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It had then come to this!—her last hope was thus gone
from her, and she was left alone to struggle against her
bitter want, and, more than that, the want of her poor,
sick uncle.

For a moment the child's strength seemed to fail her—
a mist passed before her eyes, and from that terrible cloud
a shapeless face, convulsed with horrible laughter, seemed
to hiss out—“Your faith is vain and foolish—listen
to me!”

That thought nerved her once more, and she resolutely
set forward, with a murmured prayer for mercy. Still her
heart was obliged to speak, and, with tears in her eyes, she
murmured faintly:

“Oh, I do not feel right! and I cannot think it is
wrong—though I'm afraid it is! I do not feel right.
There is something wrong in society, as they call it, when
poor persons are suffering for bread, and want to work
and can't!—when the money that is thrown away by others
would keep them from hunger, and sickness, and temptation!
I do not envy the rich, and oh, I would not wish
them to give me their money. But oh! they ought to
remember that, while they are happy, the poor are miserable
for want of work to buy their bread!”

And having uttered this despairing cry against the
falseness of society, the child went on in silence—praying

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in her heart for resignation, patience, and more faith—
more faith!

By the next morning all her money was gone, and by
the day after all the supplies in the house were exhausted.
There was no fuel—no bread—nothing.

Ellie sat down and looked at her situation, face to face.
She knew that neither Charley nor the sick man could be
of any assistance: indeed, Uncle Joe had been so often
assured by Ellie, in her tones of assumed cheerfulness,
that she could easily supply the wants of the household by
her delicate lace work, that he had ended by believing her,
and yielding everything into her hands. This was, then,
her position. All was for her.

What should she do?

It is nothing for a strong man—full of experience, with
friends, connections, and a thousand expedients—to be
thus thrown in contact with an adverse destiny, and feel
the pressure of misfortune. It is nothing to the athlete,
with his arms full of vigor, his breast rugged with muscle,
his eye clear and steady, to fence, and strike, and wrestle
with the world, as his well-matched enemy. Skill and
strength, and coolness, and experience, are powerful aids,
and not often do these seize and throw the adverse fate.
But for a child—a weak, poor child, without experience,
without strength, without friends or connections who can
aid her—it is another thing! Her arm has no strength,
the breast no vigor—the eye fills with tears instead of
resolution; and misfortune stands before such an one like
a tiger matched against a trembling fawn. Life has many
bitternesses—many savage and remorseless struggles—but

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surely the grasp of want and sickness on the tender spirit
of a child is, of all things in the wide world, the most
piteous!

Yet this was just the situation of the child, whose days
we are trying to give an account of. The sickness and
want of her uncle was worse than her own would have
been—for she was sick at heart as well; that most terrible
of maladies. Hunger stared her in her face, and her faith
trembled and shook.

It did not give way. By one of those great efforts,
which indicate rare strength of nature, Ellie bowed her
heart, and if she cried, prayed too. And so she was
much calmer, and betook herself again to thought.

Suddenly she recollected that there was something
which might go to the money-lender's still; and rising
quickly, she went into her little closet, and taking her
string containing two or three keys from her pocket,
inserted one of them in a drawer of the old battered pine
affair, which was jammed into the corner.

The lock grated, for it had not been opened for a long
time, and the child drew out the drawer, and took from it
a small bundle, containing the gown of a baby and a
little cap.

Her mother had left her the old set of drawers, and this
long-kept gown, which was her own when she was a baby;
and Ellie did not hesitate as to her right to use it. The
cap was a very handsome one of lace, most probably her
mother's work, and the dress was of good material.

Ellie put on her old bonnet and hastened off to the
money-lender's, who lived on the corner, and kept a small

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nondescript shop, where the poor were assisted in the
barter of their goods for money.

The man, who was a coarse, low-browed fellow, so far
relaxed as to make a joke upon his wanting baby-clothes;
but attracted by the lace cap, finally agreed to give Ellie
about one-tenth of the value of her package. With this
the child was obliged to be content, though she felt the
bitter injustice. That night the money-lender, who was
in “good standing” in his church, was reading his bible
aloud magisterially to his wife, and he read: “Whoso
shall offend one of these little ones which believe in me, it
were better for him that a millstone were hanged about
his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the
sea.” He read it with an unctuous and rolling voice, as
though to say, “That 's my neighbors, exactly;” after
which he retired with solemn prayer. “Take heed! In
heaven their angels do always behold the face of my
Father.”

So Ellie went back home with another little plank
between her and the bottom. She felt that it came just
in time, for the lowering sky threatened a long and obstinate
storm; and she hastened to expend her little stock of
money to the best advantage. She made some small purchases
at Captain Schminky's; but that gentleman seemed
to be in an adverse humor, and carefully paid himself out
of the coin she offered. Ellie procured a little wood on
her way also, and returned home just as the clouds seemed
about to discharge a torrent of rain.

But they did not. The dark, gloomy sunset went down

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tinged with fire, and night drew on black and cold—but
with no rain.

Ellie lit her last piece of candle, and kindled a small
but cheerful fire, by the assistance of which she made some
tea and toast for her uncle—not paying any attention to
the wild sobs of the blast without.

The sick man drank some tea, and then lay back with
his old faint smile, and closed his eyes; and Ellie sat
down and murmured some talk to Charley.

After a while Uncle Joe began to breathe heavily, and
Ellie knew he was asleep. She fixed Charley comfortably,
read a little, and finding herself faint with sleep, went to
her little bed. Worn out with emotion and walking, the
child soon fell asleep, and the muttering of the storm
slowly died away.