Mr. Mulford was a rash speculator, and on that memorable "Black Friday," the idol he had worshiped, the god of gold, proved itself to be nothing but clay, and was as dust in his hands. He could not rally from the shock; pride, ambition, courage, were all annihilated; and Mrs. Mulford, to whom beggary seemed worse than death, could only mingle her tears with his in speechless agony. Arthur, the eldest child, a boy of fourteen, endeavored to comfort his grief-stricken parents. "I will work for you, father. I can easily get a place in a store." "My boy! my boy!" said the poor man, clasping his son affectionately in his arms; "stay by your mother, and the girls, they will need you, dear boy!" And he imprinted a kiss on the glowing cheek, that had in it a father's blessing and farewell. The next morning Mrs. Mulford was a widow, and her children fatherless. A trifle the creditors allowed her was all she had to depend upon, the money she had inherited from her father having been swept away by the financial tornado. She had taken a little place in the country, and with Arthur's help, and Bridget's,--who had followed the fortunes of her mistress--had succeeded in making things look quite cozy and attractive. "Sure, ma'am," said Bridget, in her homely attempts to comfort her mistress, who dragged herself about like a sable ghost, "if ye'd only smile once in a while ye'd be surprised at the comfort ye'd get!" "Ah, Bridget," Mrs. Mulford replied, with a long-drawn sigh, "my smiling days are over. I try to be patient, but I cannot be cheerful." "Ah, but, it's the cheerful patience that brings the sunshine; and ye really shouldn't grieve the children so." "Do they mind it, Bridget?" "Sure, an' they do! Master Arthur, bless the boy! says it's just like a tomb where ye are; and Miss Minnie and Maud have their little hearts nearly torn out of them; and they are such wee, little birdies!" But Mrs. Mulford could not be easily beguiled from her sorrow, especially as she was obliged to have recourse to her needle to eke out the limited allowance, and every stitch she took was but an additional reminder of the depth to which she was reduced. To such a disposition the needle is but a weapon of despair, bringing neither comfort nor hope, nor in any way lightening the burdens of life. The recurrence of an anniversary was, to Mrs. Mulford's mind like the unveiling of a monument to the departed, and was usually spent in solitude and tears. She had managed to exist through the Thanksgiving season, and Bridget had done her best to make the occasion worthy to be remembered--by the children at least; and if it hadn't been for that kitchen goddess, I don't see how the house could have held together. She had always some comical story to tell the children, something to excite their wonder or admiration, and every few days would surprise them with some fresh molasses candy or cunning little cakes baked in curious patty pans.