Each night found the widow busily engaged with her work, the
proceeds of which kept the wolf from the door.
Her two daughters, whom she had brought up with the utmost care, were
her only joy. They grew into beautiful girlhood, were modest and good,
and loved their mother with all the tenderness of devoted childhood.
They, too, helped with the sewing; and their combined efforts, though
feeble, were not without visible returns.
Mother and daughters often talked about their departed father. "It gives
me great pain," said the mother, "that every picture which your father
painted should have been taken from us. If it were but a little
landscape that we possessed, how happy I should be. It would enrich our
otherwise barren home and make it equal to the most beautiful salon of
the grandest castle."
Mother and daughters rarely went anywhere, but every Sunday found them
attendants at a church at the other end of the city. There, on those
sacred walls, hung a beautiful painting executed by their father. "This
indeed is exquisite work," said the mother, and the children fully
agreed with her sentiments.
When the services were ended they all slowly wended their way through
the city to their modest home. Sunday after Sunday, rain or shine, found
them carrying out the same program, always returning with hearts filled
with reverence and peace.
The long, weary winter nights were passed reading the books which their
father had collected during his lifetime, and which, by the merest
accident, had not been disposed of.
Pages:
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94