“It’s a shame!” said Mrs. Fogg, as she hurried away, after the funeral of Mrs. Grant, escaping from the poor, desolate room where two children, almost babies, were sleeping, unconscious that they were motherless. “It’s a shame that nobody’ll take them.” “Yes—a bitter shame!” replied a neighbor, who was also getting off as fast as she could, so as to shift responsibility on some other shoulders. “There’s Mrs. Grove; she might take them as well as not. But they’ll go to the poorhouse, for all she cares.” “Well, somebody’ll have to answer for it,” said Mrs. Fogg. “As for me, I’ve got young ones enough of my own.” “We left Mrs. Cole in the room. She has only one child, and her husband is well-to-do. I can’t believe she’ll have the heart to turn away from them.” “She’s got the heart for anything. But we’ll see.” Mrs. Cole did turn away from the sleeping babes, sighing aloud, with a forced sigh that others might hear, and give her credit for a sympathy and concern she did not feel. At last all were gone—all but a man named Wheaton, and a poor woman, not able to take care of herself. “What’s to become of these children?” said Wheaton. “Don’t know. Poorhouse, I s’pose,” answered the woman. “Yes. Nobody wants ’em, and there’s no place else for ’em.” “Mamma! mamma!” cried a plaintive voice, and a flaxen-haired child, not much over a year old, rose up in the bed and looked piteously about the room. “I want mamma.” A great choking sob came into the man’s throat. Then the other child awoke and said, “Don’t cry, sissy. Mamma’s gone away.” At this the little one began crying bitterly. “I can’t stand this nohow,” said the man, speaking in a kind of desperate way; and going to the bed, he gathered the two children in his arms, hushing and comforting them with soothing words. “What on earth have you got there?” exclaimed Mrs. Wheaton as her husband came striding into the room where she sat mending one of his well-worn garments. “Two babies!” he answered, in a voice so unusual that Mrs. Wheaton dropped her work on the floor and rose up in amazement. “Mrs. Grant’s two babies. I’ve been over to the funeral, and I tell you, Jane, it wasn’t in me to see these little things carted off to the almshouse. There wasn’t a woman to look after them—no, not one. Every soul sneaked off but Polly Jones, and she’s of no account, you know. Just look at their dear little faces!” And he held them up in his arms, and let their tender, tearful, half-frightened, half-wondering eyes plead their cause with his wife, and they did not plead in vain. Surprised as she was, and with an instant protest in her heart, Mrs. Wheaton could not, in the presence of these motherless little ones, utter a word of remonstrance. She took the youngest one from the arms of her husband and spoke to it tenderly. The child sobbed two or three times, and then laid its head against her bosom. There was an influx of mother-love into the heart of this woman, who had never been a mother, the instant her breast felt the pressure of the baby’s head, and the arm that drew it closer with an involuntary impulse was moved by this new love. Not many words passed between the husband and wife—at least not then, though thought was very busy with both of them. Mrs. Wheaton’s manner toward the children was kind even to tenderness; and this manner won their confidence, and drew from them such looks, and ways, and little expressions of satisfaction, as touched her heart and filled it with a loving interest. After night-fall, when supper was over, and the children asleep, Mr. and Mrs. Wheaton sat down together, each showing a little reserve and embarrassment. Mrs. Wheaton was first to speak. “What were you thinking about, John?” said she, almost sharply. “I can’t have these children.” Wheaton did not lift his eyes nor answer, but there was a certain dogged and resolute air about him that his wife noticed as unusual. “Somebody else must take them,” she said. “The county will do it,” Wheaton replied. “Yes. There’s room for them at the almshouse, and nowhere else that I know of, unless they stay here.” “Unless they stay here!” Mrs. Wheaton’s voice rose a little. “It’s easy enough to say that; but who’s to take care of them?” “It’s a great undertaking, I know,” answered the husband, meekly, yet with a new quality in his voice that did not escape the quick ear of his wife, “and the burden must fall on you.” “I wouldn’t mind that so much, but—” She kept back the sentence that was on her tongue. “But what?” asked her husband. “John,” said Mrs. Wheaton, drawing herself up in a resolute manner, and looking steadily into her husband’s face, “as things are going