From a farmer on his own account, Foster now became a mere farm labourer; with wages sufficient, however, to have made things comfortable at home under the management of his frugal, industrious wife, if all he earned had been brought home to her.  But at least one third, and finally one half, and sometimes more, went to swell the gain of the tavern-keeper.  Had it not been that a cow and a few chickens were left to them at the last seizure of their things, pinching hunger would have entered the comfortless home where the mother hid herself with her children.

At last Foster became so good for nothing, that he could not obtain employment as a farm hand anywhere in the neighbourhood, and was obliged to go off to a distance to get work.  This, to him, was not felt to be a very great trial, for it removed him from the sight of his half-fed, half-clothed children, and dejected, suffering wife; and he could, therefore spend with more freedom, and fewer touches, of compunction, the greater portion of his earnings in gratifying the inordinate cravings of his vitiated appetite.

Thus, in general, stood affairs at the opening of our story.  Let us now take a nearer and more particular view.  Let us approach, and enter the cheerless abode of the man who, to feed an evil and debasing appetite, could heartlessly turn away from his faithful wife and dependent little ones, and leave them to the keenest suffering.

New Year’s day, to which the farmer’s wife and children were looking forward with so much delight, was but little more than a week off, and Mrs. Foster expected her husband home also.  But with what different feelings did she anticipate his arrival!  He never brought a glad welcome with his presence; although his wife, when he was absent, always looked for and desired his return.  He had been away over three months; and was earning twenty dollars a month.  But, he had only sent home eighteen dollars during the whole time.  This, we need hardly say, was far from enough to meet the wants of his family.  Had it not been that George, who was but eleven years old, went every day to a factory in the village and worked from morning until night, thus earning about a dollar and a half a week, and that the mother took in sewing, spinning, washing and ironing, and whatever she could get to do, they must have wanted even enough to eat.

It was but six days to New Year’s.  Mrs. Foster had been washing nearly the whole day,—­work that she was really not able to do, and which always so tired her out, that in the night following she could not sleep from excessive fatigue,—­she had been washing nearly all day, and now, after cleaning up the floor, and putting the confused room into a little order, she sat down to finish some work promised by the next morning.  It was nearly dark, and she was standing, with her sewing, close up to the window, in order to see more distinctly in the fading light, when there came a loud knock at the door.  One of the children opened it, and a man, whose face she knew too well, came in.  He was the owner of the poor tenement in which they lived.