The Stourbridge Observer, Cradley Heath, Halesowen & District Chronicle.
Stourbridge, West Midlands, England, 1888-03-10 00:00:00

Madeline tried to smile on him, as she replied—

"Never mind now about that. I have -discovered
a new means of making money. I have something
here I have only just thought of, which, I hope, will
be worth much to me. And she held out a worn port-
folio which she had taken from the bottom of her
box.

Grief half smiled; he asked—
"Are you going to sell my pretty poems, mother?
Take those you wrote for me, and maybe some one
else may think them as beautiful as I do. Oh! how
much I.should like to see them printed for everybody
to read."
"That's where, I hope, you'll soon see them," said
Margaret.
Madeline opened the leaves of the portfolio, and
looked over its contents. She selected two prose
sketches, and four short poems, which she considered
among the best, and then, with a beating heart, pre-
pared to go out on her errand. Margaret brushed the
mud from her black dress, and wrapped her own
shawl around her—a worn but heavy woollen one,
which had more warmth in it than that belonging to
her friend. Promising to take every care of the sick
boy, the mother and daughter sent her forth, with
many fervent wishes for her success.
Nerving herself to the task before her, by the
thought of her suffering child, Madeline walked
rapidly until she came to a street in which there were
several printing offices, from which she knew popular
literary papers were issued. Should she offer her
productions there or would they be more suitable
for a magazine ? was the question debated in her
mind. Feeling as if the walk would re-animate hex
waning courage, she decided in favour of the magazine,
and cautiously picked her way over the icy pave-
ments, through the streets leading to an extensive
publishing establishment.
We will not follow her efforts in detail, nor will we
catalogue her disappointments and humiliations.
Suffice it to say, that she at last found an apprecia-
tive purchaser of her productions, and received a not
illiberal compensation, together with cheering words
of encouragement. As the manager handed her the
money for her pieces, he said—
"These contributions will fill three columns of our
paper, and I have given you the price we pay to our
best contributors. It is not usual to give so much
to an unknown writer, but your pieces have un-
common merit, and if you continue to produce such
good work you may probably soon command the
highest remuneration."
A flash of joy gleamed a brief moment upon her ex-
pressive face, but it immediately faded into.hopeless-
ners as she said—

"I have no such hope—no such aspiration now. To
smooth the way to a child's grave, and find means to
lay myself beside him, is the utmost limit of my
wishes. I thank you, sir, for your kindness! it has
lightened my heart of a heavy load."
She passed quickly out, and with hurried gteps
proem:tea toward tile dreary place she called home.
Going a little out of her way for that purpose, she
came to the shop of an old woman who sold fruit,
from her Grief had often been in the habit of buying
apples and oranges as long as his health lasted, and
his mother's means could compass such indulgencies.
"Is it grapes you want ?" she asked in a doubtful
tone. "They be scarce and high—very high at this
season."
" I know it, but they are for a sick person, and I
must have seine at any cost.'
The old woman peered into her face, and remem-
bered her. She quickly said:
"I hope it's not the pretty lad that used to buy from
me, that is down with sickness ?"
"Yes it is my little son for whom I want the
fruit."

"Oh, then, dear, you shall have them as cheap as I
can possibly afford it, for he was a bright-spoken
boy as ever I saw. Not much the matter with him, I
hope ?"
" Not much," replied the mother, vaguely. " Only
an early summons to heaven. God wants him
among his angels, and I shall not keep him much
longer."
The old fruit-seller gazed at her with an expression
of compassionate surprise. She dived into a basket
whith -was kept carefully covered, and drew forth
two bunches of nice grapes.
"There," she said, "take one to the sick lad, and
tell him who sent it to him. The other bunch you
can have for a shilling, and much good may they do
the poor fellow."
"But I have money to pay for both., Hero are two
shillings."
"No—by your leave. lam well enough to do in
my little way. Take the grapes, and tell the lad I
only want him to come himself and I'll freely give
him more, if I have them or can get them, to see him
in health again."
The mother sighed heavily.
"That will never be. I know now that whsn he
comes forth into the streets again, his hands will be
folded upon all earthly work', and the cold, will no
longer have power to chill him—the pitiless- cold that
is sapping his young life away."
Madeline was now speaking more to herself than to
the fruit-seller, and she mechanically walked away to
a wine-merchant's, where she purchased a bottle of
port, and hurried on. She had been absent three
hours, and in that time her child might be worsehe
, !lad no thought for the effect of the stinging cold

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upon herself—her mind was solely occupied with
him, and what she could do to alleviate jlis suffering,
and cheer the brief remnant of life yet left to him.
But yesterday she had prayed for his restoration—
to-day no such prayer came to her lips; for now she
felt that he would probably be regarded as an un-
welcome intruder in the home of that father to whom
she had desired to give him, before she herself became
unfitted to take care of him. What refuge, then,
could there be for Grief, save that grave which opened
its sheltering arms to snatch him from penury and
temptation, ere the tension on her own heart and brain
caused a cord to snap which would class her among
those she shuddered to think of as her future coin
panion s.
Madeline knew that she had once already suffered
from a distressing and dangerous species of melancholia;
and with sad prescience she foresaw the doom that
awaited her, unless her heart should break over the
fate of her perishing child. But a broken heart does
not always destroy the frame that enshrines it, though
it may shatter the life which tunes the spirit to
harmonious action, and send the stricken soul a sad
wanderer amid the unreal phantoms of the maniac's
unrest.

When she again entered the dim room, she found
Grief lying in a half slumber, while Margaret crooned
a low song to him, keeping time with the motions of
her fingers over a small pillow covered with green
silk, on which a delicate lace collar was nearly com-
pleted. Her mother was placed in a largo chair near
the scanty fire, knitting and assorting her colours
with a rapidity and accuracy that was surprising.
As Madeline entered, Margaret looked with a joyful
smile, and softly said—
"l see by your face that you have been successful,
and Grief has been so patient; you can't think how
much credit he deserves."
At the sound of her voice, the child aroused himself
and looked eagerly towards his mother.
(To be continued.)