While All The Gossip World Was Thus Filled With Talk And Rumor, Poor
Wolfert Lay Sick And Sorrowful In His Bed, Bruised In Body And Sorely
Beaten Down In Mind.
His wife and daughter did all they could to bind
up his wounds both corporal and spiritual.
The good old dame never
stirred from his bedside, where she sat knitting from morning till
night; while his daughter busied herself about him with the fondest
care. Nor did they lack assistance from abroad. Whatever may be said of
the desertions of friends in distress, they had no complaint of the
kind to make. Not an old wife of the neighborhood but abandoned her
work to crowd to the mansion of Wolfert Webber, inquire after his
health and the particulars of his story. Not one came, moreover,
without her little pipkin of pennyroyal, sage, balm, or other herb-tea,
delighted at an opportunity of signalizing her kindness and her
doctorship. What drenchings did not the poor Wolfert undergo, and all
in vain. It was a moving sight to behold him wasting away day by day;
growing thinner and thinner and ghastlier and ghastlier, and staring
with rueful visage from under an old patchwork counterpane upon the
jury of matrons kindly assembled to sigh and groan and look unhappy
around him.
Dirk Waldron was the only being that seemed to shed a ray of sunshine
into this house of mourning. He came in with cheery look and manly
spirit, and tried to reanimate the expiring heart of the poor
money-digger, but it was all in vain.
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