on—” “Things shall go on differently,” interrupted Wheaton. “I’ve thought that all over.” “Oh! in every way. I’ll turn over a new leaf.” Wheaton saw a light flash into his wife’s face. “First and foremost, I’m not going to lose any more days. Last month I had six days docked from my wages.” “It’s true—more the shame for me. That was eighteen dollars, you see, not counting the money I fooled away in idle company—enough to pay for all these babies would eat and wear twice over.” “O John!” There was something eager and hopeful in his wife’s face as she leaned toward him. “I’m in downright earnest, Jane,” he answered. “If you’ll take the babies, I’ll do my part. I’ll turn over a new leaf. There shall be no more lost days; no more foolish wasting of money; no spending of evenings at McBride’s.” “O John!” In her surprise and delight she could only repeat the exclamation. As she did so this time, she rose, and putting her hands on his shoulders, bent and kissed him on the forehead. “You’ll take the babies?” said he. “Yes, and twenty more, if you keep to this, and say so,” answered Jane, laughing through tears. “All right, then. It’s a bargain.” And Wheaton caught his wife’s hand and shook it by way of confirmation. From that time Wheaton turned over a new leaf. Neighbors expressed surprise when it was told that Jane Wheaton had adopted the two orphan children. Fellow-workmen taunted John, calling him soft-hearted, and a fool, for “taking other men’s brats.” One said to him, “Are four mouths easier to fill than two?” Another— “You’ll be sick of this before the year’s out.” And another— “I’ll see you sold out by the constable in less than six months.” But John had little to say in reply—only maintaining an air of quiet good humor, and exhibiting more interest in his work. For three weeks John Wheaton had not lost a day—something very unusual; and not one evening during that time had he spent at McBride’s drinking saloon. His poor little home, which had come to have a neglected look, was putting on a new appearance. The gate that for months had hobbled on one hinge, now swung smoothly, and the mended latch held it shut. Rank weeds no longer filled the dooryard; the broken steps were mended, and clean panes of glass filled many a place in the sashes where had been unsightly rags and sheets of paper. A neglected running rose was trimmed and trained to its proper place over the doorway, and was now pushing out young green leaves and buds. Within, pleasant changes were also apparent. Various new but inexpensive articles of furniture were to be found. Old things were mended, polished up, and wonderfully improved. With all this, marvelous to relate, Wheaton’s earnings had not only been equal to the increased expenditure, but there was an actual surplus of ten dollars in hand. “I never would have believed it,” said John, as he and his wife sat one evening talking over their improved condition, after the babies—loved now almost as if their own—were asleep. “It’s just as old Brown used to say, ‘Waste takes more than want.’ I declare I’ve got heart in me again. I thought we should have to let the place go; that I’d never be able to pay off the mortgage. But here we are, ten dollars ahead in less than a month; and going on at this rate, we’ll have all clear in eighteen months.” Next day a fellow-workman said to Wheaton, half in banter, “Didn’t I see the constable down your way yesterday?” “I shouldn’t wonder,” replied Wheaton, with more gravity of manner than his questioner had expected. “I thought I saw him looking around after things, and counting his fees on his fingers.” “Likely as not,” said Wheaton. “I know of a good many rents not paid up last quarter. Money gone to McBride’s instead of to the landlord—eh?” “How are the babies?” he asked. “First rate,” Wheaton answered, and with a smile so real that his fellow-workman could not pursue his banter. Time went on, and to the surprise of all, Wheaton’s circumstances kept improving. The babies had brought a blessing to his home. In less than eighteen months he had paid off the light mortgage that for years rested on his little home; and not only this, had improved it in various ways, even to the putting up of a small addition, so as to give them a neat breakfast room. The children grew finely—there were three of them now, for their hearts and home had opened to another orphan baby—and, being carefully trained by Mrs. Wheaton, were a light and joy to the house. At the end of five years we will introduce them briefly to the reader. Wheaton is a master workman, and employs ten men. He has enlarged his house, and made it one of the neatest in