened. Anna was not a girl to give way like that for a single disappointment, dark as the hour was for them; and the old woman knew it.

“There has been a battle. Extras are out, but I had no money to buy one,” Anna replied, in a broken whisper. “He may be dead!”

“No, no; don’t say that,” pleaded the old woman, retreating to her chair. “God help us! We could not bear it!”

Robert listened keenly; the knife dropped from his hand; his very lips were white. He crept toward the door and darted down stairs. Flight after flight he descended at a sharp run, and then dashed into the street. No newsboy ever hoped for custom in that neighborhood; but around a far distant corner he saw one passing with a bundle of papers under his arm. With the speed of a deer Robert leaped along the pavement, shouting after the newsboy as he went. His cry, so shrill and desperate, arrested the lad, who paused for his customer to come up.

“Oh I give me a paper!—give me a paper! My father was in the battle!” cried Robert, shaking from head to foot under the force of his anxiety.

“All right,” answered the sharp boy—“all right; ten cents, and hurry up.”

“I haven’t got the money; but my father was in the battle, and my sister is breaking her heart to know——”

“Hand over a five, then, and be quick.”

“I haven’t got a single cent; but my father is a soldier.”

“Nary a red, ha! and keeping me like this. Oh! you get out. Business is business, and sogers is sogers; a fellow can’t let his heart wear holes in his jacket.”

“But I want it so—I want it so.”

The boy tore himself away from Robert’s feeble grasp, and went on shouting lustily for new customers, leaving the soldier’s son shivering in the street, his eyes full of tears, and his heart aching with pain. Robert stood a moment looking wistfully at the newspapers flitting away from him, and in his disappointment formed a new resolution.

When his sister went out that morning, she had mentioned the name and address of a lady, celebrated for her energy in all charitable associations, and who was now the leading spirit of a grand fair for the benefit of the soldiers, which was soon to occupy fashionable attention.

This lady might be at home. She owed his sister money for fancy articles made up for this fair. He would go and ask for enough to give them food; at any rate, to get a paper, which might tell how bravely his father’s regiment had fought.

Again the boy started off at a rapid run, and now his course lay toward that part of the city which seems so far lifted above all the cares and privations of life that it is little wonder the poor are filled with envy when they creep out of their alleys and garrets to behold its splendor. They little know how many cares and heartaches may be found even in this favored quarter; and it is not remarkable that the outward contrast presented to them should often engender bitter feelings, and even intense hatred.

The boy had none of these thoughts. He was only eager to get food for those he loved, and hear news that might bring smiles back to the lovely face of his sister. He was naturally sensitive, and not long ago his father had been among the most prosperous and respectable of the working classes. At another time his naked feet and worn cap, which but half concealed the bright waves of his hair, might have checked his ardor, and sent him cowering back to the concealment of his garret-home. Now he forgot the chill that penetrated his feet from the cold pavement, and went on his way, resolute to save his sister from the sorrow that had wounded him to the heart.

“She hates to ask these grand people for her money,” he thought. “I will do it for her. It is a man’s place to take the brunt; and when father is fighting for his country, I must try to be man enough to act as he did.”

With these thoughts, Robert mounted the marble steps of a spacious white mansion, whose walls were like petrified snow, and whose windows were each a broad sheet of crystal limpid as water. Robert’s cold feet left their tracks on the pure marble, as he mounted the steps, and his little hand drew the silver knob with breathless terror when he rang the bell.

A mulatto servant opened the door, saw the lad shivering outside the vestibule, and drew back in a fit of sublime indignation.

“How dare you? What brings you here?” he exclaimed, eyeing the lad with august scorn. “This is no place for vagrants or beggar-boys——”

“I—I am not a beggar-boy; and I don’t think I am the other thing. If you please, I want to see the lady,” said the boy, resolutely.

“The lady! What lady can you have any thing to do with?” demanded the servant.

“Mrs. Savage, I think that is her name.”

“Who told you that? What do you want of Mrs. Savage?”

“I want some money.”

