Was it a Providence?

“I will do all I can, madam,” I said, rising to see my visitor to the door. My tone, I fear, was not very reassuring, for Mrs. Lockhart’s sorrow-worn face had lost none of its despondency when she went away at the end of our lengthened interview.

She had had enough to try her lately, poor woman. Her husband had been the victim of a shocking murder, and her son, an only child by a former marriage, was held in prison to answer for the crime.

“I hope you will do all you can, sir,” said Mr. Saunders, a kind old neighbor, who had accompanied Mrs. Lockhart, and now lingered behind to have a few words about the case in private—“I hope you will do all you can for the poor lad—he’s barely turned of sixteen—for everybody’s down on him. Even Parson Droner, who can preach charity loud enough when the plate’s to be circulated, couldn’t content himself at the funeral with crackin’ up the virtues of the deceased several per cent above par, but must needs go bully-raggin’ the ‘youthful parricide,’ as he was thoughtless enough to call George Lysle right before his mother, but she, poor body, was too dazed like to heed what was said. ‘Well, if it is parricide,’ says I to my Polly, as we walked home, ‘I’m blamed if it’s more ’n parricide in the second degree to put a mean step-father out o’ the way!”

There’s no telling how long Mr. Saunders might have rattled on if I had not cut him short with a parting shake of the hand, and a repetition of my promise to do all I could.

George Lysle’s father had been dead about three years,… Read More