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Yes, the period of severer trial had evidently come. She did not permit herself even to hope that her husband when he returned would bring with him enough money to pay the rent. She knew, too well, that he would not; and she also knew, alas! too well that the man to whose tender mercies they would then be exposed had no bowels of compassion.

Wet with many tears was the pillow upon which the mother’s head reposed that night. She was too weary in body and sorrowful in mind to sleep.

On the next morning a deep snow lay upon the ground. To some a sight of the earth’s pure white covering was pleasant, and they could look upon the flakes still falling gracefully through the air with a feeling of exhilaration. But they had food and fuel in store–they had warm clothing–they had comfortable homes. There was no fear of cold and hunger with them–no dread of being sent forth, shelterless, in the chilling winter. It was different with Mrs. Foster when she looked from her window at daylight.

George had been restless, and moaned a good deal through the night; but now he slept soundly, and there was a bright flush upon his cheeks. With what a feeling of tenderness and yearning pity did his mother bend over him, and gaze into his fair face, fairer now than it had ever looked to her. But she could not linger long over her sleeping boy.

With the daylight, unrefreshed as she was, came her “never ending, still beginning” toil; and now she felt that she must toil harder and longer, and without hope.

Though little Emma’s offer to go and work in the mill in her brother’s place had passed from the thought of Mrs. Foster, yet the child had been too much in earnest to forget it herself. Young as she was, the very pressure of circumstances by which she was surrounded had made her comprehend clearly the necessity that existed for George to go and work daily in the mill. She knew that he earned a dollar and a half weekly; and she understood very well, that without this income her mother would be greatly distressed.

After she had eaten her breakfast of bread and milk, the child went up stairs and got an old pair of stockings, which she drew on over her shoes, that had long been so worn as to afford but little protection to her feet; and then taking from a closet an old shawl, drew it over her head. Thus attired, she waited at the head of the stairs until her mother was out of the way, and then went quickly down. She managed to leave the house without being seen by any one, and took her way, through the deep and untracked snow, towards the mill, which was about a quarter of a mile off. The air was bitter cold, and the storm still continued; but the child plodded on, chilled to the very heart, as she soon was, and, at length, almost frozen, reached the mill. The owner had observed her approach from the window, and wondering who she was, or what brought so small a child to the mill through the cold and storm, went down to meet her.

“Bless me! little one!” he said, lifting her from the ground and placing her within the door. “Who are you, and what do you want?”

“I’m George’s sister, and I’ve come to work in his place till he gets well,” replied the child, as she stood, with shivering body and chattering teeth, looking up earnestly into the man’s face.

“George Foster’s sister?”

“Yes, sir. His hand’s hurt so he can’t work, and I’ve come to work in his place.”

“You have! Who sent you, pray?”

“Nobody sent me.”

“Does your mother know about your coming?”

“No, sir.”

“Why do you want to work in George’s place?”

“If I do, then you’ll send mother a dollar and a half every week, won’t you?”