"
"Pearson orter; he's a Unioner."
"S'pose we try him; 'tain't so bery fur off."
* * * * * * *
On the morning of the 24th of December, Mrs. Anson Marlow sat in
the living-room of her cottage, that stood well out in the suburbs
of a Northern town. Her eyes were hollow and full of trouble that
seemed almost beyond tears, and the bare room, that had been
stripped of nearly every appliance and suggestion of comfort, but
too plainly indicated one of the causes. Want was stamped on her
thin face, that once had been so full and pretty; poverty in its
bitter extremity was unmistakably shown by the uncarpeted floor,
the meagre fire, and scanty furniture. It was a period of
depression; work had been scarce, and much of the time she had
been too ill and feeble to do more than care for her children.
Away back in August her resources had been running low; but she
had daily expected the long arrears of pay which her husband would
receive as soon as the exigencies of the campaign permitted.
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