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186 LETTERS.
And home to a cottage his tired soul they lighten, —
His mother’s — ah! there will no mother be found.
But gladly the boy sees his wanderings end,
And now towards the hut so deserted he presses,
Expecting fond motherly cares and caresses:
The mother has gone to the penitent’s Friend.
Alone in the cottage, so patient and mild,
The orphan is waiting, and while the day beameth,
In mercy deceived, his poor fancy still dreameth
That soon — soon the mother will come to her child.
When day-time and evening to darkness have rolled,
A painful disquiet the little one haunteth ;
He.wandereth round, seeking that which he wanteth,
As restlessly seeketh-the miser his gold.
He looks in the bed where his mother has lain,
And where she sat spinning, in all her old places;
Her longs for her loving, her tender embraces,
He stretches out fond little arms, but in vain.
The clothing she wore in the cottage still lies,
He toucheth it, thinking ’t is hers, and he crieth,
And faintly a stammering “ mammy” he sigheth,
But never — but never the mother replies.
M. R. W:
80th October.
I did intend to have taken a sketch to-day of the poor
little boy, whom an old grandmother, aged 70, living in the
hut “Bakom,” takes care of. Agatha took a lively inter-
est in him, and wished very much to see him. I must con-
fess that I looked a little awkward when I beheld a little
stout and chubby boy, with a face radiant with happiness.
He is six years old. He cannot articulate any words, but
he produces a variety of sounds. He was otherwise highly,
although idiotically, comical, making the sweetest, smiling
grimaces; and only when now wai then he called out,
“ Aja” (his mother’s name was Maja), the expression of
his face and the tone of his voice became very sad. For
the little sketch of the “Son of Misery” in my album, I
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