An Angel in Disgui
by T.S. Arthur
Idleness, vice, and intemperance had done their mirable work, and the dead mother lay cold and still amid her wretched children. She had fallen upon the threshold of her own door in a drunken fit, and died in the prence of her frightened little ones.
Death touches the spring of our common humanity. This woman had been despid, scoffed at, and angrily denounced by nearly every man, woman, and child in the village; but now, as the fact of her death was pasd from lip to lip, in subdued tones, pity took the place of anger, and sorrow of denunciation. Neighbors went hastily to the old tumble-down hut, in which she had cured little more than a place of shelter from summer heats and winter cold: some with grave-clothes for a decent interment of the body; and some with food for the half-starving children, three in number. Of the, John, the oldest, a boy of twelve, was a stout lad, able to earn his living with any farmer. Kate, between ten and eleve
n, was bright, active girl, out of whom something clever might be made, if in good hands; but poor little Maggie, the youngest, was hopelessly diad. Two years before a fall from a window had injured her spine, and she had not been able to leave her bed since, except when lifted in the arms of her mother.
"What is to be done with the children?" That was the chief question now. The dead mother would go underground, and be forever beyond all care or concern of the villagers. But the children must not be left to starve. After considering the matter, and talking it over with his wife, farmer Jones said that he would take John, and do well by him, now that his mother was out of the way; and Mrs. Ellis, who had been looking out for a bound girl, concluded that it would be charitable in her to make choice of Katy, even though she was too young to be of much u for veral years.
"I could do much better, I know," said Mrs. Ellis; "but as no one ems inclined to take her, I must act from a n of duty expect to have trouble with the child; for she's an undisciplined thing--ud to having her own way."
But no one said "I'll take Maggie." Pitying glances were cast on her wan and wasted form and thoughts were troubled on her account. Mothers brought cast-off garments and, removing her soiled and ragged clothes, dresd her in clean attire. The sad eyes and patient face of the little one touched many hearts, and even knocked at them for entrance. But none opened to take her in. Who wanted a bed-ridden child?
"Take her to the poorhou," said a rough man, of whom the question "What's to be done with Maggie?" was asked. "Nobody's going to be bothered with her."
"The poorhou is a sad place for a sick and helpless child," answered one.
"For your child or mine," said the other, lightly speaking; "but for tis brat it will prove a blesd change, she will be kept clean, have healthy food, and be doctored, which is more than can be said of her past condition."
There was reason in that, but still it didn't satisfy. The day following the day of death was made the day of burial. A few neighbors were at the mirable hovel, but none followed d
ead cart as it bore the unhonored remains to its pauper grave. Farmer Jones, after the coffin was taken out, placed John in his wagon and drove away, satisfied that he had done his part. Mrs. Ellis spoke to Kate with a hurried air, "Bid your sister good by," and drew the tearful children apart ere scarcely their lips had touched in a sobbing farewell. Hastily others went out, some glancing at Maggie, and some resolutely refraining from a look, until all had gone. She was alone! Just beyond the threshold Joe Thompson, the wheelwright, paud, and said to the blacksmith's wife, who was hastening off with the rest,--
"It's a cruel thing to leave her so."
"Then take her to the poorhou: she'll have to go there," answered the blacksmith's wife, springing away, and leaving Joe behind.
For a little while the man stood with a puzzled air; then he turned back, and went into the hovel again. Maggie with painful effort, had raid herlf to an upright position and was sitting on the bed, straining her eyes upon the door out of which all had just departed, A v
ague terror had come into her thin white face.
"O, Mr. Thompson!" she cried out, catching her suspended breath, "don't leave me here all alone!"
Though rough in exterior, Joe Thompson, the wheelwright, had a heart, and it was very tender in some places. He liked children, and was plead to have them come to his shop, where sleds and wagons were made or mended for the village lads without a draft on their hoarded sixpences.
