anticipations for the future; the old—equally happy as the young, and revelling in many a darling memory of the past.
"Come, Uncle John!" said a bright-eyed, flaxen-haired beauty, over whose head not more than ten Christmas days had passed—"Come, uncle, do tell us a story; you know that we always expect one from you."
"Well, my pretty little niece," he replied, "I fear that I have exhausted all my store of ghosts and hobgoblins, and if I tell you a story now, it must be from the cold, stern world of fact, which, I fear, will be less interesting to you than the romantic fictions I have rehearsed on former occasions."
"Oh dear, no! tell us a story, a true story—we shall be all the more delighted to know that we are listening to an account of what has really occurred. Do begin at once, please".
Knocking the ashes from the bowl of his pipe, and having carefully reared it against the hob, he commenced:—
"The factory bells had just ceased ringing, and the whistles had given out their last shrieks, like the expiring yells of some agonized demon, as the old church clock drowsily tolled the hour of six, on one of the most miserable of December mornings. High on a bleak hill stood a little whitewashed cottage, from the door of which issued two children, apparently about ten years of age. As they stept into the cold morning air they shuddered, and drew their scanty garments closer around them.
"Nah, yo'll ha' to luk sharp! yond's th' last whew!—yo've nobbut fifteen minutes," cried a voice from within.
It was with great difficulty that the little couple succeeded in reaching the high road, for the ground was covered with ice, on which a continual sleet fell, and the wind, in fitful blasts, howled about them, threatening at almost every step to overthrow them. But they had no time to think of these things; slipping and running, giving each other all the aid in their power, they pressed on in the direction of the factory—the fear of being too late over-whelming every other consideration.
"Come on, Susy!" said the little lad, whom we should take to be the older of the two. "Come on, we shall niver be thear i' time; come on! stand up! tha hasn't hurt thi, has ta?" he said, as she fell for the third time upon the slippery pavement.
Tenderly he helped her to rise, but poor Susy had hurt herself, and although she strove to keep back her tears and smother her sobs, Tom saw that she had sustained a severe injury.
"Whisht!" he said, "tha munnot cry; whear ar ta hurt? Come, lain o' me, an' aw'l hug thi basket."
"O, Tom, aw've hurt mi leg—aw cannot bide to goa any farther; tha'd better leave me, for aw'm sure we'st be too lat."
"Happen net—tha'll be better in a bit—put thi arm raand mi shoulder, tha'rt nobbut leet; aw could ommost hug thi if it worn't soa slippy. Sup o' this tea, si thee, it's warm yet, an' then tha'll feel better: an' if we are a bit too lat, aw should think they'll let us in this mornin'."
Susy drank of the tea, and, revived by its warmth, she made another attempt to pursue her way. But it was slow work; Tom did his best to help her, and tried to cheer her as well as he could, though now an' then a tear fell silently from his eyes, for his little fingers were numbed with cold, and he felt the rain had already penetrated to his skin, and the dreadful prospect of being late, and having to remain in the cold for two hours, was in itself sufficient to strike dread into the heart of one older and stronger than he. Even the watchman as he passed, turned his light upon them for a moment, and sighed. It was no business of his—but under his waterproof cape there beat a father's heart, and he murmured as he paced the solitary street, "Thank God, they arn't mine."
But we must leave them to pursue as best they can, their miserable way, whilst we return to have a glance at the occupants of the cottage from which we saw them start. It is a one storied building, with but one room and a small out-kitchen; in one corner is a bed, on which is laid a pale, emaciated young man, to all appearance not yet thirty years of age: he is asleep, but from the quick short breath, it is not difficult to infer that his best days are over. In another corner, a number of boxes are arranged so as to extemporize a bed, now unoccupied, but from which the two little factory-workers have but lately arisen. A jug of herb tea is on the table. The fire is very low, and the light from it is only sufficient to render all indistinctly visible. In a chair opposite is a young woman with such a mournful, careworn face, that a glance inspires you with sorrow; and from a bundle of clothes on her knee issues the fretful wail of a restless child. The monotonous tick of an old clock is the only sound, saving the longdrawn sigh of that young mother, or the quick, hollow breathing of the sleeping man. Now and then the wind whistles more shrilly through the crevices of the door, and the rain beats with greater force against the little window. The mother draws still nearer to the few red embers, and turns a timid glance to the window and then to the bed: another sigh, and then the overburdened heart overflows at her eyes, and the large bright drops fall quickly on that dearly loved infant.
The church clock chimes a quarter after six—this rouses the mother once more to set aside her own griefs; the wind still howls, and the rain beats with unabated fury against the glass: her thoughts are of those little ones, and a tremor passes over her as she fears lest they should be shut out. The man moves wearily in his bed, and opening his eyes, he looks towards his wife. She is at his side in an instant.
"Have they gooan, Bessy?" he asks.
"Eea, they've gooan, an' aw hooap ther thear before nah."
"It saands vary wild. We ne'er thowt it ud come to this twelve year sin, Bess—an' it's all along o' me!"
"Nay, Jim, tha munnot say soa—tha knows we can nooan on us help bein poorly sometimes, but when spring comes tha'll pick up thi crumbs agean, an' things 'll be different."
"That's true, lass—aw feel that's true—things will be different when spring comes, an' afoor it comes, aw'm feeard. Has ta iver been i' bed to-neet?"
"Nay, aw couldn't come to bed, 'coss th' child wor cross, but aw've slept a bit i' th' cheer: dooant thee bother, aw'l look after mi sen. Will ta have a sup o' this teah?"
"Whisht!" he said, "that's awr Susy callin, aw'm sure it is! Oppen th' door!"
She flew to oppen th' door, and the storm rushed in with fury; the snow had begun to fall thickly: she strained her eyes and called, "Susy! Susy!" but she heard no response: yet her heart misgave her, for the thoughts of her darlings being exposed to such a storm made her shudder; but necessity knows no law, and on the slender earnings of these two children depended the subsistence of herself and husband.
"Aw think tha wor mistakken, Jim: aw con see nowt," she said, as she returned and closed the door.
"Well, happen aw wor; but it's a sorry mornin to turn aght two little lambs like them. Bessy," he said, lowering his voice to a whisper, "aw know aw'm i'th' gate—aw con do nowt but lig i' bed, an' aw know 'at thee an' th' childer have to goa short mony a time for what aw get, but it willn't be for long. Dooant rooar! tha knows it's summat 'at we've nowt to do wi; an' tha heeard what th' parson said, 'Ther's One aboon at 'll work all things together for gooid,' an' aw feel my time's commin' varry near; but aw'm nooan freetened like aw used to be; aw think it's gooin to be a change for th' better—an' He'll luk after thee an' th' little ens."
"O! Jim! tha munnot talk abaght leavin us yet; tha'll be better in a bit."
"Niver i' this world, Bessy! Come, put thi heead o' th' pillow here beside me, aw think aw want to rest."
She placed the little babe upon the coverlet, laid her head upon the pillow, and worn out with watching, she wept herself asleep.
