“You haven’t brought home that sick brat!” Anger and astonishment were in the tones of Mrs. Joe Thompson; her face was in a flame.

“I think women’s hearts are sometimes very hard,” said Joe.  Usually Joe Thompson got out of his wife’s way, or kept rigidly silent and non-combative when she fired up on any subject; it was with some surprise, therefore, that she now encountered a firmly-set countenance and a resolute pair of eyes.

“Women’s hearts are not half so hard as men’s!”

Joe saw, by a quick intuition, that his resolute bearing had impressed his wife and he answered quickly, and with real indignation, “Be that as it may, every woman at the funeral turned her eyes steadily from the sick child’s face, and when the cart went off with her dead mother, hurried away, and left her alone in that old hut, with the sun not an hour in the sky.”

“Where were John and Kate?” asked Mrs. Thompson.

“Farmer Jones tossed John into his wagon, and drove off.  Katie went home with Mrs. Ellis; but nobody wanted the poor sick one.  ’Send her to the poorhouse,’ was the cry.”

“Why didn’t you let her go, then.  What did you bring her here for?”

“She can’t walk to the poorhouse,” said Joe; “somebody’s arms must carry her, and mine are strong enough for that task.”

“Then why didn’t you keep on?  Why did you stop here?” demanded the wife.

“Because I’m not apt to go on fools’ errands.  The Guardians must first be seen, and a permit obtained.”

There was no gainsaying this.

“When will you see the Guardians?” was asked, with irrepressible impatience.

“To-morrow.”

“Why put it off till to-morrow?  Go at once for the permit, and get the whole thing off of your hands to-night.”

“Jane,” said the wheelwright, with an impressiveness of tone that greatly subdued his wife, “I read in the Bible sometimes, and find much said about little children.  How the Savior rebuked the disciples who would not receive them; how he took them up in his arms, and blessed them; and how he said that ’whosoever gave them even a cup of cold water should not go unrewarded.’  Now, it is a small thing for us to keep this poor motherless little one for a single night; to be kind to her for a single night; to make her life comfortable for a single night.”

The voice of the strong, rough man shook, and he turned his head away, so that the moisture in his eyes might not be seen.  Mrs. Thompson did not answer, but a soft feeling crept into her heart.

“Look at her kindly, Jane; speak to her kindly,” said Joe.  “Think of her dead mother, and the loneliness, the pain, the sorrow that must be on all her coming life.”  The softness of his heart gave unwonted eloquence to his lips.