Seven years from the day on which Mrs. Graham and her children were thus thrown suddenly down from their elevation, and driven into obscurity, that lady sat alone, near the window of a meanly-furnished room in a house on the suburbs of the city, overlooking the Schuylkill.  It was near the hour of sunset.  Gradually the day declined, and the dusky shadows of evening fell gloomily around.  Still Mrs. Graham sat leaning her head upon her hand, in deep abstraction of mind.  Alas! seven years had wrought a sad change in her appearance, and a sadder one in her feelings.  Her deeply-sunken eye, and pale, thin face, told a tale of wretchedness and suffering, whose silent appeal made the very heart ache.  Her garments, too, were old and faded, and antiquated in style.

She sat thus for about half-an-hour, when the door of the room was opened slowly, and a young woman entered, carrying on her arm a small basket.  She seemed, at first sight, not over twenty-three or four years of age; but, when observed more closely, her hollow cheek, pale face, and languid motions, indicated the passage of either many more years over her head, or the painful inroads of disease and sorrow.  Mrs. Graham looked up, but did not speak, as the young woman entered, and, after placing her basket on a table, laid aside her bonnet and faded shawl.

“How did you find Ellen, to-day?” she at length said.

“Bad enough!” was the mournful reply.  “It makes my heart ache, Ma, whenever I go to see her.”

“Was her husband at home?”

“Yes, and as drunk and ill-natured as ever.”

“How is the babe, Mary?”

“Not well.  Dear little innocent creature! it has seen the light of this dreary world in an evil time.  Ellen has scarcely any milk for it; and I could not get it to feed, try all I could.  It nestles in her breast, and frets and cries almost incessantly, with pain and hunger.  Although it is now six weeks old, yet Ellen seems to have gained scarcely any strength at all.  She has no appetite, and creeps about with the utmost difficulty.  With three little children hanging about her, and the youngest that helpless babe, her condition is wretched indeed.  It would be bad enough, were her husband kind to her.  But cross, drunken and idle, scarcely furnishing his family with food enough to sustain existence, her life with him is one of painful trial and suffering.  Indeed, I wonder, with her sensitive disposition and delicate body, how she can endure such a life for a week.”

A deep sigh, or rather moan, was the mother’s only response.  Her daughter continued,

“Bad as I myself feel with this constant cough, pain in my side, and weakness, I must go over again to-morrow and stay with her.  She ought not to be left alone.  The dear children, too, require a great deal of attention that she cannot possibly give to them.”

“You had better bring little Ellen home with you, had you not, Mary?  I could attend to her much better than Ellen can.”