Many a time has her flesh been blue with the mark
of his hand when she has stepped in between her helpless mother and
violence. Many a time has she sat upon the cold curbstone with his
head in her lap; many a time known how bitter it was to cry for
hunger, when the money that should have bought bread was spent for
rum.
And the patience that the angel wrought with made her young face
shine, so that, though never acknowledged in the courts of this
world, in the kingdom of heaven she was waited for by assembled
hosts of spirits, and the crown of martyrdom ready, lay waiting for
her young brow.
And she was a martyr. Her gentle spirit went up from at couch of
anguish--anguish brought on by ill-usage and neglect. And never till
then did the father recognise the angel in the child; never till
then did his manhood arise from the dust of its dishonour. From her
humble grave, he went away to steep his resolves for the better in
bitter tears; and he will tell you to-day, how the memory of her
much-enduring life keeps him from the bowl: how he goes sometimes
and stands where her patient hands have held him, while her cheek
crimsoned at the sneers of those who scoffed at the drunkard's
child.
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