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"I will walk, as before," she answered, "and hope to reach the town before dark."

"You must walk fast -- too fast, I fear, for your strength to do it," said he, "and I wish I could take you further."

"Never mind it, sir; you have done me great kindness in bringing me and my little one so far; may God reward you, as he will, I doubt not," so saying, she took the child's hand and walked on.

The old gentleman's heart smote him as she walked painfully away, and the little child seemed ready to fall at every step. Still the mother held on, and by-and-bye, as she followed a curve of the road, she was hidden from the traveler, and he slowly walked his horse alone his own way. Three weary miles the woman walked that evening -- her little child often crying with fatigue and cold and hunger, and no one happening to pass along who could take them up. At length a man with an ox-team and sled overtook them, and carried them through the village of Crampton a quarter of a mile, to his own gateway. The lady wished to go further if possible, about half a mile further, on the way to Captain Bunce's.

The man was struck with the delicate, kindly, and attractive appearance of the lady, and tried to interest her in conversation. But she said few words, except mono-syllables, inquiring occasionally how she might find the poor-house, and if the people there were we-l taken care of, and were in good health. The man studied her face and bearing earnestly, to assure himself of her character and object, and from all that he could discern concluded that she could be none other than the celebrated Miss Dix, bent on one of those benevolent excursions to their own poor-house, he had often read of her making elsewhere. He remained of this impression up to the time of her leaving him. It was nearly -- nay, it was dark, when the man stopped his team at his own door, and civilly and urgently invited her to go in and stay with them all night -- at least allow his wife to give her a cup of tea.

"How far is it on this road," said she, earnestly, "to the poor-house?"

"Well, ma'am," he replied, "it is half a mile."

"And is it so near!" she exclaimed. "No, sir, I will not stop a moment. We will soon reach it. Thank you, my good friend -- farewell!"

So saying, she clasped the little child by the arm and fairly hurried her along.

Toiling on, for it was dark now -- the road was slippery, the storm beginning, the winds moaning, the clouds growing thicker, -- the woman and child nearly sinking to the snow, almost despairing -- yet so near the goal of their labors, they encountered a solitary being walking dreamily along the same road, a boy with his hat pulled over his face, and his shoes and garments indicating poverty and misery.

The two parties naturally observed each other as they met, and the lady inquired of Jims how much further it was to the poor-house.

"The poor-house!" said the boy, wildly.

"Yes, if you please, my lad," said she, quietly.

"The Lord bless us! You arn't going there?"

"But why not go there?"

"Oh, it's the most wretchedest place on earth!" said the boy.

"But people live in it," said the woman.

"Yes, we live in it -- we, a sort of people; but no ladies or smart folks live there. It's a forsaken spot."

"Then you live there!" exclaimed she, with thrilling anxiety and earnestness.

"I do," said Jims. "It's my own, my only home."

"Guide me there, boy -- now, now, this minute -- and I will reward you -- if I can."

"Oh! if you want to get there, come then. I know every foot of the way there, in the dark as well as in the day."

So Jims led her along, the woman trembling and holding the little one by her side, occasionally carrying her a few rods; and by-and-bye they reached the gate of that dwelling, towards which the heart of this poor traveler had been pointing for the last ten days with consuming fervor.

"Here we are, ma'am," said Jims, throwing open the door. "Walk in. Every body is at home here."

A large dingy room, dimly lighted, with a small, feeble fire on the hearth, and ten or twelve persons around it, (feeble, singular-looking, old, and broken down,) now received the stranger and her child. Involuntarily, both drew back by the door, and experienced a shuddering, revolting sensation at the sight before them.

"Here's a new comer, I guess, Mrs. Prescott," cried Jims. "She's tired, though, and so is the little girl with her."

"Come here, poor soul," said the widow, rising and hobbling towards her.

And aunt Dorothy, who was smoking her pipe, exclaimed:

"Drum, drum, drum, dro, do dro, dri do --
On Jordan's stormy banks I stand;
Drum, de drum, dri, dro,
And cast a wishful look behind."

"Never mind her," said Mag to the stranger, as she wildly stared at her in real alarm.

"Come, sit down, good lady," said the widow, "and warm your feet."

"Perhaps you can tell me," said the lady, trembling all over as she spoke, "whether there's one Mr. Alanson Boyce in these quarters?"

"Boyce! He'd gone," said Jims, "to -- "