and on which she could
write checks in payment of her bills.

She consented, and Sammy departed with the money. But at Boston, before
reaching the bank, he traversed the highways and the byways of the big
city, imbibed certain and sundry liquids known to him only by name,
loved his fellow men, and met fellow men of like state of mind, who,
seeing a stranger, took him in.

He was stripped to empty pockets, spent a night in a cell, and only by
the help of another clergyman was he shipped back to Andover with a
letter to the president.

From here he wrote to his mother a garbled account of his adventures;
and, as the president of the college mercifully forbore writing her the
truth, the poor woman merely wept a little, prayed a little, and took
up her burden.

Her parents were old and indigent, unable to more than house her for a
few days at a time. As minister's wife, she had made no friends that
would help her now in a way befitting her position. As for herself,
with only a village education, she could not even teach, even though
able to found a school.

But every mother and daughter, sister and grand-ma'am in the village
was willing to give her work by the day for the mere pleasure of
gloating; and at this work she went bravely.

The sneers and insults she received soon limited her journeyings from
home, and she finally became the village wash-woman. The kitchen of the
house was turned into a laundry, and the big base-burner allowed to
grow cold; for she could not afford two fires.

In her laundry she worked, and in wintertime slept, and only on
Saturdays was she seen on the street, when, with deepening lines in her
face and a growing gray tinge to her hair, she struggled back and forth
with her basket of clothes. But she earned her living, and looked
forward hopefully to the return of her husband and assuredly to the
return of her son, who would care for her.

Sammy only came home on the first vacation; the next three he spent at
the homes of classmates. But at last the four years' course was ended,
and, with nowhere else to go, he appeared, an ordained minister of the
Gospel, but unattached.

The Reverend Samuel Simpson, as we must know him now, was twenty-four
years old, as pale as ever, fatter than ever, with a chin that, because
of the fat, seemed to recede still farther into his neck. His mother
rejoiced over him, was proud of him, and believed that her troubles
were now ended.

The villagers welcom