But, notwithstanding all our care, our movements awoke him.  He gazed around as one often does after a deep sleep; but a consciousness of his situation, and a recognition of my companion, soon dispelled his vacant looks, and his features were illumed with as expressive a smile as it has ever been my fortune to behold.

I was introduced to the invalid, and soon we were as familiar as old acquaintances.  His name was Egbert Lawrence, and his age I should judge from appearances to be about twenty-five.

“It is possible that my dear, good friend, Mr. Jenks, has given you some account of my circumstances,” he remarked, addressing me.

I replied that he had not, any further than to state that he was friendless.  He started, as I said this, and exclaimed,

“Friendless!  His own modesty, that sure mark of true merit, induced him to say that; but, dear sir, I have a friend in him, greater than in any other on earth now.  I had a friend, but, alas! she’s gone.”

I corrected his impression; remarked that I only intended to convey the fact that he was in a strange country, among a strange people, and that Mr. Jenks had told me he was worthy of assistance, and that a sketch of his life would interest me.

“Then you would like to hear of my past, would you?”

“Most certainly,” I replied; “and should consider it a favor should you consent to give it to me.”

To this he at once consented.

“I was born in the west of England,” he began, “and can well remember what a charming little village it was in which I passed my earliest days.  My mother was a woman of the finest sensibilities,—­too fine, in fact, for the rough winds of this world.  Her heart beat too strongly in sympathy with the poor and oppressed, the weary-footed and troubled ones, to live among and not have the weight of their sorrows and cares bear also upon her, and gradually wear out the earth tenement of her spirit.

“As far as a fine, sensitive feeling was hers, so far it was mine.  I inherited it.  But I would not flatter myself so much as to say that I, in like manner, partook of her heavenly, loving nature, or that I in any of her noble traits was worthy of being her son.

“Many times have I been the bearer of her secret charities.  Many times have I heard the poor bless the unknown hand that placed bounties at their door.  Many times have I seen my mother weep while I told her of what I heard the recipients of her benevolence tell their neighbors, and the many conjectures in their minds as to who the donor could be.  And, O, there was joy sparkling in her eyes when I told her of what I had seen and heard!  The grateful poor, concluding, after all their surmising, that, as they could not tell for a certainty who it was who gave them food and clothing, they would kneel down and thank God; for, said they, in their honest, simple manner, He knows.  The benevolent hand cannot hide itself from his presence, or escape his reward.