Death touches the spring of our common humanity.  This woman had been despised, scoffed at, and angrily denounced by nearly every man, woman, and child in the village; but now, as the fact of, her death was passed from lip to lip, in subdued tones, pity took the place of anger, and sorrow of denunciation.  Neighbors went hastily to the old tumble-down hut, in which she had secured little more than a place of shelter from summer heats and winter cold:  some with grave-clothes for a decent interment of the body; and some with food for the half-starving children, three in number.  Of these, John, the oldest, a boy of twelve, was a stout lad, able to earn his living with any farmer.  Kate, between ten and eleven, was bright, active girl, out of whom something clever might be made, if in good hands; but poor little Maggie, the youngest, was hopelessly diseased.  Two years before a fall from a window had injured her spine, and she had not been able to leave her bed since, except when lifted in the arms of her mother.

“What is to be done with the children?” That was the chief question now.  The dead mother would go underground, and be forever beyond all care or concern of the villagers.  But the children must not be left to starve.  After considering the matter, and talking it over with his wife, farmer Jones said that he would take John, and do well by him, now that his mother was out of the way; and Mrs. Ellis, who had been looking out for a bound girl, concluded that it would be charitable in her to make choice of Katy, even though she was too young to be of much use for several years.

“I could do much better, I know,” said Mrs. Ellis; “but as no one seems inclined to take her, I must act from a sense of duty expect to have trouble with the child; for she’s an undisciplined thing—­used to having her own way.”

But no one said “I’ll take Maggie.”  Pitying glances were cast on her wan and wasted form and thoughts were troubled on her account.  Mothers brought cast-off garments and, removing her soiled and ragged clothes, dressed her in clean attire.  The sad eyes and patient face of the little one touched many hearts, and even knocked at them for entrance.  But none opened to take her in.  Who wanted a bed-ridden child?

“Take her to the poorhouse,” said a rough man, of whom the question “What’s to be done with Maggie?” was asked.  “Nobody’s going to be bothered with her.”

“The poorhouse is a sad place for a sick and helpless child,” answered one.

“For your child or mine,” said the other, lightly speaking; “but for tis brat it will prove a blessed change, she will be kept clean, have healthy food, and be doctored, which is more than can be said of her past condition.”