with the descending rain, ended the purposeless and miserable life of one who aided in rending the heart-strings of a family unknown to him, and in outraging the feelings of the civilised world. So swiftly did retribution come upon his companion, that not one word escaped his lips: no message to his family – no confession of his terrible crimes – no prayer was he permitted to utter: suddenly, as by the stroke of lightning, was his soul ushered into eternity. Surely "the way of the transgressor is hard."'
That there might be no doubt about the identity of the two bodies, Walter Ross was sent for. He recognised one as having been the man who drove the wagon, and the other as having given him money to buy the crackers. Others identified them as the men who had been seen driving away with the children. There could therefore be no doubt that William Mosher and Joseph Douglas were the real abductors of Charley Ross. The discovery was so far satisfactory; but where was the lost child? Mosher's wife was hunted up and questioned on the subject. 'She said her husband had told her that the child had been placed with an old man and woman, and was well cared for, but she did not know who were his keepers, or where he lived.' Disappointed in getting any useful information in this quarter, Mrs Ross's brothers offered by advertisement a reward of five thousand dollars for the return of the child within ten days. The child was not returned, and instead of any useful information on the subject, there was a repetition of miserable attempts at fraudulent extortion. At the same time, circumstances were elicited regarding the career of the deceased culprits Mosher and Douglas. It was ascertained that a person named William Westervelt, a brother of Mosher's wife, and a notorious associate of thieves, was concerned in the abduction. He, in fact, had been the confederate who posted the letters and otherwise assisted the two thieves. In September 1875, he was tried for being engaged with others in abducting and concealing the child; and being found guilty, he was sentenced to pay a fine of one dollar, the cost of the prosecution, and to undergo an imprisonment of solitary confinement for the term of seven years.
In the course of the trial, no fact was elicited respecting the place of detention of the child. From the day he was stolen, July 1, 1874, till the present time, not a word has been heard of him. His distressed parents exist only in hope that he is still in the land of the living, and may yet be restored to them. If alive, he will now be about seven years of age. It would afford us immeasurable satisfaction if Chambers's Journal, which penetrates into all English-speaking quarters in the American continent, should happily help to recover the child who was lost, the helpless little boy, Charley Ross.
THE LAST OF THE HADDONS
I stood for a few moments watching my strange new acquaintance, rapidly widening the distance between us, then turned thoughtfully homewards again. The story I had just heard had given me something to think of besides my own happiness. Although poor Nancy might be a little too ready to rebel, how hard things had been for her! How much did I, and all women blessed as I, owe to such as Nancy. Well, there would be Philip to help me by-and-by. Surely we two might be able to do something, I thought, my cheeks uncomfortably hot with the consciousness that the existence I had been dreaming of savoured too much of ease and sunshine for two people who professed to desire the highest life. Robert Wentworth would tell me that, and so of course would Philip; and I was glad also to realise, as I did just then, that continued ease and sunshine would pall quite as much upon me as upon either of them. 'I was not to the manner born.'
I had reached the stile, and was absently stepping down on the other side of it, as I afterwards found, stepping so wide of the lower step as to involve an ignominious descent, when I was gently lifted on to terra firma by two strong arms.
'What makes you so careless to-night?' said Robert Wentworth.
'It was stupid,' I replied, realising the position; and adding: 'In truth, my thoughts were wool-gathering; and I had forgotten where I was.'
'Rather an awkward moment for forgetting where you were; wasn't it?'
'No; yes – yes; of course it was stupid,' I repeated.
'You are not generally so ready to plead guilty as that,' he replied smilingly. 'What makes you so preternaturally meek to-night? Have you just come off second-best in a wordy war with old Jemmy Rodgers?' Bending down to get a better look into my face, he went on with quite another tone and manner: 'What has happened, Mary?'
'Happened?' I repeated, hesitatingly. But why should I not tell him? I presently asked myself. He knew that Philip was expected, and that we were to be married; he knew that I loved Philip; and why should I any longer act like a foolish girl about it? So after a moment or two, I went on: 'That which you asked to be allowed to speak of in three months may be spoken now, if you will.'
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