“Is this Mrs. Thomson?”

“That is my name, sir,” she said, turning her face toward Ralph, who could not but remark the contrast between the thorough refinement of her manner and her coarse, scant, unshaped pauper-frock of blue drilling.

“I saw your daughter yesterday.”

“Did you see my boy?”

There was a tremulousness in her voice and an agitation in her manner which disclosed the emotion she strove in vain to conceal.  For only the day before Bill Jones had informed her that Shocky would be bound out on Saturday, and that she would find that goin’ agin him warn’t a payin’ business, so much as some others he mout mention.

Ralph told her about Shocky’s safety. I shall not write down the conversation here.  Critics would say that it was an overwrought scene.  As if all the world were as cold as they!  All I can tell is that this refined woman had all she could do to control herself in her eagerness to get out of her prison-house, away from the blasphemies of Mowley, away from the insults of Jones, away from the sights and sounds and smells of the place, and, above all, her eagerness to fly to the little shocky-head from whom she had been banished for two years.  It seemed to her that she could gladly die now, if she could die with that flaxen head upon her bosom.

And so, in spite of the opposition of Bill Jones’s son, who threatened her with every sort of evil if she left, Ralph wrapped Mrs. Thomson’s blue drilling in Nancy Sawyer’s shawl, and bore the feeble woman off to Lewisburg.  And as they drove away, a sad, childlike voice cried from the gratings of the upper window, “Good-by! good-by!” Ralph turned and saw that it was Phil, poor Phil, for whom there was no deliverance[25].  And all the way back Ralph pronounced mental maledictions on the Dorcas Society, not for sending garments to the Five Points or the South Sea Islands, whichever it was, but for being so blind to the sorrow and poverty within its reach.  He did not know, for he had not read the reports of the Boards of State Charities, that nearly all alms-houses are very much like this, and that the State of New York is not better in this regard than Indiana.  And he did not know that it is true in almost all other counties, as it was in his own, that “Christian” people do not think enough of Christ to look for him in these lazar-houses.

And while Ralph denounced the Dorcas Society, the eager, hungry heart of the mother ran, flew toward the little white-headed boy.

No, I can not do it; I can not tell you about that meeting.  I am sure that Miss Nancy Sawyer’s tea tasted exceedingly good to the pauper, who had known nothing but cold water for years, and that the bread and butter were delicious to a palate that had eaten poor-house soup for dinner, and coarse poor-house bread and vile molasses for supper, and that without change for three years.  But I can not tell you how it seemed that evening to Miss Nancy Sawyer, as the poor English lady sat in speechless ecstacy, rocking in the old splint-bottomed rocking-chair in the fire-light, while she pressed to her bosom with all the might of her enfeebled arms, the form of the little Shocky, who half-sobbed and half-sang, over and over again, “God ha’n’t forgot us, mother; God ha’n’t forgot us.”