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The weather grew colder and colder, till the very sea-water was half-solid with spongy ice, and broke crisply on the frozen shore; the north wind howled in the rents and crevices of the lofty cliffs; and the poverty of the hamlet was so great that there was little fire inside to keep its force from being felt. The fishermen said the fever would surely be starved out soon; but it seized on Rob's father next; and the same day that he sickened, the doctor said Mary Goddard was past hope. Mary Goddard had lived alone with the poor boy almost ever since her father's death; for her sister had taken a service, and gone with her master's family to London, and the married brother and his wife did not act a friendly part by her.

Mr. Green was frequently in and out of the cottages during this time of disaster, but he could not effectually relieve the distress; it was too deep and complete. The poor people had been improvident in their times of prosperity, and now all their misfortunes seemed to have come at once, -- fearfully cold weather, illness, and a bad fishing season. He walked down to the little hamlet about an hour after the doctor had paid his visit. There was now one person ill in each of the four cottages; but, cold as it was, smoke was only arising from the chimney of one. He opened Mary Goddard's door. She, unconscious of the cold, lay quietly on her bed, her bright eyes open and glazed with the glitter of approaching death. Little Becca stood over her, fanning her, and feebly crying from sheer hunger and fatigue; and Matt sat by the empty grate, too much overpowered with cold to observe his presence.

"My poor child," he asked of Becca, "is there no firewood?"

Becca shook her head, and sobbed out that the doctor had said, "It was of no consequence; the cold could not hurt Mary now."

"No, she will die; but don't cry so, my dear; she was a good woman, and I believe God will take her to himself. Is there nobody to attend on her but you?"

"Mother's too weak to come out yet;" said the poor little girl; "and father, he came in, and he said I was to stop, and be sure and not to leave her till he came back; but I'm so frightened, and Matt and me, we haven't had any thing to eat."

"Well, I have brought something that you and Matt shall have; here, open my basket, and sit down by Matt, and eat while I fan poor Mary."

Little Becca did as she was bidden; and she and Matt tasted food for the first time that day. In the meantime, Rob's mother came in; and seeing Mary's state, went away, and presently returned with her grown-up daughter.

"It is not much that can be done for her now, poor soul," she remarked to the clergyman; "but she must not be left alone, and my husband being a trifle better this morning, I can leave him for a while."

Matt and Becca were then sent out of the cottage to Becca's house; and there, a bright fire being alight on the hearth, the boy revived, and little Becca had an hour or two of quiet rest.

Becca's mother was getting better; but she was still lying in her bed upstairs, with one of her daughters attending on her. It was now snowing hard, but the wind had somewhat abated, and the sea was calmer than it had been for some days.

Accordingly, the fishermen were preparing to go out in their boats, and everything looked more cheerful than usual. The hope of something being earned revived the spirits of the women; and the men, once occupied, forgot their gloomy fears of the fever.

The two children, thus left alone, sat quietly by the fire; Matt, cowering over the bright flames, recovered his spirits and began to crow the same inarticulate song that he often sang when he was comfortable and had eaten a good dinner. And Becca, who had been roused before daybreak to wait on her mother, and then to go to Mary Goddard, fell quietly asleep before the fire, after watching the thickly-falling flakes of snow.

The little girl, when questioned afterward, said that she thought she might have slept an hour, when, awaking, she found the fire slowly gone out, and Matt earnestly gazing out of the window. The snow was falling faster than ever, and the tide rapidly coming in washed it away at the edge of the waves as fast as it reached the ground. Matt had been told that morning that God would send for his aunt also; but at the time he took little notice, his always torpid faculties being more than ever dull by the cold; but now the warmth of the cottage had done him good, and as Becca mended the fire, he inquired whether his aunt was gone.

Becca did not know. The boy, still gazing upward, said be wanted to go out of doors, and ask the Great God to take him, too. Matt wanted to go away. Becca tried to calm him, but he was urgent in his desire to go out, and at last she was obliged to lock the door. Matt, upon this wept, and begged to be allowed to go out. "Would God never send for poor Matt?" he piteously inquired. "Would not God send for Matt, if Matt begged him very hard? Matt did not wish to stay if his aunt was going away."