“Yes, I thought as much. Now tramp, I tell you; and next time you come to a gentleman’s house, learn to go to the back gate.”

“But no, no; pray don’t shut the door. My sister has done work for the lady, and——”

“Very likely. Mrs. Savage is very likely to owe money to any one. My young friend your story is getting richer and richer. _She_ owe you money, indeed!”

“Indeed—indeed she does.”

“There, there, get out of the way. Don’t you see the young gentleman coming up the steps? Make off with yourself!”

Robert turned, and saw a handsome young man spring out of one of those light wagons sometimes used for riding, in which was a pair of fiery young horses, black as jet, and specked about the chest with flashes of foam. He flung the reins to a groom as he stepped to the pavement and mounted the steps, smiling cheerfully, as if his drive had been a pleasant one.

“What is this? Stop a moment, my boy,” said the young man, as Robert passed him on the steps with angry shame burning in his face. “Did you want any thing? Money to buy shoes with, perhaps; here—here.”

The young man took out his porte-monnaie, and selecting a bank-note from its contents, handed it to the boy.

“No, sir—no, sir. I did not come to beg; though he says I did,” cried the boy, with tears in his eyes.

“Then what did you come for, my boy?”

“The lady in yonder hired my sister to do some work for a fair, and it is that I come about. We need the money so much; and Anna is ashamed to ask for it. She would rather go hungry.”

“What, my mother owes money to a working-girl, who hesitates to ask for it!—that must be from mistake or forgetfulness. Is Mrs. Savage at home, Jared?”

“No, sir,” answered the servant. “She is with the committee, and will be till late.”

The young man turned to Robert again. The boy was watching him with wistful attention. Tears stood in those large blue eyes, and under its glow of new-born hope the face was beautiful. No beggar-boy, immortalized by Murillo, was ever more striking. Young Savage had a kind heart, but his tastes were peculiarly fastidious; and it is doubtful if a common boy, with bare feet and poverty-stricken clothes, could have kept him so long on those marble steps.

“Come,” he said, bending a kindly glance on the lad, “if your home is not far from here, I will go with you and settle this matter.”

The lad hesitated, and cast down his eyes. He was ashamed to take this elegant gentleman into his home, or that his beautiful sister should be found in that place. Young Savage mistook this hesitation for a less worthy feeling. “The boy is a little impostor,” he said to himself. “He has seen my mother go out, and hopes to obtain something by this ridiculous claim. I will unearth the little fox!”

“Come, come,” he said, laughing lightly, “show me the way.”

Robert was a sharp lad, and read something of the truth in that handsome face. He turned at once and went down the steps. Savage followed him, interested in spite of himself, and half amused at the idea of ferreting out a deception. Robert did not speak, but looked back, now and then, as he turned a corner, to be sure that the gentleman was following him. The face of young Savage grew more and more serious, as he passed deeper into the neighborhood where low shanties, and high, barren-looking tenement-houses were crowded together. He passed whole families huddled together in the entrance to some damp basement, cold as it was, craving the fresh air that could not be found within. Groups of reckless children, happy in spite of their visible destitution, were playing in the twilight, which filled the poverty of the street with a golden haze, such as heaven alone lends to the poor. The sight pained him, and he grew thoughtful.

“Here is the place, sir,” said Robert, pausing at the door of a tall, bleak building, crowded full of windows that turned coldly to the north. “If you please, I will run up first and tell them you are coming.”

“No, no, that will never do,” answered Savage. “I shall lose my way along this railway of stairs.”

Robert saw that he was still suspected, and began to mount the stairs without a pretext. Up and up he went, followed by the young man, till they reached a place where the stairs gave out, and they stood directly under the roof.

“Here is the room, sir,” said Robert, gently opening a door, and revealing a picture within the little apartment which arrested young Savage where he stood. This was the picture.

