When I went to my room for the night, I drew back my curtain and looked out into the darkness of a cloudy, moonless night. It chilled me, I wondered if the baby and its father, with the cold, still form of the once happy mother, had got into the light and warmth of home. I compared our bright evening together in the drawing-room, where Mr. Winthrop had sat with us reading, or rather translating as he read, some splendid passages from his favorite classical authors, a treat not often granted, but he was, I fancied, too tired to read or study in his library alone. I too had tried to add my share to the evening's entertainment; singing mostly some German home songs to an accompaniment on the piano. He had not criticised my performance, a fact very encouraging to me. But now, as I stood looking out into the black night, I thought of their journey over the rough roads, already beginning to freeze, the baby cold and hungry, and so tired. I turned hurriedly from the window and knelt to say my prayers, a new element entering into my petitions. Forgetting the stereotyped phrases, I remembered with peculiar vividness the impetuous prayer uttered by Mr. Lathrop at Mrs. Blake's funeral, and I too tried to bring comfort to another by prayer. There was such help in the thought that God never forgets us. I so soon forgot amid the pleasures of home-coming the sorrows of another; but He watches ever. The splendors of His throne and crowns, and the adoration of the highest intelligences never so absorbing Him as to cause forgetfulness of the humblest parish pensioner, looking Heavenward for consolation. "Oh, to be more God-like, more unforgetting!" I murmured, still lingering in the attitude of prayer. I do not think in all my life, I had got so near to the Divine Heart. The next morning an agreeable duty awaited me. First, I had the materials for Mr. Bowen's new suit, and along with these a good many lesser gifts for one and another. In the daily papers, I studied very industriously the notices of cheap sales of dry goods while in the city; and for such a novice in the art of shopping, I made some really good bargains. When I came to get my presents all unpacked I found that Thomas' services would be required if I took all at once. I found him at last in the kitchen, superintending the preparation of some medicine for one of his horses. Making known my errand, he consented to drive me to the Mill Road; but first assured me that it would disarrange all his plans for the day. Thomas was an old bachelor, with ways very set and precise; and his hours were divided off as regularly as a college professor's. On our way out he informed me that the widow Larkum was very ill, with the doctor in attendance. I was surprised that his words should give me such a sinking at the heart. "What will become of the blind father and orphaned children if she dies?" "They will go to the poor farm. I pity them; for that Bill Day, that has charge, is a tough subject."