I humored her fancy, only insisting on relieving her of my present for Mr. Bowen. It was the most precious package in the lot; and I feared she might drop it. When we reached the door of the Larkum cottage she halted. "You won't like the look of things here to-day. There's only the neighbors to look after them; and the most of us has more'n enough to do home." "If I am such a poor soldier as to be so easily frightened as that, you would be ashamed of me. When they endure it all the time, surely I may for a few minutes." "But you're not used to it." She entered without knocking, when a scene met my gaze that fully equaled Mrs. Blake's warning. The fire was quite out, and I could see no fuel at hand to kindle it, Mr. Bowen sat in the window trying to extract some warmth from the dull, November sunshine; the baby crying wearily in his arms, probably from cold and hunger combined; the other two children had curled themselves up in an old rug, their bright eyes watching us with eager longing, the house itself was the picture of desolation. I shivered under my warm fur cloak, and with difficulty restrained myself from rushing from the place; but Mrs. Blake, laying down her bundle with a sigh of relief, bade Mr. Bowen good morning in her usual cheerful way; he responded with equal cheerfulness, still ignorant of my presence there. "You find us a little cold to-day," he said, as if it were the merest accident; "but wood has given out, and the morning seems rather cool." I looked at him in amazement. How could he speak so calmly under the circumstances? "How is Mrs. Larkum, to-day?" "Pretty low, I am sorry to say. The doctor says she needs beef-tea and wine." "It's easy for doctors to prescribe." "He thinks she might come around if she had proper nourishment. But we are in the Lord's hands," he added patiently. "Yes, and I guess the Lord has sent one of His ravens to look after you. Not that Miss Selwyn looks like a raven--she's more like a lily." "Is Miss Selwyn here?" he asked, turning around eagerly. "Yes, I reached home last evening. I am sorry to find you in such trouble." "The Lord knows what is best for us. I want nothing but what He wills for me. If pain, and poverty come, they are His evangels, and should I dare to repine?" "Perhaps He has seen that you are patient under severity, and He may send comfort now." "My Father is rich and wise, therefore I am content; for I know His kindness is without limit." I looked in his face. A grave, refined expression lent dignity to features already handsome, while there was a serenity one of the Old Masters might have coveted to reproduce on one of their immortal pictured faces. "Your daughter shall have all the nourishment the doctor orders after this; and I believe she will soon be better. The Lord is more pitiful than we are," I said, gently. "God will reward you, my dear friend. Pardon me for calling you such; but you have indeed been a friend in adversity."