“Yes,” said Lucy, “_even now_. We all err, sir. He was only nineteen--young to marry; but Mary’s heart was bound up in him. He didn’t mean it, sir--I don’t know how it was. God help us all. “Well, we buried Jacob; then we had none to look to--Mary and I. We were poor. I was feeble. Then Mary’s lover came--the rich Mr. Shaw. You are ill, sir?” “No--no,” replied the peddler; “go on--your story interests me.” “Well, he wanted to marry Mary, although he saw how it was. It was all one to her, you know, sir. She was crazed like--though so sweet and gentle. I did it for the best, sir,” said Lucy, mournfully. “I thought when I died Mary would have a home.” “Go on,” said the peddler. “He treated her kindly?” he asked, with a dark frown. “For a little,” answered Lucy. “He wearied after a while. I might have known it--I was to blame, sir--her heart was broken. When the babe opened its eyes, she closed her’s, and I _alone_ mourned for her.” “O, God!” groaned the peddler. “It moves you, sir,” said Lucy; “perhaps you, too, have known trouble.” The peddler bowed his head without replying. “Then, sir, he brought a gay young thing into the house--his mistress--not his wife. He never looked upon his child; he cursed me and it. I gave it our name; I called it Fanny Ford; and we crept away, the babe and I, up in the attic;--then all was confusion--extravagance--ruin;--then he died, sir--and since--you see us here--you know now, sir, why I, leaning over the grave’s brink, yet shrink back and cling to life for _her_ sake,” and she looked at Fanny. “Would you trust her with me?” asked the peddler, with his eyes bent upon the ground. “I am all alone in the world--I have none to love--none who love me--I am poor, but while I have a crust, she shall never want.” “It is a great charge,” replied Lucy. “If you should weary, sir?” “Then may God forget me,” said the peddler, earnestly, kneeling at Lucy’s feet. Lucy bent on him a gaze searching as truth, but she read nothing in that upturned face to give the lie to those solemn words. Pointing to Fanny, she said, “Before God--and as you hope for peace at the last?” The peddler bowed his head upon Lucy’s withered hand, and faltered out, “I promise.” CHAPTER XVII. “Good morning, Zekiel,” said John Pray. “Glad to see you--you must tell the old lady to go ahead and finish this pile of vests in a twinkling; business is brisk now. Why, what’s this?” said he. “These vests unfinished? How’s that? Don’t the pay suit? What’s the trouble now?” “Don’t,” said Zekiel--“don’t--stop a bit--I’m as tough as any man--but there’s some things I can’t stand;” and he dashed a tear away. “What’s the matter now?” asked John. “Is the old lady dissatisfied with her pay?” “Don’t--I say,” said Zekiel;--“hold up--don’t harrow a man that way--she’s dead--I tell you stone dead. She never’ll make no more vests for nobody. I never shall forget what I saw there this morning, never.