320 NOVEMBER. 



Providence. Grief certainly has made but little 

 impression on her countenance; and her children 

 know nothing of it. They know not what it means 

 to be orphans ; they know not that they are poor ; 

 they follow their slowly-progressing mother from 

 place to place, like playful kids ; and when she sits 

 down in some solitary nook, they gambol before 

 her. They enjoy the sun and air ; they are plump 

 and ruddy ; and though they ask for nothing, their 

 looks beg for them, and scarcely a carriage passes 

 but money flies for them out of the window. 



Not so with the last being whom I shall notice. 

 This is a widow, old and poor. For years she has 

 lived alone, with not a tie to the world but her 

 anxiety for a prodigal son, whose life has long 

 threatened to prove her death. And now that she 

 is become thin and feeble, and expects no journey 

 except the short one to the neighbouring church- 

 yard, comes an epistle from her son, written by a 

 stranger-hand, to say that he is dying in a far- 

 distant place, and implores her pardon and blessing. 

 Oh, maternal love ! how strong art thou, even in 

 the very weakness of nature and the extremity of 

 old age ! It is seventy miles off where her son 

 now lies, but she thinks of nothing less than going 

 to him. Not go ! not try to see him, and to com- 

 fort him, and to know exactly how his mind is at 

 the last! By the help of God she will, though! 

 and early on the following morning, her little, soli- 

 tary house is shut up door and window-shutter 

 carefully closed ; and, with her key in her pocket, 



