The house was in a straggling village
some fifty miles from New York city. She who sat on the door-step was
a widow; her white cap cover'd locks of gray, and her dress, though
clean, was exceedingly homely. Her house--for the tenement she
occupied was her own--was very little and very old. Trees clustered
around it so thickly as almost to hide its color--that blackish gray
color which belongs to old wooden houses that have never been painted;
and to get in it you had to enter a little rickety gate and walk
through a short path, border'd by carrot beds and beets and other
vegetables. The son whom she was expecting was her only child. About
a year before he had been bound apprentice to a rich farmer in the
place, and after finishing his daily task he was in the habit of
spending half an hour at his mother's. On the present occasion the
shadows of night had settled heavily before the youth made his
appearance. When he did, his walk was slow and dragging, and all his
motions were languid, as if from great weariness. He open'd the gate,
came through the path, and sat down by his mother in silence.
"You are sullen to-night, Charley," said the widow, after a moment's
pause, when she found that he return' d no answer to her greeting.
As she spoke she put her hand fondly on his head; it seem'd moist as
if it had been dipp'd in the water. His shirt, too, was soak'd; and as
she pass'd her fingers down his shoulder she left a sharp twinge in
her heart, for she knew that moisture to be the hard wrung sweat of
severe toil, exacted from her young child (he was but thirteen years
old) by an unyielding taskmaster.
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