THE GOLDSMITH'S WIDOW

AND HER SON GEORGE.

The mail coach had rattled down the long and single street of Silverdams, and the guard having dropped the letter-bag into the hand of the post-master as he passed, the vehicle moved onwards to the village inn, where the horses were usually changed.

No sooner were these occurrences observed, than half the population of Silverdams assembled at the post-office, not so much to inquire for letters to themselves, (for few of them expected any,) as to learn for whom letters had arrived, and to guess at their probable contents. .

In the rear of the crowd, came a little boy, between five and six years of age, whose pale countenance and suit of faded black showed that, young as he was, he had been no

stranger to sorrow or bereavement. He was evidently a stranger, for no one spoke to him; and if any judgment could be formed from his modest and unobtrusive bearing, he was apparently of a somewhat superior rank to those by whom he was surrounded. He waited for a few minutes in the expectation that the crowd would disperse ; but seeing that this was not likely to take place for some time, he retired to the opposite side of the way, and sat down upon a large stone, to await their departure.

It was nearly half an hour before the curiosity of the assembled villagers was so far gratified that they began to disperse ; and after the last straggler had taken his course homeward, the little boy crossed the road, and tapped timidly at the small wicket through which the letters were delivered. It was opened by the post-master.

“ If you please, sir, is there a letter for Mrs. Hamilton ?" inquired the boy.

“No, my lad,” replied the post-master, and immediately closed the wicket.

There was nothing uncivil either in the tone or manner of the man, but the answer was unexpected and the action abrupt; and

both together seemed deeply to 'affect the feelings of the child, for he covered his face with his hands, and burst into tears. « Oh, what will my poor mother do ?" said he half aloud; and, returning to his seat on the other side of the way, he gave full vent to his sorrow.

He had sat for some time, his face buried in his hands, and the tears streaming through between his white and taper fingers, when a gentleman, who had alighted from the mail coach at the inn, and, after partaking there of some refreshment, had apparently sallied forth upon business, stood still to observe him. He was a middle-aged man, of a fresh and healthy appearance; but the mourning suit which he wore, and the grey hairs which escaped from under his hat, showed that he had himself experienced his own share of affliction.

Struck with the deep sorrow of the child, he eyed him attentively for a minute or two, and then mildly accosted him, "What ails you, my little man ?” · The poor boy was too much affected to answer him immediately; and, after a brief pause, the gentleman again addressed

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him in a still gentler tone, “ What ails you, my little man? Has any one hurt you?”

“Oh, no, sir,” replied the boy, sobbing : " no one has hurt me." . " Then what is the cause of all this sorrow?” said the gentleman, taking him kindly by the hand.

“Mother expected a letter to-day, sir,” returned the little fellow, still sobbing, " and none has come.”

“Is that all?" said the gentleman, smiling, “ Take courage, my little man, and perhaps your mother may get a letter to-morrow.”

“Ah! sir," replied the boy, looking wistfully in the gentleman's face, "you do not know how anxious poor mother was about that letter.”

“Of course I do not,” said the gentleman, 6 as I never saw your mother. But what made her so very anxious ?”. · "I do not know that I should tell you, sir, though she has not forbidden me,” returned the child; and then he added, in a tone which went to the gentleman's heart, “ It was want, sir.”

“Want!" repeated the gentleman, with a

look of commiseration. “You do not mean to say want of food, do you ?”.

“Yes, indeed, I do," replied the boy, in the same thrilling tone. “Neither mother nor I have tasted food since the day before yesterday."

“Indeed!” said the gentleman. “Have you no father, then ?”

“No, sir. He has been dead about a

“ About a year!” repeated the gentleman, with obviously increasing interest. “What is your name, my little man?"

“George Hamilton, sir.”

The gentleman drew his hand across his eyes, and was silent for about a minute. Then, with an evident effort to conceal his emotion, he inquired, “From whom did your mother expect the letter you spoke of ?"

“ From my uncle, sir; and it was so cruel of him not to write, when mother told him how very poor she was."

"Let us not condemn him until we know his reasons," said the gentleman : “many things might prevent him. He might be from home, or he might be ill; or, what is