I felt so certain that he’d got into some mischief or trouble, and was afraid or ashamed to come back to his wife, that I risked the price of three ribs of prime roasting beef in the following “Personal” advertisement: 

“GEORGE P.—­Your wife don’t know anything about it, and is dying to see you.  Answer through Personals.”

But no answer came, and his wife grew more and more poorly, and I couldn’t help seeing what was the matter with her.  Then her money ran out, and she talked of going away, but I wouldn’t hear of it.  I just took her to my own room, which was the back parlor, and told her she wasn’t to think again of going away; that she was to be my daughter, and I would be her mother, until she found George again.

I was afraid, for her sake, that it meant we were to be with each other for ever, for there was no sign of George.

She wrote to his family in the West, but they hadn’t heard anything from him or about him, and they took pains not to invite her there, or even to say anything about giving her a helping hand.

There was only one thing left to do, and that was to pray, and pray I did, more constantly and earnestly than I ever did before, although, the good Lord knows there have been times, about quarter-day, when I haven’t kept much peace before the Throne.

Finally, one day Mrs. Perry was taken unusually bad, and the doctor had to be sent for in a hurry.  We were in her room—­the doctor and Mrs. Perry and I—­I was endeavoring to comfort and strengthen the poor thing, when the servant knocked, and said a lady and gentleman had come to look at rooms.

I didn’t dare to lose boarders, for I’d had three empty rooms for a month, so I hurried into the parlor.  I was almost knocked down for a second, for the gentleman was George Perry, and no mistake, if the picture his wife had was to be trusted.

In a second more I was cooler and clearer-headed than I ever was in my life before.  I felt more like an angel of the Lord than a boarding-house keeper.

“Kate,” said I, to the servant “show the lady all the rooms.”

Kate stared, for I’d never trusted her, or any other girl, with such important work, and she knew it.  She went though, followed by the lady, who, though she seemed a weak, silly sort of thing, I hated with all my might.  Then I turned quickly, and said: 

“Don’t you want a room for your wife, too, George Perry?”

He stared at me a moment, and then turned pale and looked confused.  Then he tried to rally himself, and he said: 

“You seem to know me, ma’am.”

“Yes,” said I; “and I know Mrs. Perry, too; and if ever a woman needed her husband she does now, even if her husband is a rascal.”

He tried to be angry, but he couldn’t.  He walked up and down the room once or twice, his face twitching all the time, and then he said, a word or two at a time: