“I have come here,” he continued, “as the near relative of your late husband, to remove you from this miserable spot. You must leave this place, madam; it is entirely too poor and wretched for you.” “Wretched and poor as it is, on _that_ bed your brother died!” said the widow, pointing as she spoke to the low, miserable bedstead. Mr. Oakly was evidently put down. After a moment’s silence he added, “It is my intention, as my brother’s widow, to treat you with every kindness.” “Your kindness, sir, comes late,” replied Mrs. Oakly, “and will prove but thankless. He whom it should have rescued from the grave, is now beyond your cruelty; and to me, therefore, your _kindness_, as you term it, is little else than cruel.” The brow of Mr. Oakly contracted with anger, but the object he had in view was too important to be thwarted by a woman’s reproaches; so, dissembling his mortification, he continued. “I wish you to remove from here at once to a pleasant town which I shall name to you; and it is also my desire and intention to adopt your youngest child as my own.” “Separate me from my children! No, that you shall never do!” cried the widow, pressing them to her bosom. “Do not be so hasty in your decision, my dear madam,” said Mr. Oakly, blandly, “but listen to me with reason. This child shall be most tenderly and carefully brought up. My wife will love her as her own; and her education shall be the best which the city can give. You yourself shall not only live in comfort, but also have ample means to educate your other daughter as you could wish. Nay, more; I do not ask you to give me your daughter without an equivalent. Now,” continued he, drawing his chair still closer to Mrs. Oakly, and taking her hand, “I want you to listen to me—neither do I wish you to give me an answer to-night; you shall have time to reflect upon my proposition, and to consider well the immense benefit which will result to yourself from conceding to my wishes, or, in case of refusal, the poverty and wretchedness which will still surround you and these poor babes, aggravated, perhaps, by the thought that you might have spared their tender frames, but would not.” The countenance of the widow flushed with indignation; she spoke not, however, but turning her full dark eye upon him, prepared to hear what further this man had to say. “It has pleased the Almighty,” he continued, “to give me one child, now nearly three years of age; but this child he has blasted with the most hopeless deformity. You have two beautiful children—then give me one, and receive to your maternal care my poor, blighted Agatha.” “And are you a _father_! and can you talk thus easily of severing the holy bond of parent and child!” interrupted Mrs. Oakly. “Have you not a wife—is there no _mother_ to be consulted in your most unnatural scheme!”