with
a thankful heart that poor Alice Morely looked forward to a safe and
sheltered winter for her children.

At the time when the merry boys and girls of Littleton were enjoying the
last of the skating on the mill-pond, the little Morelys were watching
the departure of their father for the distant city of Montreal. Their
clothes looked scant and threadbare, and quite too thin for the season;
but there was an air of cleanliness, and order about them which is
rarely seen in connection with the poverty which comes of evil-doing.
Only five gravely watched the retreating form of their father; the
youngest--a babe of three months--lay in the cradle, and little Ben was
in heaven.

There was something more than gravity in the mother's face as she stood
watching also,--something more even than the sadness that would
naturally follow the separation from her husband. It was an unchanging
look--not of pain exactly, but as if the face could not easily be made
to express any pleasing emotion, such as hope or joy. She was a brave
little woman. She had dared much, and borne much, for her husband's
sake; she had accepted the sorrowful necessities of her lot with a
patient courage which could not have been predicted of one whose
girlhood had been so carefully sheltered from evil. Through all her
troubles she had been strong to endure, and never, even in the worst
times, had she quite lost faith in her husband.

But as she saw him disappear round the turn of the hill, and then came
out of the sunshine into the dimness of the deserted room, where her
baby lay in his cradle, a sense of being utterly forsaken came over her,
and for the moment she sank beneath it. The want to which her children
might be soon exposed, the danger of temptation which she had so dreaded
for her husband, and the bitter feeling of utter friendlessness and
loneliness, overcame her. She did not hear her baby cry, nor did she
see her little daughter's look of wonder and terror, as, with bitter
weeping, she cast herself down, calling aloud upon her father and her
mother.

It was only for a moment. The child's terrified face recalled her to
herself, and by a great effort she grew quiet again. Well might poor
little Sophy look on with wonder and terror. She had seen many
sorrowful sights, but never, even when they left their old home, or when
little Ben died, had her mother given way like this. "What is the
matter, mother? Are you ill? Speak to me, mo