upshot of it was, that the Squire persuaded him to take his note—
"That's a very likely story," said Mrs. Wilson impatiently interrupting the narrative—"I don't believe one word of it."
"Well, ma'am," replied Mrs. Winthrop, "I have that must convince you;" and she took from an old pocket book a small piece of paper, and handed it to Mrs. Wilson—"there is the identical note, ma'am, you can satisfy yourself."
Jane cast her eye on the slip of paper in her aunt's hand; it was but too plainly written in her father's large and singular character. Mrs. Wilson coldly returned it, saying, in a moderated tone, "It is as good to you now as a piece of white paper."
"Then I have nothing in this world," said the poor woman, bursting into tears, "but my poor, sick, destitute children."
"How came you in such a destitute condition?" inquired Mrs. Wilson, who, now that she saw the woman had no direct claim on her, was willing to hear her story.
"Oh," answered the poor creature, it seemed as if every thing went cross-grained with us. There was never a couple went into the new countries with fairer prospects; Rufus had tugged every way to save enough to buy him a small farm. When we got to Buffalo, we struck down south, and settled just on the edge of Lake Erie. We had a yoke of oxen, but one of them was pretty much beat out on the road, and died the very day
