The Manchester journal. [volume] (Manchester, Vt.) 1861-current, 1871-06-15

caught sight of me.
. Ohi wbati. tbe malierl Is Little Pearl
deks
One glance at bis white, startled face
convinced me that hope was vain; yeti
cried out angnly; You've got tie child,
Ned, yau haye-loui torture me amy
longer.
Bell, what do YOU meaus
she's gone -- Little Pearl. You stole
her, Ned, 60 frighlen me;
No, on my soul, Bell.
Then she's gone; God has granted me
my wish. Obi my baby nay baby!
/ was rushing past him but he caught
and held me fast, commanding ne to tell
him ali-aud aid. Aud then his after
words thrilled my soul with horror
/ The Indians! the Igdiaus, boys, he
cried, They passed as, you know! They
must have stolen her, Come!
They followed him without a word
and so did l. Over the spongy prairie
mud the chill wind and driving rain beat
ing in our faces. through dense, dripping
woods, down to tie shore of the river
Bat we were too late. God had granted
the my wish. had no babyl
+ Little Pearl coulduot be found, although
Our efforts were ceaselcss. Her crib re.
maiued in It's corner, with the impress Of
her head on Its pillow but tie little, ,Iaugh-
ing face that had looked mp at us from
/ the depths Of the cogerlid was gone for
ever. had ample time to perform all
my household labor then, No little, quiv-
oriug cry to detan me when 1 was busy; !;
no clinging hand holding mine and keep
ing them idle. My wish was granted; !;
/ | had no baby!
The desolate, inconsolable sorrow Of
the days that followed no tongue can por-
tray; the tender longing, the sharp,
singing rcmorse. But we lived and
worked, for life and labor must go on,
no matter how sore aud weary our hearts
may be. At the end Of FIVE years Ned
/ looked around him on the ripe fruition of
his most sauguine hopes. He had built
him up not only home, but name in
this new country. We had pleasant
rooms and luxurious furniture, and birds
and flowers, and all the attributes that 90
to make up happy home. All did |
say? Not alive were childless. Little
/ Pearl had never come back, ard God
had given us no other child to fiji her
place; but we desired no other, our grief
for her loss being dearer and more sacred
| than any new love could have been.
Poor Ned that unfortunate sorrow, to-
gether with his arduous duties, made
him an old man before bis time, the silver
1 threads were thick on his temples, and
II the furrows on his forehead deeply cut I;
when we went back on a visit TO our old
home, the friends Of his youth did not
recognize him. His life had lost its inn
pelling aim and motive.
One night, in the great city, we were
returning from the opera, when voice
startled us.
Please, sir, it said, penny to buy a
| loaf?
1t was mid-wintcr the payemcnts
were glazed with ice, and the countless
stars overhead glttered in the cold, blue
sky like so many points Of steel. / was
dreaming ofmy home in the far West, and
longing for the hour Of my return to
come. A strange feeling Of tenderness
bound me TO the spot where lost my
/ little Pearl. could not bear 10 be away
from it, because ofa foolish fear that she
might come back and not be there to
welcome her,
The slender, pleading voice broke in
upon my reyerie, and glancing out at the
carriage window ! saw 4 small, child
ish figure and tiny hand, blue and stiff
with cold.
Stop the carriage, Ned, shan't close
my eyes tonight if we pass that child.
! My husband started up from his half
doze and obeyed me.
What do you wantY ho asked, kindly,
bending over and taking the child's hand
in his.
I A penny, please, sir, to buy a loaf for
granny; she's sick.
Ned took silver piece from his pocket,
but ! caught his arm before he had
dropped it into the little, waiting hand.
Something in the soft blue eyes, looking
up so pleadingly in the winter starlight,
thrilled my heart to its Utmost core. !
ycarned to clasp the little, shiyering form
to my breast, to stroke back the tangled,
golden hair from the pallid, want.pinched
face.
+ Take her mp, Ned, / entreated: shou
freeze ii We leave her here. We can put
her out wherever she lives"
4 And gO0d-natured Ned, who never de-
nicd me anything in his life, complied.
+ Down dark and unfrequeutcd streets, into
one Of the lowest haunts of vice and poY.
erly; then she guided us up a long flight
Of stairs into a cherries attic. An old
woman lay upon heap Of straw, her face
wearing that cold, grayish hue which is
the unmistakaUle precursor Of death
Have You conner she questioned eager.
ly, az we entered; gi' ne the loaf.
] a good lady aud genlleman's come,
she lisped softly.
T I'm glad yer come, she said, addressing
Ned. I'm goin, you see, and some one
on2hlcr 10 look auer her, pointing to the
child. She's 4 good little Thing; I've bad
her wi me six years come next winter.
She amt mine, though. ! got her from
s squad 0f Indians when my ole man run
a 0atboat down The Mississippi They'd
.t0ic her from some one, aud hFung teg
by our cabin, and she was slch 4 purity
llllIa iLina IAaI ihn Ole man an me .lrnEk