News and citizen. [volume] (Morrisville, Vt. ;) 1881-current, 1882-11-23
FROM DARKNESS INTO DAWN
A THANKSGIVING STORY.

it sweeps across the bleak hilltop, on
which little red farmhouse crouches, as
if trying to shield itself from the fury of
the nipping wind.
just off there to the east strip of gray
light shows that the heavy, dull roar, as
of millions of disembodied spirits bewail-
ing their doom, comes from the great,
surging Atlantic, which under the
Influence of the sweeping Northwestern
piles the spray high up on the beach
and rocky points.
To one well protected from this attack
of the elements by soft, warm clothing,
the contact with the fierce wind king, as
he comes driving across this bare hilltop.
would bring more of pleasure than of
pain; but to the child who struggles
along through stinging snow-squaIls.
whose every flake driven by the gale
becomes a point of torment, nothing
cheerful is evolved from this fury of the
elements.
She wraps her threadbare cloak the
closer about her chilled form as a fiercer
blast than usual curdles the very blood in
her veins, and presses on up the lane
leading to the farmhouse door.
Reaching it, she presses the latch and
enters.
No rush of warm air springs to meet
her and bring the fresh color in tingline
currents to the pinched face.
No glowing hearth or radiating stove
fills the room with the comforts of its
presence. The picture is all one of
bleakness and desolation.
In an adjoining room a low, moaning
sound tells of suffering and pain. The
low ''livingroom Is as clean and neat
as hands can make it, and the thin,
patched dress, which so lily protects the
form of the elderly woman sitting quietly
by the table, is neat, and with some
pretensions TO former comfort.
She arises as the child enters the door,
and taking the chilled form in her own
arms, seeks to instiI a little warmth into
the numbed fingers and frozen body.
My poor child, to- think that you
should have to suffer so, and 1 not able to
help youl Oh, Amy, my baby, what is
to become of US? Did you see Mr.. Nor
ton, dear?"
Sc Yes, mamma" and the child's mouth |
quivers, while the rich blood mantles face
and forehead
g And what was his answer %
g He said that if we wanted to go to |
the poor-house he would send team for
us, but as for giving US anything now, he
would not do it"
"Oh, merciful Heaven, dost thou |
hear ?" murmurs the mother. "But yos1
are silent, child; did he say anything
more 2"
eyes"
What, Amy?"
g He said, mamma, that Tom Barton
and his family had carried matters with a
high hand for many years, and now it
would not hurt them to suffer a while.
and | just slammed the door in his face
and started on a run for home, and did
not mind the cold bit, was so mad.
Oh, mother, 1 wish 1 could kill him i''
My child, my dear one, you must
not give way so to passion" said Mrs.
Barton, as the child throws herself down
by her side in whirlwind of sobs and
cries.
And this can not last much longer.
The biting cold will prove more merciful
than unfeeling humanity" murmurs the
mother, as the child's passion dies awar
into an occasional sob.
A call from an inner room causes her to
hasten in that direction, when a loud
double knock at the outer door makes her
stop and hastily lift the5 latch, when a
mly-dressed groom, whom she readily
recognizes as the especial servant of Isa-
bella Leland, daughter of the wealthy
Squire, whose elegant mansion can be
deserted from the farmhouse window,
steps into the room.
''Can you tell me where or which way
from here Mr.. Joseph Smith lives.
ma'am? % he inquiries, touching his hat.
Even as he is receiving the desired in
formation, the mans eyes quietly take in
the cherries room and its occupants, and
noting the half-frozen look upon the faces
Of the woman and child, James, being an
sensible specimen of his kind, I
S now slow in forming his conclusions.
Thanking the matrOn for her informa-
ion, he withdraws, and if either of the 1
occupants were curious enough | {
o follow his movements they might see a l
'ay horse going at a mad gait down the
Dad where it comes out from under the Il
hadows of the hill, and off in the direc- r
ion of the Leland manor. n
The day wears slowly on, the fierce
ale still continues, and through innu- b
lerable cracks and crevices creeps into a
iH1aolnas Barton lays still and cold in n
ne little bedroom, his breath, coming b
cruel gasps, while beside his bed sit G
mother and daughter, helpless to assist a
I'M, the unbidden tears flowing silently
own their pinched and hollow cheeks. f
Yet this is Thanksgiving day. The b
bought comes with a startling distinct Fl
ess to the mind of the mother as, in il
lancing around the little room, her eyes il
Ill upon picture of a handsome young {
GLOW, dressed in sailor costume. which &
angs ON the wall at the foot of the bed. "
To-day he was to have returned. but a
ne angry waves have swallowed up both al
mp and her gallant crew, while grasping il
surers and bad seasons have reduced the Ii
a farmhouse and its occupants to this. N
1t must not be; your father must not ia
e SO, Amy. Remain here by his side.
nd L Will hasten to the village for relief. m
can not be so hard-hearted as Cvrus sc
orton. Some one will hear my prayers. F." in
Hurriedly wrapping herself in the worn w
lawl and hood, Mrs. Barton is about
start forth, when a sharp rattle of
wheels is heard outside, and a minute w
ter gentle knock comes at the door
lowed by lifting of the latch, and fa
ing lady, warmly wrapped in furs, and fa-
light and rosy from a brush with the b
nth wind, steps into the room, followed ha
man bearing two huge baskets, from gi,
tops of which project certain sulspi- an
us 1ecks of bottles, while soft aroma mi