l be back soon, don't move," and he hurried away swiftly toward
home. On reaching the threshold, he thanked God that he was not a
wanderer on such a night.

The New England kitchen, with its pewter-filled dresser, reflecting and
multiplying the genial blaze of the log-heaped fire-place, its
high-backed, rush-bottomed chairs, grating as they were moved over the
neatly sanded floor, its massive beam running midway of the ceiling
across the room, and its many doors, leading to other rooms and attics,
was a picture of comfort two hundred years ago. The widowed mother, with
her honest, beautiful face surrounded by a neat, dark cap border, met
her son as he entered the kitchen and, glancing at him proudly, said:

"The wind gives you good color, Charles."

"Yes, mother," rubbing his cheeks, "they do burn some;--mother."

"Well?"

"I heard you tell Mr. Bly, the other day, that you could trust me with
all you had. Will you trust me with old Moll and the cart to-night?"

"What do you want with Moll and the cart?"

"To go to the big spring under the hill for a poor man who is sick and
wounded."

"And alone?"

"Yes, mother."

"It is a freezing night."

"Yes, mother, and he may die. He is unable to walk. Remember the story
of the good Samaritan."

After a long pause, the widow said, "Yes, you may have old Moll and the
cart. Bring him here, and we will care for him; but remember that
to-morrow's work must be done."

"If you have any fault to find to-morrow night, don't trust me again!"
and the boy, turning to the cupboard beneath the dressers, buttered a
generous slice of bread, then left the room with a small pitcher, and
returned with it brimming full of cider, his mother closely noting all,
while she busied herself making things to rights in her culinary
department. Charles next went out and harnessed the mare to the cart,
then returned to the kitchen for his bread and cider.

"Why not eat that before you go?" queried the mother.

"I am not hungry, I have had some supper, you know. Good night, mother.
I will be back soon; so have the bed ready for the wounded stranger."

"God bless you, my brave boy," the mother exclaimed, as he went out and
sprang into the cart. She now knew that he had taken the bread and cider
for the sick man, under the hill.

Charles hurried old Moll to a faster gait than she was accustomed to go,
and found the stranger where he had left him. Leaping from the cart, he
said:

"I am back