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“How many children have you got?”

Mrs. Martin gave him the list of her five, with their ages, telling him of little Harry, who was six years old and an invalid.

“Your oldest is twelve, and a girl. I have a place for her, and, I think, for the boy, too. You must bind them out. Mr. Slicker, the landlord of the Farmers’ Hotel, will take the girl, and I think James Sweeny will take the boy to run errands about the livery stable. I’ll send you some provisions and coal to-day; but you must let the children go. I’ll come to your house in a few days. Don’t object; I won’t hear a word. If you’re as poor as you let on to be, you’ll be glad enough to get your young ones into places where they’ll get enough to eat. That’s all–not a word, now.” And he turned to the next applicant, leaving the widow to go home with her heart cold.

Let Susie go to Slicker’s tavern! What kind of a house would it be without her? Who would attend to the house while she sewed? And what would become of her girl in such a place? And then to send George, who had to wait on Harry–to send him away forever was to shut out all hope of ever being in better circumstances. Then she could not sew, and the children could never help her. God pity the people that fall into the hands of public charity!

The next few days wore heavily on with the widow. What to do she did not know. At night she scarcely slept at all. When she did drop into a sleep, she dreamed that her children were starving, and woke in fright. Then she slept again, and dreamed that a one-eyed robber had gotten in at the window, and was carrying off Susie and George. At last morning came. The last of the food was eaten for breakfast, and Widow Martin sat down to wait. Her mind was in a horrible state of doubt. To starve to death together, or to give up her children! That was the question which many a poor mother’s heart has had to decide. Mrs. Martin soon became so nervous she could not sew. She could not keep back the tears, and when Susie and George put their arms about her neck and asked what was the matter, it made the matter worse. It was the day before Christmas. The sleigh-bells jingled merrily. Even in Slab Alley one could hear sounds of joy at the approaching festivities. But there was no joy in Widow Martin’s house or heart. The dinner-hour had come and passed. The little children were hungry. And yet Mrs. Martin had not made up her mind.

At the appointed time Lampeer came. He took out the two indentures with which the mother was to sign away all right to her two eldest children. It was in vain that the widow told him that if she lost them she could do no work for her own support, and must be forever a pauper. Lampeer had an idea that no poor person had a right to love children. Parental love was, in his eyes, or his eye, an expensive luxury that none but the rich should indulge in.

“Mrs. Martin,” he said, “you may either sign these indentures, by which your girl will get a good place as a nurse and errand-girl for the tavern-keeper’s wife, and your boy will have plenty to eat and get to be a good hostler, or you and your young ones may starve!” With that he took his hat and opened the door.

“Stop!” said Mrs. Martin. “I must have medicine and food, or Harry will not live till Sunday. I will sign.”

The papers were again spread out. The poor-master jerked the folds out of them impatiently, in a way that seemed to say, “You keep me an unconscionable long time about a very small matter.”