“Ah! Now you are almost the only person within five miles that does not know what an affliction has befallen your own kin. I kept putting off the telling you, being at last hopeless——” “And I saw how you had been crying, but thought Walter might have been either rough or particularly tender. But O, Effie, what is it? Is poor little Tim——” Tim was well again: and Adam was horror-struck at finding the family misfortune so much greater than he had anticipated. When he learned that Cuddie was absent,—making his first voyage in a collier to London,—he was full of remorse that his mother had been left without the support of either of her elder sons on such an occasion. Instead of going home to his master, he must first see his poor mother; and when Effie recollected that such a visit might serve as a plea of excuse to his master, and give his indentures another chance, she made no further opposition. Effie found little promise of comfort on approaching home. About the spout or staithe, whence coals were shot from the waggons into the keels on the river, were gathered groups of people telling and hearing of one and another neighbour who had not returned when expected. This news rendered Eldred’s restoration less probable than ever, and all that could be hoped was that Mrs. Eldred was already prepared for this. If she was, she did not look out the less eagerly for her daughter, or show less disappointment when she found there were no tidings. “It was silly of me to trouble you for any,” she declared. “I am the last person ever to get tidings that I want. I am the last person to be helped by anybody.” “Do not you think——”—Effie began, but checked herself, in consideration of the trouble of spirit that her mother was in. The poor woman went on, “One would think the time was gone by for your father to have the notion of deserting his family. He had better have done it years ago, when I was more fit for the charge. I am worn out now. But I always said there would be no rest for me till I was in the grave.” “Is there no one who asks us to come and he will give us rest?” inquired one who was sitting beside the hearth, with little Tim on his knee. It was Mr. Severn, the clergyman, one of poor Tim’s best friends. Tim was only six years old; but he had lost his sight by an accident at the coal-pit, two years before. He was not an unhappy child at any time; but he was seldom so happy as when Mr. Severn’s cheerful voice and steady step came near, or when there was something new to be told or taught, which required that Tim should stand between the gentleman’s knees, or sit with an arm over his shoulder. He heard Mr. Severn’s question now, and asked who made that promise. The answer brought his mother to tears; but whether they were tears which would do her good seemed doubtful to those who watched with alarm the force of her emotions. “Mother, you cannot think,—surely you cannot think that my father has left us of his own accord?” remonstrated Adam.