“Why what ails you my child?” asked the Christian anxiously when by the dim light, she saw how tearful and sad the girl looked.  Arsinoe was long before she could answer.  At last she collected herself sufficiently to sob out amid her tears: 

“Oh dame Hannah!  It is all over with us—­my father, our poor father—­”

The widow guessed at the blow that bad fallen on the sisters and full of anxiety on Selene’s account she interrupted the weeping child saying: 

“Hush, hush my child-Selene must not hear you.  Come out with me and then you can tell me all.”  Once outside the door Hannah put her arm round Arsinoe drew her towards her, kissed her forehead, and said: 

“Now speak and tell me every thing; think that I am your mother or your sister.  Poor Selene is still too weak to advise or help you.  Take courage.  What happened to your poor father?”

“Struck by apoplexy, dead—­dead!” wept the girl.  “Poor, dear little orphan,” said the widow in a husky voice and she clasped Arsinoe closely in her arms.  For some time she allowed the girl to weep silently on her bosom; then she spoke: 

“Give me your hand my daughter and tell me how it has all happened so suddenly.  Your father was quite well yesterday and now?  Yes my girl life is a grave matter, you have to learn it while you are still young.  I know you have six little brothers and sisters and perhaps you may soon lack even the necessaries of life.  But that is no disgrace; I am certainly even poorer than you and yet, by God’s help, I hope to be able to advise you and perhaps even to assist you.  Every thing that I can possibly do shall be done, but first I must know how matters stand with you and what you need.”

There was so much kindness and consolation in the Christian’s tones, so much to revive hope that Arsinoe willingly complied with her demand and began her story.

At first, to be sure, her pride shunned confessing how poor, how absolutely destitute they were; but Hannah’s questions soon brought the truth to light; and when Arsinoe perceived that the widow understood the misfortunes of their house in their fullest extent, and that it would be unavailing to conceal how matters stood with her and the children, she yielded to the growing impulse to relieve her soul by pouring out her griefs and described frankly and without reserve the whole position of the family, to the good woman who listened with attention and sympathy.  The widow asked about each child separately, and ended by enquiring who, in Arsinoe’s absence, was left in charge of the little ones; and when she heard that the old slave-woman to whose care the children were entrusted, was infirm and half-blind, she shook her head thoughtfully.

“Here help is needed and at once,” she said decidedly.  “You must go back to the little ones presently.  Your sister must not at present hear of your father’s death; when your future lot is to some extent secure we will tell her by degrees all that has occurred.  Now come with me, it is by the Lord’s guidance that you came here at the right moment.”