Connecticut western news., 1882-11-08
FROM DARKNESS INTO DAWN
A THANKSGIVING STORY.

How the wind blows It is a Novem- Der gale, driving everything before it as 1t 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 dsembodied 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-squalls, whose every flake driven by the gale becomes point of torment, nothing cheerful is evolved from this fury of the clements.
 She wraps her threadbare cloak the closer about her chilled form as a fercer 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 tinging 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 low, moaning sound tells of suffering and pain. The low 's siving-room 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 instill little warmth into the numbed fingers and frozen body.
 My poor child, to think that you should have to suffer so, and not able to help youl Oh, Amy, my baby, what is to become of us? Did you see MT. Nor. ton, dear?''
 Yes, mamma" and the child's mouth quivers, while the rich blood mantles fact and forehead
 :" And what was his answer p
 He said that if we wanted to go tx the poor-house he would send team fo us, but as for giving us anything now, ht would not do it. D
 "Oh, merciful Heaven, dost tho1 hear ?" murmurs the mother. "But yol are silent, child; did he say anything more ?"
 "Yes."
 What, Amy?"
 !" He said, mamma, that Tom Barton and his family had carried matters with high hand for many years, and now would not hurt them to suffer while and just slammed the door in his fac and started on run for home, and dit not mind the cold bit, was so mad Oh, mother, I wish I could kill him p
 My child, my dear one, you mus not give way so to passion," said Mrs Barton, as the child throws herself dow by her side in whirlwind of sobs an, cries.
 And this can not last much longer The biting cold will prove more mercifu than unfeeling humanity" murmurs tn mother, as the child's passion dies ava into an occasional sob.
 A call from an inner room causes her hasten in that direction, when a lou double knock at the outer door makes he stop and hastily lift the latch, when trimly y-dressed groom, whom she read1 recognizes as the especial servant of Is, bella Leland, daughter of the wealth Squire, whose elegant mansion can | deserted from the farmhouse window steps into the room.
 Gan you tell me where or which wa from here Mr Joseph Smith live ma,an r he inquires, touching his ha