the village. Among his men is the very one who bantered him most about the children, and prophesied that he would soon be sold out by the constable. Poor man! it was not long before the constable had him in charge. He had wasted his money at McBride’s, instead of paying it to the landlord. Walking homeward one evening after work was over, Wheaton and his journeyman took the same way. They were silent until they came near the former’s pretty dwelling, when the journeyman said, half in jest, yet with undisguised bitterness, “I guess we’ll have to take a baby or two.” “Why?” asked Wheaton, not perceiving what was in the man’s thoughts. “For good luck,” said the journeyman. “You’ve had nothing but good luck since you took poor Mrs. Grant’s orphan children.” “Only such good luck as every one may have, if he will,” answered Wheaton. “I can’t see it,” returned the man. “Your wages were no better than mine. I had one child, and you saddled yourself with two, and not long after added a third. And how is it to-day? You have a nice house, and your wife and children are well dressed, while I have never been able to make both ends meet, and my boy looks like a ragamuffin half the time.” “Do you see that house over there—the largest and the handsomest in the place?” said Wheaton. “How much did you pay toward building it?” “Yes, you. How much did you pay toward building it?” “Why, nothing. Why should I help pay for his house?” “Sure enough! Why should your hard earnings go to build and furnish an elegant house for a man who would rather sell liquor, and so ruin his neighbors, body and soul, than support himself in a useful calling, as you and I are trying to do?” “I can’t see what you’re driving at,” said the journeyman. “How much a week do you spend at McBride’s saloon?” The man stood still with a blank look on his face. “A dollar a week?” asked Wheaton. “Say a dollar and a half.” “Do you know what that amounts to in a year?” “Yes, to a dollar. So, in five years at this rate, you have contributed nearly four hundred dollars toward McBride’s handsome house, without getting anything but harm in return, and haven’t a shingle over your head that you can call your own. Now it’s my advice, in a friendly way, that you stop helping McBride, and begin to help yourself. He’s comfortable enough, and can do without your dollar and a half a week. Take a baby, if you will, for good luck. You’ll find one over at the poorhouse; it won’t cost you half as much as helping McBride, and I don’t think he needs your aid any longer. But here we are at home, and I see wife and children waiting for me. Come in, won’t you?” “No, thank you. I’ll go home and talk to Ellen about taking a baby for good luck.” And he tried to smile, but it was anything but in a cheerful way. He passed onward, but called back after going a few steps: “If you see anything of my Jack about your place, just send him home, will you?” Jack was there, meanly dressed and dirty, and in striking contrast with Wheaton’s three adopted children, who, with the only mother they knew, gave the happy man a joyful welcome home. “I’ve turned over a new leaf,” said the journeyman when he came to work on the next morning. “Indeed! I am glad to hear it,” returned Wheaton. “Ellen and I talked it all over last night. I’m done helping saloon-keepers build fine houses. Glad you put it to me just in that way. Never looked at it so before. But it’s just the hard truth. What fools we are!” “Going to take a baby?” said Wheaton, smiling. “Well, we haven’t just settled that. But Ellen heard yesterday of a poor little thing that’ll have to go on the county if some one don’t take it; and I shouldn’t wonder, now, if she opened her heart, for she’s a motherly body.” “Where is it?” asked Mr. Wheaton. “Down at the Woodbury Mills.” Wheaton reflected a few moments, and then said, “Look here, Frank; take my advice, and put this baby between you and McBride’s—between you and lost days—between you and idle thriftlessness, and my word for it, in less than two years you’ll have your own roof over your head.” Only a little while did the man hesitate, then, in an emphatic manner he exclaimed, “I’ll do it.” “Do it at once, then,” said Wheaton. “Put on your coat, and go over to the Mills and get the baby. It will be an angel in your house that will help and bless you in every hour of temptation. Go at once. God has opened for you this way of safety, and if you walk therein, all will be well.” He did walk therein, and all was well. Wheaton’s prophecy was fulfilled. In less than two years, the journeyman had his own roof over his head, and it covered a happy home.—Arthur’s Magazine.