THE POOR WOODCUTTER. 35

 

that was in the room, saying, as she did
so—

“You must lie down, Henry. Indeed
you must; for you are sick. Don’t think
of going out. You are not able to work,
and the attempt will do you harm. Iam
sure you could not walk a square.”

While she yet spoke, she had drawn him
to the bed, upon which he sank down,
murmuring—

“‘ Heaven help us!”

Just then came a knock at the door.
On being opened, a man stepped in and
said—

“Does Mr. Harlan live here ?”

At this inquiry, the sick man started up,
and recognised in the visiter the person
for whom he had done the job of work on
the day previous, that had proved too
much for his strength. Hope instantly
came into his despairing heart, and he
cried—

“OQ sir—save my children !”

All night the man had lain in a raging

TH.—3