I heard my own wild shrieks resounding through the house, like
those of some strange lunatic. I was for a time frantic with rage and
shame. But no one came to my succor, except poor old Morton. He crept
feebly from the pantry, and found me sobbing in my father's chair. As he
stood meekly before me, leaning on his staff, and looking in my face, my
only friend, so powerless to aid, the whole desolateness of my position
burst upon me, like an overpowering avalanche, I bowed my head and wept.
"Bear up, bear up, my lamb," he said, in his weak, tremulous voice; "we
have the promise of the Lord to rely on. Has he not said the seed of the
just man should never know want or beg bread? We must believe in the
Gospel, and be strengthened, Miss Miriam."
And he laid his quivering hand lightly on my head. I took it between
both of my own, and kissed it fervently, bathing it with my tears.
"Morton," I said, "dear old Morton, I have had such a terrible blow to
bear--shame!" and again I was choked with sobs.
"Shame! Oh, no, my dear young mistress! my birdie child; ruin is not
shame! This could never come near a Monfort, poor or rich! See! such as
these old hands are, they shall work for you to the bone, and, if I
understand matters aright, we still have the good roof left over our
heads, and some little means for all immediate wants.
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