A young girl with raven black hair, so black that a purplish bloom lay on its ripples, stood upon the hearth, stooping over a delicate little boy, whose meagre white face was uplifted to hers with a piteous look of suffering. An old woman, in a low, easy-chair, sat close by the child, who huddled himself against her knees, and clung to her garments as if he had been pleading for something. In the background was a lead-colored mantle-piece, a hollow fireplace, and a few half extinguished embers dying out in a bed of ashes. It was a gloomy picture, yet not without warmth and beauty; for the dying sunbeams came through the window, goldenly as an artist would have thrown them on canvas; and the pure, delicate face of the child was like a head of St. John. Never on this earth did human genius embody a more lovely idea of the Madonna than Anna Burns made, with her worn dress of crimson merino, her narrow collar and cuffs of white linen standing out warmly from the sombre brown of the grandmother’s dress.

Savage unconsciously lifted the hat from his head, and stood upon the threshold struck with a sort of reverence. Anna was speaking to the child, and did not observe him, or her brother. Her voice, saddened by grief, fell upon his ear with a pathos that thrilled him.

“Wait a little—only a little while, darling,” she said. “Don’t plead so, I will go again. You shall have something to eat, if I beg for it in the street, only do not look at me so.”

“But I am so hungry,” pleaded the child.

“I know it—I know it! Oh, grandma! what can I do?”

She changed her position, then, and wringing her hands, went to the window, thus breaking up the picture, and sobbing piteously.

Young Savage entered the room, then, reverently, as if he were passing by a shrine.

“Madam—young lady, I have come from—from my mother.”

Anna turned, and saw this strange young man standing before her, with his head uncovered, and his handsome face beaming with generous emotion. She hastily brushed the tears from her eyes, and, unconsciously, smoothed her hair with one hand, ashamed of the disorder into which her grief had thrown it.

“My name is Savage,” continued the young man, while a faint smile quivered over his lips, as he observed this little feminine movement. “I met this boy, your brother, I think. I—I wish to settle my mother’s account. Pray tell me how much it is?”

“I beg pardon. I am very, very sorry to trouble any one so much. Indeed——”

“She didn’t do it. I went on my own hook,” broke in Robert, who came forward with a glow on his face. “She considers it begging to ask for her own, but I don’t.”

“That is right, my good fellow,” answered Savage. “Business should be left to men. You and I can settle this little affair.”

“No, that is not necessary,” said Anna, smiling. “It is so small a sum that a word settles it. Only I should like your mother to know how thankful I am to her for giving us something to do.”

“Will this be enough?” said the young man, placing a ten dollar note upon the window-sill.

“Half of that—half of that, sir; but I have no change.”

The young man blushed.

“You can give it me some other time, perhaps.”

“I’ll run and get it changed,” broke in Robert.

Anna handed him the bank-note.

“No, no! I insist!” said Savage, earnestly. “There is no need of change. My mother—in fact I want more work done. Let your brother come to me in the morning; I shall have ever so many handkerchiefs to mark with initial letters, which I am sure you embroider daintily. Besides, I have a fancy to make my mother a present of one of those worsted shawls—all lace-work and bright colors—such as nice old ladies can knit without injury to the eyesight. I dare say you could do that sort of thing, madam?”

“Oh, yes!” answered the old lady, brightening visibly. “If I only had the worsted to begin with, and needles, and——”

“That is just what I leave the extra five dollars for. Robert, remember, that is for grandma to begin her work with. It would so oblige me, madam, if you could have the shawl done by Christmas.”

The old lady broke into a pleasant little laugh. Little Joseph, who had been listening greedily, pulled at her dress and whispered:

“Grandma! Grandma! Can I have something now?”

“Yes, dear, yes! only wait a minute.”

“But I am tired of waiting, grandma.”

“Hush, darling, hush!”

Joseph nestled down to his old place, and, half hidden by his grandma’s garments, watched the stranger with his great, bright eyes, eager to have him gone.

The young man saw something of this; but he had never in his life encountered absolute want, and could not entirely comprehend its cravings.

“Let us see about the colors,” he said, approaching the grandmother. “White, with a scarlet border, just a pretty fleece of soft, bright wool turned into lace.”

“I know, I know!” said the old woman, nodding pleasantly. “You shall see; you shall see.”

