us,
perhaps, deprive her of the whole or a large part of his father's and
her own hard earnings.

But this was not the peculiar hardship of her situation, as her devoted
son understood it. It was not the hard work alone which she was called
upon to perform, not the coarseness of the fare upon which they lived,
not the danger even of being turned out of doors, that distressed
Bobby; it was that a wretch like Mr. Hardhand could insult and trample
upon his mother. He had just heard him use language to her that made
his blood boil with indignation, and he did not, on cool, sober, second
thought, regret that he had taken such a decided stand against it.

He cared not for himself. He could live on a crust of bread and a cup
of water from the spring; he could sleep in a barn; he could wear
coarse and even ragged clothes; but he could not submit to have his
mother insulted, and by such a mean and contemptible person as Mr.
Hardhand.

Yet what could he do? He was but a boy, and the great world would look
with contempt upon his puny form. But he felt that he was not
altogether insignificant. He had performed an act, that day, which the
fair young lady, to whom he had rendered the service, had declared very
few men would have undertaken. There was something in him, something
that would come out, if he only put his best foot forward. It was a
tower of strength within him. It told him that he could do wonders;
that he could go out into the world and accomplish all that would be
required to free his mother from debt, and relieve her from the severe
drudgery of her life.

A great many people think they can "do wonders." The vanity of some
very silly people makes them think they can command armies, govern
nations, and teach the world what the world never knew before, and
never would know but for them. But Bobby's something within him was
not vanity. It was something more substantial. He was not thinking of
becoming a great man, a great general, a great ruler, or a great
statesman; not even of making a great fortune. Self was not the idol
and the end of his calculations. He was thinking of his mother, and
only of her; and the feeling within him was as pure, and holy, and
beautiful as the dream of an angel. He wanted to save his mother from
insult in the first place, and from a life of ceaseless drudgery in the
second.

A legion of angels seemed to have encamped in his soul to give him
strength for the great purpos