“Yes, my children, you shall have a good dinner, and that right quickly,” returned the mother in a voice half choked with emotion, as she threw off her bonnet, and proceeded to cook the coarse provisions she had obtained at the sacrifice of so much feeling.  It did not take long to boil the fish and potatoes, which were eaten with a keen relish by two of the children, Emma and Harry.  The gruel prepared for Ella, from the flour obtained at Mrs. Grubb’s, did not much tempt the sickly appetite of the child.  She sipped a few spoonfuls, and then turned from the bowl which her mother held for her at the bedside.

“Eat more of it, dear,” said Mrs. Gaston.  “It will make you feel better.”

“I’m not very hungry now, mother,” answered Ella.

“Don’t it taste good to you?”

“Not very good.”

The child sighed as she turned her wan face toward the wall, and the unhappy mother sighed responsive.

“I wish you would try to take a little more.  It’s so long since you have eaten any thing; and you’ll grow worse if you don’t take nourishment.  Just two or three spoonfuls.  Come, dear.”

Ella, thus urged, raised herself in bed, and made an effort to eat more of the gruel.  At the third spoonful, her stomach heaved as the tasteless fluid touched her lips.

“Indeed, mother, I can’t swallow another mouthful,” she said, again sinking back on her pillow.

Slowly did Mrs. Gaston turn from the bed.  She had not yet eaten of the food, which her two well children were devouring with the eagerness of hungry animals.  Only a small portion did she now take for herself, and that was eaten hurriedly, as if the time occupied in attending to her own wants were so much wasted.

The meal over, Mrs. Gaston took the unfinished pair of trowsers, and, though feeling weary and disheartened, bent earnestly to the task before her.  At this she toiled, unremittingly, until the falling twilight admonished her to stop.  The children’s supper was then prepared.  She would have applied to Mrs. Grubb for a loaf of bread, but was so certain of meeting a refusal, that she refrained from doing so.  For supper, therefore, they had only the salt fish and potatoes.

It was one o’clock that night before exhausted nature refused another draft upon its energies.  The garment was not quite finished.  But the nerveless hand and the weary head of the poor seamstress obeyed the requirements of her will no longer.  The needle had to be laid aside, for the finger had no more strength to grasp, nor skill to direct its motions.

CHAPTER II.

How A needlewoman lives.

It was about ten o’clock on the next morning, when Mrs. Gaston appeared at the shop of Berlaps, the tailor.

“Here is the other pair,” she said, as she came up to the counter, behind which stood Michael, the salesman.