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That night the extra Teachers’ Meeting was held, and in walked white-headed Willie with stunted Sammy Bantam at his heels to keep him in countenance. When their petition was presented, Miss Belden, who sat near Willie, said, “Well done! Willie.”

“But I protest,” said Mrs. Puffer–who was of about as handsome a figure as her son–“I protest against such an outrage on the children. My Tommy’s been a-feeling bad about it all day. It’ll break his heart if he don’t get some candy.”

Willie was shy, but for a moment he forgot it, and, turning his intelligent blue eyes on Mrs. Puffer, he said–

“It will break Mrs. Martin’s heart if her children are taken away from her.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Puffer, “I always did hear that the preacher’s boy was the worst in the parish, and I won’t take any impudence. My son will join the Mission School, where they aren’t too stingy to give him a bit of candy!” And Mrs. Puffer left, and everybody was pleased.

Willie got the money; but the teachers had counted on making up their festival mostly with cakes and other dainties, contributed by families. So that the candy money was only sixteen dollars, and Willie was yet a long way off from having the amount he needed. Twenty-four dollars were yet wanting.

VII.

THE WIDOW AND THE FATHERLESS.

The husband of Widow Martin had been killed by a railroad accident. The family were very poor. Mrs. Martin could sew, and she could have sustained her family if she had had a machine. But fingers are not worth much against iron wheels. And so, while others had machines, Mrs. Martin could not make much without one. She had been obliged to ask help from the overseer of the poor.

Mr. Lampeer, the overseer, was a hard man. He had not skill enough to detect impostors, and so he had come to believe that everybody who was poor was rascally. He had but one eye, and he turned his head round in a curious way to look at you out of it. That dreadful one eye always seemed to be going to shoot. His voice had not a chord of tenderness in it, but was in every way harsh and hard. It was said that he had been a school-master once. I pity the scholars.

Widow Martin lived–if you could call it living–in a tumble-down-looking house, that would not have stood many earthquakes. She had tried diligently to support her family and keep them together; but the wolf stood always at the door. Sewing by hand did not bring in quite money enough to buy bread and clothes for four well children, and pay the expenses of poor little Harry’s sickness; for all through the summer and fall Harry had been sick. At last the food was gone, and there was nothing to buy fuel with. Mrs. Martin had to go to the overseer of the poor.

She was a little, shy, hard-working woman, this Mrs. Martin; so when she took her seat among the paupers of every sort in Mr. Lampeer’s office, and waited her turn, it was with a trembling heart. She watched the hard man, who didn’t mean to be so hard, but who couldn’t tell the difference between a good face and a counterfeit; she watched him as he went through with the different cases, and her heart beat every minute more and more violently. When he came to her he broke out with–

“What’s your name?” in a voice that sounded for all the world as if he were accusing her of robbing a safe.

“Sarah Martin,” said the widow, trembling with terror, and growing red and white in turns. Mr. Lampeer, who was on the lookout for any sign of guiltiness, was now sure that Mrs. Martin could not be honest.

“Where do you live?” This was spoken with a half sneer.

“In Slab Alley,” whispered the widow, for her voice was scared out of her.