der where they could get
a lodging?"

"I am sure I don't know," replied Martha, peevishly; "your supper will be
cold--come in!"

"We've had no supper," said the boy.

"Poor little fellow!" said the old gentleman; "then I am sure you shall
not go without. Martha, the bread and cheese!" And, opening the
garden-gate, he made the travelers enter and sit down in the
summer-house, whilst he went to fetch them a draught of cider.

In spite of Martha's grumbling, he managed to get a substantial repast;
but it grieved him that the woman, though she thanked him very gratefully
and humbly, appeared unable to eat.

"Your boy eats heartily," said he, "but I am afraid you don't enjoy it."

With a choking utterance she thanked him, but could not eat.

The good old man was striving, as well as he could, to explain to
them their way to a part of the city, where they might find a
lodging, when the garden-gate opened, and a young man gave to the
host a hearty greeting.

At the sound of his voice, the cup the woman held in her hand, fell to
the ground. This drew the youth's attention to her; he looked earnestly
at her for a moment, and with an exclamation of surprise, said, "Why,
this is Susan Harvey?"

The woman hid her face in her hands, and moaned.

"Do you know her, then, Alfred?" said the uncle.

"She nursed me when I was a little sickly boy," replied the youth; "she
lived many years in my father's house."

"Then I am sure you will take her to some lodging to-night, for she is
quite a stranger here. There is Martha calling to me again; she is not
in the best temper to-night, so I had better go in, and I leave them to
your care."

"Oh! tell me, Mr. Gray, have you seen him?" cried the woman eagerly.

"I have been with him to-day, Susan," said Gray, kindly taking her
hand--"do not be cast down; all that can be done for Martin, shall be
done. Let me take you where you can rest to-night, and to-morrow you can
be with him."

The weary little boy had fallen asleep on the seat; the mother strove to
arouse him, but Alfred Gray prevented her, by taking the little fellow
in his arms. He carried him by her side through the streets; she could
utter no words of gratitude, but her tears flowed fast, and told how the
young man's sympathy had fallen like balm upon her wounded heart. "God
has taken pity on me," she said, when they parted.

With a quick step Alfred regained his uncle's cottage; he had a
difficult task to accomplish.