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This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 406 pages of information about Jerome, A Poor Man.

“Hold your tongue!  You’re a wicked, ungrateful boy!” said his mother; but all the time she had a curious sympathy with him.  Poor Ann was seized with a strange unreasoning rancor against all that decorously feeding company in the other room.  There are despairing moments, when the happy seem natural enemies of the miserable, and Ann was passing through them.  As she sat there in her gloomy isolation of widowhood, her black veil and her dark thoughts coloring her whole outlook on life, she felt a sudden fury of blindness against all who could see.  Had she been younger, she would have given vent to her emotion like Jerome.  Her son seemed the very expression of her own soul, although she rebuked him.

The people were a long time at supper.  The funeral cake was sweet to their tongues, and the tea mildly exhilarating.  When they came at last to bid farewell to Ann there was in their faces a pleasant unctuousness which they could not wholly veil with sympathetic sorrow.  The childish old lady was openly hilarious.  “That was the best cup o’ tea I ever drinked,” she whispered loud in Ann’s ear.  Jerome gave a scowl of utter contempt at her.  When they were all gone, and the last covered wagon had rolled out of the yard, Ann allowed Paulina Maria to divest her of her bonnet and gloves and bring her a cup of tea.  Jerome and Elmira ate their supper at one end of the disordered table; then they both worked hard, under the orders of Paulina Maria, to set the house in order.  It was quite late that night before Jerome was at liberty to creep off to his own bed up in the slanting back chamber.  Paulina Maria and Belinda Lamb had gone home, and the bereaved family were all alone in the house.  Jerome’s boyish heart ached hard, but he was worn out physically, and he soon fell asleep.

About midnight he awoke with a startling sound in his ears.  He sat up in bed and listened, straining ears and eyes in the darkness.  Out of the night gloom and stillness below came his mother’s voice, raised loud and hoarse in half-accusatory prayer, not caring who heard, save the Lord.

“What hast thou done, O Lord?” demanded this daring and pitiful voice.  “Why hast thou taken away from me the husband of my youth?  What have I done to deserve it?  Haven’t I borne patiently the yoke Thou laidst upon me before?  Why didst Thou try so hard one already broken on the wheel of Thy wrath?  Why didst Thou drive a good man to destruction?  O Lord, give me back my husband, if Thou art the Lord!  If Thou art indeed the Almighty, prove it unto me by working this miracle which I ask of Thee!  Give me back Abel! give him back!”

Ann’s voice arose with a shriek; then there was silence for a little space.  Presently she spoke again, but no longer in prayer—­only in bitter, helpless lament.  She used no longer the formal style of address to a Divine Sovereign; she dropped into her own common vernacular of pain.

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