“Now, that this is settled,” said the young man, balancing his hat in one hand with hesitation, “we must have a consultation, my mother and I, about providing something a little more permanent.”

“You are kind, very kind, sir,” said the old lady, smoothing the kerchief over her bosom, with a soft sweep of both hands. “When my son comes home from the war, he will thank you. Anna, there, don’t exactly know how to do it; and I am an old-fashioned lady, fast turning back to my place among the children; but my son, her father, you know, is a very smart man.”

“And brave as a lion,” shouted little Joseph, from behind the shelter of his grandmother’s garments.

“Hurra! so he is! They made him a corporal the first thing they did. By-and-by he’s going to be a lieutenant. Then, won’t we live! Well, I reckon not; oh, no!” responded the larger boy.

“Robert! Robert!” said the sister, in gentle reproof.

“I couldn’t help it, Anna; can’t for the life of me. Beg the gentleman’s pardon all the same, though.”

“Don’t ask pardons of me. I rather like it, my fine fellow,” answered Savage. “But there has been a great battle; I hope no bad news has reached you!”

“I do not know. That is what makes us so anxious. If I could but see a paper.”

“Go and get one this moment,” said Savage, thrusting some currency into Robert’s hand.

The boy darted off like an arrow; they could hardly hear his feet touch the stairs. Directly he came back again, breathless and pale, with the paper open in his hand, which he searched eagerly for news.

“They have been in the midst of it,” he cried. “The regiment is all cut up; but I don’t see his name in the list. Dear, how I wish the paper would hold still. Anna, you try.” The girl held out her hand, but it shook like an aspen leaf; and Savage took the paper.

“What is your father’s name?” he inquired.

“Robert Burns.”

“I’m named after him, I am,” cried Robert, with an outburst of pride.

Savage ran his eyes hastily down the list of killed. The old woman left her chair and crept toward him, white and still; while little Joseph crept after, forgetting his hunger in the general interest. No one spoke; there was not a full breath drawn. Savage looked up from the paper, and saw those wild, questioning eyes, those white faces, turned upon him with an intensity that made his heart swell.

“His name is not here,” he said.

Dry sobs broke from the women; but Robert shouted out, “Glory! glory!” And little Joseph laughed, clapping his pale hands.

“But the wounded,” whispered Anna; “look there.”

“All right, so far,” answered Savage, running his eyes rapidly down the list. “There is no Burns here.”

The old woman dropped into her chair, and gathering little Joseph to her bosom, covered his face with gentle kisses; while Robert half strangled his sister with caresses, and shook hands vigorously with Mr. Savage, who was rather astonished to find his eyes full of tears, which threw the whole room into a haze.

“Don’t forget to come in the morning,” he said, turning toward the door.

“Of course I wont,” answered the boy, following his new friend into the passage; “but that yellow chap, will he let me in?”

“Come and see. But, Robert, I say, you and I must be friends—fast friends, you know.”

“Yes, when we know each other through and through. But I’m in charge here when father’s gone, and haven’t much time for anything else. Good-by, sir; I’ll be on hand in the morning.”

Savage went away, with his mind and heart full of the scene he had just witnessed. How poor they were? What barren destitution surrounded those two women: yet, how lady-like they seemed. There was nothing in their poverty to revolt his taste, fastidious as it was. Neat and orderly poverty carried a certain dignity with it. He thoroughly respected these two women; their condition appealed to every manly feeling in his nature. Though distrustful from habit and education, he had faith in them, and went home full of generous impulses, wondering how he could do them good. Meantime, Robert went back to the room, radiant.

“Here,” he said, thrusting a bun into Joseph’s hand, “break it in two, and give grandma half; Anna and I will wait awhile. Here is the money, sister; I got it changed at the baker’s, where they wouldn’t trust us a loaf yesterday. You didn’t know it, but I asked ’em. Didn’t their eyes open when I took out that bill. How does the bun taste, Josey? Why, if the fellow hasn’t finished up his half already. Here, give me back some of that money; I’m off for a supper. There is three sticks of wood in the closet, and a little charcoal; just throw them on the fire, and let ’em blaze away; who cares for the expense! Hurra!”

