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It was but six days to New Year’s. Mrs. Foster had been washing nearly the whole day,–work that she was really not able to do, and which always so tired her out, that in the night following she could not sleep from excessive fatigue,–she had been washing nearly all day, and now, after cleaning up the floor, and putting the confused room into a little order, she sat down to finish some work promised by the next morning. It was nearly dark, and she was standing, with her sewing, close up to the window, in order to see more distinctly in the fading light, when there came a loud knock at the door. One of the children opened it, and a man, whose face she knew too well, came in. He was the owner of the poor tenement in which they lived.

“Have you heard from Foster since I was here last?” said the man, with an unpleasant abruptness of manner.

“No sir, I have not,” replied Mrs. Foster, in a low, timid voice, for she felt afraid of the man.

“When do you expect him home?”

“He will be here at New Year’s.”

“Humph! Do you know whether he will bring any money?”

“I am sure I cannot tell; but I hope so.”

“He’d better;”–the man spoke in a menacing tone–“for I don’t intend waiting any longer for my rent.”

No reply was made to this.

“Will you tell your husband, when he returns, my good woman, what I have just said?”

“I will,” was meekly replied.

“Very well. If he doesn’t come up to the notch then, I shall take my course. It is simple and easy; so you had better be warned in time.” And the man walked out as abruptly as he came in. Mrs. Foster looked after him from the window, where she had continued standing, and saw him stop and look attentively at their cow, that stood waiting to be milked, at the door. A faintness came over her heart, for she understood now, better than before, the meaning of his threats.

An hour after dark George came home with his hand in a sling. He went up, quickly, to where his mother was sitting by a table at work, and dropping down in a chair, hid his face in her lap, without speaking, but bursting into tears as he did so.

“Oh George! what is the matter?” exclaimed the mother in great alarm. “What ails your hand?”

“It got mashed in the wheel,” replied the boy, sobbing.

“Badly?” asked the mother, turning pale, and feeling sick and faint.

“It’s hurt a good deal; but the doctor tied it up, and says it will get well again; but I won’t be able to go to work again in a good while.”

And the lad, from sobbing, wept bitterly. The mother leaned her head down upon her boy, and wept with him.

“I don’t mind the hurt so much,” said George, after he had recovered himself; “but I won’t be able to do any thing at the mill until it gets well.”

“Can’t I go to work in his place, mamma?” spoke up, quickly, little Emma, just in her tenth year. Mrs. Foster kissed the earnest face of her child and said–

“No, dear; you are not old enough.”

“I’m nine, and most as big as George. Yes, mamma, I’m big enough. Won’t you go and ask them to let me come and work in brother’s place till he gets well?”

The mother, her heart almost bursting with many conflicting emotions, drew the child’s head down upon her bosom, and held it tightly against her heart.

The time of severer trial was evidently drawing near. Almost the last resource was cut off, in the injury her boy had sustained. She had not looked at his hand, nor did she comprehend the extent of damage it had received. It was enough, and more than enough, that it was badly hurt–so badly, that a physician had been required to dress it. How the mother’s heart did ache, as she thought of the pain i her poor boy had suffered, and might yet be doomed to suffer! And yet, amid this pain, came intruding the thought, which she tried to repel as a selfish thought, that he could work no more, and earn no more, for, perhaps, a long, long time.