"You are very right and prudent, Mrs. Newton, but never mind that; I
have not forgotten my little flower-girl, and her race after me that
hot morning; if you were dead, I would take care of her; and if we both
were dead, Mrs. Walton would take care of her; and if Mrs. Walton were
dead, God would take care of her. I see you cannot yet learn the little
lines she is so fond of--
"'Mortals flee from doubt and sorrow,
God provideth for the morrow.'"
Well, not very long after this conversation came a very warm day, and
in all the heat of the sun came Mr. Walton, scarcely able to breathe,
into Mrs. Newton's cottage; he was carrying his hat in one hand, and a
newspaper in the other, and his face was very red and hot.
"Well, Mrs. Newton," said he, "what is all this about?--I can't make it
out; here is your name in the paper!"
"My name, sir!" said Mrs. Newton, staring at the paper.
"Aye, indeed is it," said Mr. Walton, putting on his spectacles, and
opening the paper at the advertisement side,--"see here!"