From tears for him who had been the dear partner of her life, to anxiety for the future of his children—from anxiety for them, to and embarrassment—so passed on her hours from Christmas night. Calm she had to be in the presence of others; but it was the calm of an aching heart. She her own reflections. When she rose in the morning she said, "How shall I bear up through the day?" and when she went to her bed, it would be, "How shall I drag through the right?" Tossing, turning, moaning; walking the room in the darkness when no eye was upon her; kneeling, almost without hope, to pour her to God—who would believe that, in the daytime, before others, she could be so ? Only once did she give way, and that was the day before the funeral.
Patience sympathised with her in a reasoning sort of way. It had been next to impossible for Jane to keep her pecuniary anxiety from Patience, who advised and assisted her in making the various arrangements. It was necessary to go to work in the most sparing manner possible; and it ended in Jane's taking Patience into her full confidence.
"If thee can but keep a house over thy head, so as to retain thy children with thee, thee get along. Do not be cast down."
"Oh, Patience, that is what I have been thinking about—how am I to keep the house together. I do not see that I can do it."
"The furniture is thine," observed Patience. "Thee might let two or three of thy rooms, so as to cover the rent."
"I have thought all that over and over again to myself," sighed Jane. "But, Patience—allowing that the rent were made in that way—how are we to live?"
"Thee must occupy thy time in some way. Thee can sew! Dost thee know dress-making?"
"No—only sufficient of it to make my own plain gowns and Jane's frocks. As to plain sewing, I could never earn food at it—it is so badly paid. And there will be the education of my boys, and their clothing."
"Thee hast anxiety before thee—I see it," said Patience, in a grave tone. "Still, I would not have thee be cast down. Thee will make thyself ill, and that will not be the way to mend thy condition."
Jane sat down, her hands clasped on her knees, her mind viewing her dark troubles. "If I were but clear, I should have better hope," she said, lifting her face in its sad sorrow. "Patience, we owe half a year's rent; and there will be the funeral expenses besides."
"Hast thee no kindred that would aid thee in thy strait?"
Jane shook her head. The only "kindred" she in the whole world was one who had barely enough for his own poor wants—her brother Francis.
"Hast thee no little property to dispose of?" continued Patience. "Watches, or things of that kind?"
There was her husband's watch. But Jane's pale face at the idea of parting with it in that manner. It was a good watch, and had long ago been promised to William.
"I can understand thy flush of aversion," said Patience, . "I would not be the one to suggest aught to hurt thy feelings; but thy necessities may leave no alternative."
A conviction that they would leave none was already stealing over Jane. She possessed a few trinkets herself, not of much value, and a little silver. All might have to go, not excepting the watch. "Would there be a difficulty in disposing of them, Patience?" she asked aloud.
"None at all: there is the pawn-shop," said the plain-speaking Quakeress. "I do not know what many would do without it. I can tell thee that some of the great ones of this city send their plate to it on occasion. Thee would not like to go to such a place thyself, but thy servant's mother, Elizabeth Carter, is a woman: she would render thee this little service. As I tell thee, if thee can only present difficulties, so as to secure a start, thee may get on."
Surmount present difficulties! It seemed to Jane next door to an impossibility. She had the merest trifle of money left, was in debt, and without means, so far as she saw, of earning even food. She paid her last night visit to the room which contained the , and went thence up to her bed, to toss the night through on her wet pillow, with a burning brow and an aching heart.
It was a sad funeral to see, and one of the plainest of the plain. The clerk of the church, who had to come up to escort it—a he did not often to poor funerals, for they afforded nothing good to eat and drink—walked first, without a hatband. Then came the coffin, covered with a , and William and Frank behind it. Jane had not sent Gar, poor little fellow! She thought he might be better away. That was all; there were no attendants: the clerk, the two boys, the coffin, and the men who bore it.
It was sad to see. The people stopped to look as it went along the streets, following with their eyes the poor fatherless children. One young man stood aside, raised his hat, and held it in his hand until the coffin had passed. But the young man had lived in foreign countries, where it is the custom to remain uncovered whilst a funeral goes by.
He was buried at St. Martin's Church; and, singular to say, the officiating minister was the . Mr. Peach. Mr. Peach did not know who he was : he had taken the service for St. Martin's rector. William heard his name: how many times had he heard his poor father mention the name in connection with his hopeful
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CHAPTER XIV. A CHRISTMAS DREAM.
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CHAPTER XVI. TROUBLE.
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