The poor "sunshine of the poor" was happy: life was sweet to her. To know
whether this is so, it is useless to inquire of the backbone or the
limbs: look at the face! She lay at her window in the kindred sunshine,
and in a world of sturdy, able, agile cursers, grumblers, and yawners,
her face, pale its ashes, wore the eternal sunshine of a happy, holy
smile.
But there came one to her bedside and told her the bank was broken, and
all the money gone she and her sisters had lent Mr. Hardie.
The saint clasped her hands and said, "Oh, my poor people! What will
become of them?" And the tears ran down her pale and now sorrowful
cheeks.
At this time she did not know the full extent of their losses. But they
had given Mr. Hardie a power of attorney to draw out all their consols.
That remorseless man had abused the discretion this gave him, and
beggared them--they were his personal friends, too--to swell his secret
hoard.
When "the sunshine of the poor" heard this, and knew that she was now the
poorest of the poor, she clasped her hands and cried, "Oh, my poor
sisters! my poor sisters!" and she could work no more for sighing.
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