Connecticut western news., 1879-11-05
A London Picture.
BY CHARLES DICKENS,

They were young lad of eighteen or nineteen, and his mother, a lady of about fifty, or it might be less. The mother wore widows weeds, and the boy was also clothed in deep mourning. They were poor-very poor for their only means of support arose from the plftance the boy earned, by copying writings, and translating for booksellers
 They had removed from some country place and settled in London partly be- cause 1t afforded better chances of en- ployment for the boy, and partly, per- haps, with the natural desire to leave a place where they had been in better cir cumstances, and where their poverty was known. They were proud under their reverses, and above revealing their wants and privations to strangers, How
 bitter those privations were, and how hard the boy worked to remove them. no one ever knew but themselves. Night after night, two, three, four hours after midnight, could we hear the occasional raking up of the scanty fire, or the hol- low and half-stiAed cough, which indi. cated his being still at work; and day after day, could we see more plainly that nature had set that unearthly light in his plaintive face, which is the beacon of her worst disease.
 Actuared, we hope, by higher feel ing than mere curiosity, we oontrived to establish, first an acquaintance, and then close intimacy, with the poor strangers. Our worst fears were real ized; the boy was sinking fast. Through part of the winter, and the whole of the following spring and summer, his Iabors were unceasingly prolonged and the mother attempted to procure needle work embroidery-anything for bread. A few shillings now and then, were all she could earn. The boy worked steadily on; dying by minutes, but never once giving utterance to complaint or murmur.
 One beautiful autumn evening we went to pay our customary visit to the invalid. His little remaining strength had been decreasing rapidly for two or three days preceding, and he was lying on the sofa at the open window, gazing at the setting sun. His mother had been reading the Bible to him, for she closed the book as we entered, and ad- vanced to meet us.
 " I was telling William," she said, "that we must manage to take him into the country somewhere, so that he may get quite well. He is not i'll, you know, but he IS not very strong and has ex- erted himself too much lately" Poor thing The tears that streamed through her fingers, as she turned aside, as if to adjust her close widows cap, too plain ly showed how fruitless was the attempt to deceive herself.
 We sat down at the head of the sofa. but said nothing, for we saw the breath Of life was passing gently but rapidly from heyoung form before us. At every respiration his heart beat more slowly,
 The boy placed one hand in ours. his mother arm with the other. drew her hastily towards him, and fer vently kissed her cheek. There was 8 pause. He sank back upon his pillow, and looked long and earnestly into his face,
 " William, William" murmured the mother, after long interval, "don't look at me so-speak to me, dear p
 The boy smiled languidl y, but an in- 'tant afterwards his features resolved nto the same cold, solemn gaze.
 William, dear William rouse your- 'ef, dear, don't look at me so, love pray don't! Oh, my God what shall I o!' cried the widow, olasping her lands in agony" my dear boy he is lyingp
 The boy raised himself by violent 'tfort, and folded his hands together Mother, dear, dear mother, bury me n the open felds-anywhere but in these treadful streets. I should like to be where you can see my grave, but not in hese close crowded streets they have filled me; kiss me again, mother put 7our arm round my neck
 He fell back, and strange expres- ion stole upon his features not of pain 'r suffering, but an indescribable fixing 'f every line and muscle.
 The boy was dead.