I was so much interested in David that I often called to see him.  The first call was made one day just before dinner.  I looked about for my little friend, and found him in the wash-room.  He was standing by a great towel, and wiping his fair, plump face as nicely as he could.  I kissed his clean, rosy cheek, and inquired if he remembered me.  He smiled, and said, “Yes, ma’am.”  He appeared quite happy and contented.  His teacher told me that he was a remarkably good boy.

Several applications were made for David by those who heard his story, and found room in their hearts and houses for the fatherless and motherless boy.  His grandmother, knowing that she was too aged and feeble to take care of him, gave him to the Home.  It was a great trial to do so, but she loved him too well not to seek his best interests.  She was willing to live alone, uncheered by the presence and affection of her darling grandchild, if she could only feel that he would be kindly treated and educated by Christian people.

A lady in Illinois wrote that she had a dear little son in heaven, and wanted David to come to her to supply his place in the home circle, where he would find those whom he might call “father, mother, and grandmother.”  A clergyman in Connecticut proposed to adopt him, and was coming to New York the first of May to take him home, if it should be thought best.

While David was at the Home for the Friendless, his grandmother occupied a room not far from Mrs. B——­’s.  It was on the lower floor, so that she was no longer exhausted by going up so many flights of stairs.  Several ladies united, and each sent her a dinner one day in the week, and saw that she was provided with breakfast and tea.  They furnished her with comfortable clothing, for which she manifested much gratitude.

It was always pleasant to call upon “Widow Cahoon,” and hear her talk about herself and her previous charge.  She told us about his parents and grandparents.  His father’s father was a Methodist clergyman, and his grandmother, Smith, was a most devout woman.  She loved to talk of their excellencies of character, and the good they had accomplished.  I never heard her without being reminded of God’s faithfulness in showing mercy unto thousands of them that love him and keep his commandments.

One day, when I was at Mrs. B——­’s, “Widow Cahoon” was ushered into her private room—­a back parlour on the second story.  She was much out of breath, and it required some time for her to recover herself sufficiently to talk.  At length she spoke of her children, some of whom she hoped were living.  Two sons and a daughter had come to America long before she did, and had gone to Pennsylvania.  She had not heard from them for twelve years.  She had often prayed that she might see them before she died, and she hoped still that she should.  She had been the mother of eleven children, and here she was entirely alone,—­no relative near her to care for her in her age and helplessness.