she, "that you don't tell any falsehood about it;
you are welcome to stay here till you get a place."

By this time I could speak, and I said to her, "I am as innocent as
the child just born. I never took so much as a pin from any one; I
do not wish to stay a minute in your house; I would not stay in any
one's house who had accused me of dishonesty;" and I called upon my
mother and my friend Mrs. Brown, though I knew they could not answer
me, and I cried aloud like a child.

My mistress shed tears, and said she should not have accused me
without certain proofs of my dishonesty, and begged me to confess my
fault, and to stay till I got a place; but I told her I would not
stay another minute, and I went to my chamber and tied up my bundle,
and put on my bonnet and shawl, and walked straight off without
speaking to any one.

I had gone nearly a mile before I was at all calmed, and then, out
of breath, and miserable beyond words to tell, I sat down under an
old tree by the roadside. It was autumn; the tree was stripped of
its leaves, the wind sounded mournfully among the dead branches,
there were heavy dark clouds in the sky, and my heart was heavier
and darker than the clouds, and my sighs were sadder than the wind.

The place where I had been living was two miles from the village
where I had lived with Mrs. Brown, and I had taken the road to it,
though then she was not there to take me in; I had no relation in
the wide world; O, I never shall forget that dreary moment, and how
desolate I felt. I looked up into the sky, and called upon God, the
Father of the fatherless; I cried to him for help, and help came to
me, for I felt stronger and I grew composed; and then I remembered I
was innocent, and just then the sun broke out between two dark
clouds, and it looked to me like the pure bright eye of God, looking
right into my heart, and seeing my innocence; and then it seemed as
if my soul was full of light, and I went on my way to the village,
feeling as if I had no dreadful sorrow.

When I got into the village, I remembered my old schoolmistress, and
I knew that, though she was poor herself, she would share her bed
with me for a night at least, and I remembered that scripture, "Be
not anxious for the morrow."

It was dusk when I knocked at her door; and O, you know not, who
have never been without a happy home, how cheering to my heart was
the sound of her kind voice, saying, "Walk in." She was not very
quick sighted