“Certainly, he will find shelter somewhere,” thought the Judge’s lady, discharging her conscience of the responsibility.  “But I am sorry he didn’t hear.”

Was she very sorry?

She went back into her cozy, fire-lighted sewing-room, and thought no more of the beggar-boy.  And the watchdog, having barked his well-bred, formal bark, without undue heat,—­like a dog that knew the world, and had acquired the tone of society,—­stood a minute, important, contemplating the drizzle from the door of his kennel, out of which he had not deigned to step, then stretched himself once more on his straw, gave a sigh of repose, and curled himself up, with his nose to the air, in an attitude of canine enjoyment, in which it was to be hoped no inconsiderate vagabond would again disturb him.

As for Fessenden’s—­How shall we name him?  Somehow, it goes against the grain to call any person a fool.  Though we may forget the Scriptural warning, still charity remembers that he is our brother.  Suppose, therefore, we stop at the possessive case, and call him simply Fessenden’s?

As for Fessenden’s, then, he was less fortunate than the Judge’s mastiff.  He had no dry straw, not even a kennel to crouch in.  And the fields were uninviting; and to die was not so pleasant.  The veriest wretch alive feels a yearning for life, and few are so foolish as not to prefer a dry skin to a wet one.  Even Fessenden’s knew enough to go in when it rained,—­if he only could.  So, with the dismallest prospect before him, he kept on, in the wind and rain of that bitter November night.

And now the wind was rising to a tempest; and the rain was turning to sleet; and November was fast becoming December.  For this was the last day of the month,—­the close of the last day of autumn, as we divide the seasons:  autumn was flying in battle before the fierce onset of winter.  It was the close of the week also, being Saturday.

Saturday night! what a sentiment of thankfulness and repose is in the word!  Comfort is in it; and peace exhales from it like an aroma.  Your work is ended; it is the hour of rest; the sense of duty done sweetens reflection, and weariness subsides into soothing content.  Once more the heart grows tenderly appreciative of the commonest blessings.  That you have a roof to shelter you, and a pillow for your head, and love and light and supper, and something in store for Sunday,—­that the raving rain is excluded, and the wolfish wind howls in vain,—­that those dearest to you are gathered about your hearth, and all is well,—­it is enough; the full soul asks no wore.