A TRUE SKETCH

A short winter’s day was just drawing to a close, as a young girl reached the door of a splendid mansion. The servant soon led her from the hall to a large and elegant apartment, where sat Mrs. M___, the mistress of so much wealth and grandeur, in conversation with a friend. The young girl stood a moment then curtsied, and presented to Mrs. M___ a small bundle, saying, “I hope the work will suit you, ma’am.”

“The work is well enough,” said Mrs. M_____, examinging it carefully, “but why did you not bring it before? It is, at least, a week past the time it was promised. Unless you are more punctual, and keep your word better, I cannot let you have any more work.”

It was growing dark, and the room was not yet lighted, so that the tears that gathered in the girl’s eyes could not be seen; but her voice was very tremulous, as she answered, “I did not mean to break my word, ma’am: but my mother has been much worse, and my little brother, in chopping word, cut his foot; so I have had to” — here her voice became inarticulate (not distinct from emotion), and she hastened out of the room.

“That is always the way with these people,” said Mrs. M___; “a sick mother, or a sick aunt, or a cut foot; anything for an excuse.”

Meantime Mary reached the humble dwelling she called home. Whether her feelings were laboring under the wound which had been so thoughtlessly inflicted — or her mother’s illness distressed her — or her heart sickened at the thought of helpless poverty — or it might have been the contrast between the room she had left and the one she had just entered, which forced itself upon her; whatever was the cause, contrary to her usual serenity, and care to appear as cheerful as possible before her mother, she covered her face with her hands ,and, leaning upon the rude table before her, burst into a passion of tears. It was but for a moment; for a faint voice from the bed called, “Mary.” She started from her posture of grief, and went to her mother’s bedside. “Mary, dear, wipe your eyes, and sit down by me here, and read the thirty-fourth Psalm; it will do us both good.” Mary reached down from the shelf the well-thumbed Bible, and, seated at the foot of her mother’s bed, in a subdued voice, read aloud. She had just finished reading the verse, “Many are the afflictions of the righteous, but the Lord delivereth him out of them all,” when a gentle tap was heard at the door. A little girl, some years younger than Mary, opened it, and a lady entered.

“Is this where Mary Morris lives?”

Mary started from the bed. “That is my name,

“Oh, yes; you are the one I saw at Mrs. M—’s. I inquired about you, and am come to see if I can be of any service to you; how is your mother?” The last tallow candle was dimly burning beside the bed where Mary had been reading. The lady went towards it, and took the hand of the emaciated sufferer. “Have you any physician?”

“No, ma’am, my poor husband cost so much, that I have nothing left to pay one. I hope I shall get better in a few days, and then all will get on well; but now it is very hard for poor Mary.”

“But you have a high fever, and should be attended to. My husband is a physician; he will call and prescribe for you; and here are some provisions for the children; and, Mary, just open the door — my servant has brought you some other comforts. Give all your attention to your mother, and you shall be provided for.”

Their hearts were too full for expression of thanks; but the lady needed them not, to convince her that there was no luxury like that of doing good. There were tears shed in that humble room that night, but not of bitterness; and there was thanksgiving that would have put to shame the feeble gratitude of thousands that are “increased in goods, and have need of nothing.”

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