Away the boy went, bounding down the stairs like a young deer, leaving Anna and the grandmother in a state of unusual cheerfulness. They raked up the embers into a little glowing pile, crossed the wood over them, and filled the tea-kettle as a pleasant preliminary. The hearth, clean and cold before, was swept again; and as the darkness closed in, the end of a candle was brought forth and lighted, revealing the desolate room in gleams of dull light, that struggled hard against the shadows.

“How pleasant it is,” murmured the old lady, leaning toward the fire, and rubbing her withered hands over each other. “See, darling, how the firelight dances on the hearth. Hark, now! the kettle is beginning to sing! That means supper, Joseph.”

“Are you hungry, grandma?” asked the boy, looking up to that kind, old face.

“Yes, dear, a little.”

“But you wouldn’t eat a bit of the bun.”

“That was because I liked to see you eat it.”

“Oh, how nice it was! When will Robert come back with more?”

“Here I am!” cried Robert, dashing against the door, and forcing it open with his foot. “Here I am, with lots of good things. There’s a ring of sausages. Here’s bread and butter, and a little tea for grandma, bless her darling old heart; and just one slice of sponge-cake for Anna—cake is awful dear now, or I’d have got enough to treat all round. There’s a paper of sugar, and—and here they go all on the table at once! Sort ’em out, Anna, while I run for a pint of milk, and an apple to roast for grandma. I forgot that. How she does like roasted apples. Get out the frying-pan, and bustle about, all of you. Isn’t that young Mr. Savage a splendid fellow? How I’d like to be a drummer-boy in his regiment. Hurry up, Anna, I’m after the milk!”

Away the boy went again, with a little earthen pitcher in his hands, happy as a lark.

Anna Burns brought forth the frying-pan, placed the links of sausages in it, and surrendered them to grandma, who smiled gently on little Joseph as they began to crisp, and swell, and send forth an appetizing flavor into the room. The kettle, too, sent forth gushes of warm steam, hissing and singing like some riotous, living thing held in bondage. Altogether, the little room grew warmer and pleasanter every moment; and the bright face of Anna Burns grew radiant as she moved about it, setting out the table with a few articles of China left from their former comfortable opulence, and spreading it with a tablecloth of fine damask, so worn and thin, that the pawnbrokers had rejected it.

“Here we go!” cried Robert, coming in with the milk. “Hurra! all ready, and the sausages hissing! That’s the time o’ day! Just get down that China teapot, Anna, and let grandma make the tea. There, Joe, is an apple for you; I reckon you can eat it without roasting. I’ll put one down for grandma. Don’t she look jolly, with the firelight dancing over her? Come, now, all’s ready; bring up the chairs, Josey, that’s your part of the job.”

Little Joseph fell to work with great spirit, and dragged up the chairs, while Anna was dishing the sausages and cutting the bread. Then the old woman drew up to her place nearest the fire, with the teapot before her, ready to do the honors; and, with her hands folded in meek thankfulness on the table, asked a blessing on the only food they had tasted in two days.

Well, God did bless that food, common as it was; and no Roman feast, where libations were poured out to heathen gods, ever tasted sweeter than this humble meal. There was quite a jubilee about that little, pine table; and the old lady, who sat smiling over her teacup, was by no means the least joyous of the little party. As for Robert, he came out famously; talked of the brave exploits his father must have performed in battle; told stories; got up once or twice to kiss his grandmother; and, altogether, behaved in a very undignified manner for the head of a family, as he proudly proclaimed himself. Even little Joseph came out of his natural timidity, and burst into shouts of childish laughter more than once, when Robert became unusually funny. And as for Anna, she laughed, and smiled, and talked that evening, till the boys fairly left their half-empty plates to climb on her chair and caress her. That happy supper, and the pleasant evening that followed, was enough to reconcile one with poverty, which, after all, is not the greatest evil on earth.