What should
I do? Where was my mother? She was the only one in the world whom I
cared for or who loved me. She was gone, it was night, I was alone and
hungry and cold and lost. Perhaps some of the neighbors might know where
John Rucker had taken my mother--this thought came to me only after I
had sat there until every house was dark. The people had all gone to
bed. I tried to think of some neighbor to whom my mother might have told
her destination when she moved; but I could recall none of that sort.
She had been too unhappy, here in Tempe, to make friends. So I sat there
shivering until morning, unwilling to go away, altogether bewildered,
quite at my wits' end, steeped in despair. The world seemed too hard and
tough for me.
In the morning I asked at every house if the people knew Mrs. Rucker,
and where she had gone, but got no help. One woman knew her, and had
employed her as a seamstress; but had found the house vacant the last
time she had sent her work.
"Is she a relative of yours?" she asked.
"She is my--" I remember I stopped here and looked away a long time
before I could finish the reply, "She is my mother."
"And where were you, my poor boy," said she, "when she moved?"
"I was away at work," I replied.
"Well," said she, "she left word for you somewhere, you may be sure of
that. Where did you stay last night?"
"I sat under a tree," said I, "in the yard--up where we used to live."
"And where did you get breakfast?" she asked.
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