death
to relieve you."

Mr. Worthy attended his afflicted friend to the funeral of his
unhappy daughter and her babe. The solemn service, the committing
his late gay and beautiful daughter to darkness, to worms, and to
corruption; the sight of the dead infant, for whose sake he had
resumed all his schemes of vanity and covetousness, when he thought
he had got the better of them; the melancholy conviction that all
human prosperity ends in _ashes to ashes, and dust to dust_, had
brought down Mr. Bragwell's self-sufficient and haughty soul into
something of that humble frame in which Mr. Worthy had wished to see
it. As soon as they returned home, he was beginning to seize the
favorable moment for fixing these serious impressions, when they
were unseasonably interrupted by the parish officer, who came to ask
Mr. Bragwell what he was to do with a poor dying woman who was
traveling the country with her child, and was taken in a fit under
the church-yard wall? "At first they thought she was dead," said the
man, "but finding she still breathed, they have carried her into the
work-house till she could give some account of herself."

Mr. Bragwell was impatient at the interruption, which was, indeed,
unseasonable, and told the man that he was at that time too much
overcome by sorrow to attend to business, but he would give him an
answer to-morrow. "But, my friend," said Mr. Worthy, "the poor woman
may die to-night; your mind is indeed not in a frame for worldly
business; but there is no sorrow too great to forbid our attending
the calls of duty. An act of Christian charity will not disturb, but
improve the seriousness of your spirit; and though you can not dry
your own tears, God may in great mercy permit you to dry those of
another. This may be one of those occasions for which I told you
life was worth keeping. Do let us see this woman." Bragwell was not
in a state either to consent or refuse, and his friend drew him to
the work-house, about the door of which stood a crowd of people.
"She is not dead," said one, "she moves her head." "But she wants
air," said all of them, while they all, according to custom, pushed
so close upon her that it was impossible she could get any. A fine
boy of two or three years old stood by her, crying, "Mammy is dead,
mammy is starved." Mr. Worthy made up to the poor woman, holding his
friend by the arm; in order to give her air he untied a large black
bonnet which hid her face, when Mr. Bragwell,