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

and as the sound of her voice was imperfectly heard,
a question was asked from it in suppressed awe-

stricken tones—
"Is the lad dead, Mrs. Gordon? CIA, I hope hs
lives yet! I trust that Heaven will spare him to is
you." ta:
The mother sadly shook her head as she replied— e 1
"My child will not be spared to me, Margaret, for
de
I brought misery and desolation into the home of my ,
own parents, and this is Heaven's vengeance on me. 117:
But my little Grief is not yet gone; he lingers and
to
suffers still, for which I am selfish enough to rejoice."
"Do not speak so despondingly, Mrs. Gordon;
Grief may recover yet, to be a comfort and support
gr
to you in your old age." dr,
The speaker, a girl of about twenty-one years cf w;
age, arose from her own couch and came to the bed-
side of the child. She was not handsome, but there ml
was something truly gentle and sweet in the expres-
sion of her features, and an air of submissive docility
gave an inexpressible softness and charm td. her
pallid face; this was so unnaturally white as to lead
a stranger to marvel at its wanness. If the sun had
never shone upon her she could not have been
more colourless, and this pallor was the more striking
from its contrast with her intensely black_ hair and
_ _

eyes. Yet her health appeared to be good, for her
form was well rounded, and there was no sallow

tinge of sickness in her bloodless complexion.
She examined the face of the boy, felt his pulse,
and then cheerfully said:
"Grief is better, Mrs. Gordon. I though you were
unnecessarily alarmed about him last night; and
after your weary walk in the freezing cold you did not
get a doctor to come to see him."
"I did not try," said the mother, faintly.
"Why, how was that? You would go out, in
spite of my assurances that the freezing night might
seriously injure you, if it did not kill you outright.
What was your object, if it was not to get help for

your child -?"
"When I left this place that was the only thought
In my mind; but when I got out a kind of madness
seized me. I thought it would be useless for one no
bettez than a pauper, with no money, to ask a physician
to leave his house on such a night as the last one was.
For the first time my sense of utter destitution over-
came my pride, and I thought I would beg. I passed
swiftly westward, but it was late, and those I met
passed me by, without heeding the despairing cry that
asked for life for my child. I wandered on until I
came to one of the stately squares of mansions in
which the rich revel, while children of the same
humanity crouch in dens even more loathsome than
this to starve. I hoped in that locality to meet people
returning from some fashionable party, to whom I
might appeal in my desperate need. It was a mad
hope, for the sons and daughters of Mammon are too
prodigal of self-indulgence to have much to bestow in
charity."
"And how did you fare, poor mother ?" softly asked
the girl. The woman went bitterly on—
"My first attempt came very near proving fatal to
me, for as I threw up my arms to attract the notice
of the driver of a splendid carriage, he struck me
violently with his whip, and dashed on, leaving me
prostrate and half senseless in the street."
"Good heavens! can hearts be so cruel? And that
is how your dress came to be stained with mud. What
happened to you then ?"
"A thing so strange that I wonder, now, if it was
not all a dream. Margaret, my quest is ended, and its
solution is despair. The hope that sustained me is
gone. My child will die, and I shall speedily follow
him to the grave, or live to be classed among th 6
miserable creatures who wear out their lives in the
lunatic asylum. My mind cannot bear this tension
much longer."
Margaret sat down beside her, and took her hand;
but it was so icy cold that she dropped it with a
shiver, and drew a coarse shawl she had thrown over
her shoulders more closely around her. She softly
said—
" Tell me what has happened to you—it may lighten
the burden of your poor heart to confide in one who
loves you well."
Mrs. Gordon covered her face with her hands, and
wept bitterly; she at length said—
"No—it matters not now, Margaret. !Things have
changed with me since yesterday. I cannot speak of
what oppresses me with horror. Dark as my fate
seemed but yesterday, a deeper shade of gloom has
been thrown on it by the occurrences of last night.
Oh! would that I•could blot it from my memory, for
then delusive hope might come back to cast a gleam
upon my broken heart. I am afraid my mind was
not perfectly clear when I came to this great hive of
human misery, to seek for one on whom I have
claims that I imagined could not be set aside. I
hoped to find him, and surrender to him the charge
I felt myself becoming unfitted to retain. I have seen
him, Margaret; but I found him not among those who
labour for their daily bread, as I expected; he
evidently belongs to those who revel in wealth, while
we, who should be cherished by him, are left to want
and misery."
"Did you speak to him? Did he refuse to assist:
T' ?" asked Margaret, eagerly.
(To be continued.)