"Yes I did, my dear, because I thought of his family; I really believe
though, had I encouraged him, he would have made the sacrifice."
"And what became of the boy?"
"Oh; poor lad, he seemed very much cut down by it--I was quite touched by
his grief. When I came out, I found him standing by a shop window crying
bitterly. I tried to pacify him, and told him I would endeavour to obtain a
situation for him somewhere--and I shall."
"Has he parents?" asked Mrs. Burrell.
"Yes; and, by the way, don't you remember whilst the mob was raging last
summer, we read an account of a man running to the roof of a house to
escape from the rioters? You remember they chopped his hands off and threw
him over?"
"Oh, yes, dear, I recollect; don't--don't mention it," said she, with a
shudder of horror. "I remember it perfectly."
"Well, this little fellow is his son," continued Mr. Burrell.
"Indeed! and what has become of his father--did he die?"
"No, he partially recovered, but is helpless, and almost an idiot. I never
saw a child, apparently so anxious to get work; he talked more like a man
with a family dependent upon him for support, than a youth. I tell you
what, I became quite interested in him; he was very communicative, and told
me all their circumstances; their house was destroyed by the mob, and they
are at present residing with a friend.
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