Clarksville weekly chronicle. (Clarksville, Tenn.) 1873-1890, 1882-01-28
WHOLE NO. 2,4O7.

said the deputy was drunk and for
! got his duties.
Where do you live?"
The woman told him. 1t was a
common lodging-hOuse in West
ern slum-a Wretched den, where
the poorest OF the poor lodge by the
day, and where the rents are col
iected on the fixed principle Of-ro
money, out you go.
"What do you pay"
'Eightpence night"
"And you've got shilling. That
don't leave much for tO-morrow's
dinner"
The man fumbled in his pocket
a moment, and drew out half
J crown.
Here, missus, / amt often took
like this, but I've had some good
tips this Christmas, helpin' gents up
to their front doors, and that sort of
thing. You can give it me next
time see you"
The policeman pushed the half
crown into the woman's hand, and,
| before she could recover from her
astonishment, had shuffied of,
blushing to the roots of his hair,
and feeling almost ashamed of him
self.
The tears sprang to the woman's
eyes. She was thankful, and yet
the charity of the kindly policeman
only brought home to her more
vividly than ever the utter misery
into which she had sunk.
She watched the policeman till
he was out of sight, half inclined to
run after him and give him his
money back; then, taking her
child's hand, made her way as fast
as her weak limbs would carry her
across the bridge.
A long walk lay before the weary
woman and her little child, but
there was shelter at the end of the
Journey. She had the money to
pay for the four bare walls which
would hide her misery from the
world, and she could throw herself
down in the Wretched den and,
with her child in her arms, sleep,
and, for little while, forget.
So, through the deserted streets,
making their way to the low lodg-
ing-house at the West End, went
mother and child that Christmas
night.
1t was Christmas night in a great
house at the West. Midnight had
struck, but in the neighbOrhood
houses the windows were bright
with many lights, and the sound Of
music and song and of merry
laughter fioated now and again
across the night.
In the great mansions of the West,
as in the lowlier dwellings of the
poor, the honOred customs of Yule-
tide were kept, and the season of
gladness found its echo in many
jaded heart.
But in one great house silence
reigned. No music, no laughter,
echoed through the gloomy rooms,
and in all save one the lights were
out.
Frank Redgrave-Lord Redgrave
now, for his father had been dead
a year-sat in the great dining
room looking into the glowing en-
bers of the fire. his thoughts far
away. His mother, her handsome
face reflex of the sadness upon
her sons, sat opposite to him, but
neitherspoke. He had been spend
ing the Christmas day with her,
Both felt that the Christmas wish
their lips had uttered in the morn
ing had been hollow mockery.
A merry Christmas.
''Merry ~ The great sorrow of
Frank Redgra YES life had been the
death of his young wife. He had
been rescued from the heels of the
mob to be for days unconscious, to
recover and learn that among the
charred and mutilated bodies burnt
beyond all recognition on the night
of the fearful fire must have been
that Of his young bride. He had
left her in the theater and she had
never been seen since. Many of the
corpses were unacceptable. His
poor wife was among them.
To the terrible agony which fol-
lowed this discovery was added
another. His mother, who came to
nurse him, her heart relenting,
sobbed out the cruel story of that
last interview.
His Nellie had perished, believ-
ing that she had marred his life,
with his mothers harsh words ring |
ing in her dying ears.
naughty woman wept beside him,
/ will forgive can never forget"
The years had come and gone,
but Frank Redgrave had not for
gotten. His boyish love had been
sincere. He had given his whole |
heart, and his sorrow would be life |
long.
1t was nearly six years this
Christmas day since his poor lost |
darling died that dreadful death,
and yet it seemed to him as but
yesterday. ...
AS mother and son sat by the fire
in the great dining-room the
thoughts Of each were drifting to the
same goal.
Frank broke the silence first.
"Mother," he said, "do you never
think how different things might |
have been had she had lived You |
would have come to love her in |
time as l did-to know what a true,
noble-hearted girl she was--how
WOEliiy w DC yOul hcluS SIltSl'
Lady Redgrave answered her son
gently. It did him good to talk of
the lost one, and she encouraged
him, though often his words wrung
her heart.
They talked on. He pictured
her i'm his fancy there. Perhaps
who knows ?-there might have
been a little baby with them to put |
up its baby face and kiss grand
mama.
"But that can never be now" he |
sighed, "Oh, mother, mother, I'd /
give all the wealth, all the blessings
which are mine, and which hun
dreds would envy, to have my poor
Nellie, sitting opposite me tonight
Lady Redgrave watched her son
anxiously. His constant nervous
fits of melancholy troubled her.
She idolized her son. He was all |
she had left in the world TO care
for her.
Suddenly she lifted her head.
"What was that ?" she said.
'tDid you hear it, Frank? 1t
sounded like chiId's voice"
Frank Redgrave listened. There
was child sObbing. The sounds
came from the steps outside.
Drosanfl,r tho chilli Spnkn The f!