urn. He winks out of the
corner of his eye at me and says, 'Your old daddy is tough isn't he?'
and shows me the end of his thumb calloused and hard as the knurl of
white oak; only fire could clean it to the original skin. He shakes out
his blue frock for fear of fire in it, and goes his way. There is always
something to spare by those who have more, to those who have less.
Whoever kills a fatted cow or a pig in early winter sends a portion to
the Red House; and a load of wood is left in the night by some farmer
who does not wish his right hand to know what his left doeth. Money is
scarce; but everything else is shared with those in distress or in
sickness. This is so much a matter of course that no one thinks of
credit or reward.

In such ways as I have described were the widow and her fatherless
children saved from destitution or loss of their respectable position in
the little community. I am sure my mother relied with complete trust on
the scriptural promises made to those in her difficult circumstances. If
they were fulfilled by human agencies, that, also, was the doing of the
Divine Director of the affairs of the poor. In those days men and women
were good and simple, obedient, not only unto the commands and examples
of their Bible, but also to the impulses of their own kind hearts.

Yet the household never again felt the highest happiness of domestic
life. A soft and tranquil resignation took its place. They moved about
with a gentler step, speaking in subdued tones, more often not at all.
They had to live out their lives, although it now seemed hardly worth
the struggle. Tears were in their eyes at the table, and one or another
would arise before the meal was half finished. I heard suppressed sobs
as I went to sleep on a truckle-bed beside my mother, who during the day
was more composed than her daughters. Neighbors soon began to call;
there was then a hearty cry in which everybody in the room joined.
Nothing so relieves the pent-up feeling as this, if only a little
sympathy is present, as it were, to receive and consecrate the precious
and sacred tribute of tears.

As for me when I returned from the grave of my father, unconscious of
what had happened, I resumed my interrupted play under the apple tree. I
had never as yet wept for anything except the crossing of my will--April
tears, soon dried.

MY MOTHER'S RED CLOAK

My mother was a silent woman, seldom speaking unless first addressed,
and she ne