The Sunday herald. [volume] (Washington [D.C.]) 1866-1887, 1882-07-09

y IOOu-Dye, tnen,
lie had gone as far as the door, when she
called him back.
"Don't be too angry with me-" she said,
laying her hand in his " kiss me-
He did kiss her long and very passion.
ately then he left the room, left the house,
left the village, and reached London by q
late train, bringing a real grief in his sha m
grie's stead Resolved on doing somcthi ng
desperate, he cast himself at the feet of the
beautiful Miss SANFORD, but TO his sur
prise she did not appreciate her happiness.
al never believed all tho fine things you
said" she remarked. "I know you to lie
firt, but You amuso me, and for that am
grateful"
lie went away very considerably hum.
bled The real grief, unlike the sham one,
was totally useless. II inspired no poem
II stimulated to no pleasant ilirtations IL
lay at Mr.. Clarkson's heart a great, heavy,
unremovablo weight. Like wounded ami
NAL, he Stunned his fellows. He thought
grimly to himself as he roamed about the
London streets, now grown TO him so dreary,
that at last he knew what the real thing was.
In the course of month or two there
came TO him desire in some way to do
something which might at least tighten the
gloom that wrapt him round "l've spoilt
my own lifc,' he unused, "still it might
turn TO some good account for others; have
money and great sympathy with the people,
and they need both. Tospend by life help
ing them is what llilda would approve il she
knew IL, aud that Ia what will do"
The very next day he carried out his good
resolution, for he was perfectly in earnest.
Still the man had been so in the h abit of
posing that lie could not help at first sur
isiaction rs the peoples helper, given them
by great sorrow. When he got really
into his work, however, he ceased this sort
of exhibition upon the stage of life with
himself as spectator, Things seemed to him
too serious 10 incline him to strike an at.
titudc before them. For the first time he
forgot himself, in view of other peoples
calamities. Truly his labors were not light
and he ielt no disposition to toy with his
work rs once he had toyed with love. Daily
he risl1ed his life, sometimes from interior
ing to protect some woman from the drunken
violence of her master, sometimes through
long night watches beside wretch i'll of
some frightrul contagious disorder. lie
held not his own life dear unto him, and
perhaps il was for that reason that he came
alive out of every peril. Often, before the
the world was well awake, he would return
home from night passed beside the dying,
only to snatch little sleep and 60 forth
again to his selt-imposed tasks. lie saw
sights aud heard sounds before which less
determined spirit would have quailed, but
his strong purpose upheld him.
Among his many friends at the East End
was n family of the name of White. Mrs.
White was widow. She let cheap lodgings.
Her eldest child, Sara, added to their small
a -. Il 4
End theatres. She was n good girl, this
Sara, with laughing blue eyes, prettily-
shaped, sensitive face, and good deal of
fair hair.
Mrs. White would oxclaim:
Z" IT'S not, sir, because some folks never
look where they are going and drag their
skirts through every puddle they can that
others can't walk in clean places"
Clarllson became very fond of Sara-not at
all in Il sentimental way he had quite done
with that. lie regarded her more as n
father might regard n pet child. She believed
in him, too, and that was nice. Often, on
fine Sundays, would he come and take her
of to Richmond or Kew, or somewhere where
she could gather wild flowers in the season
of them To see her pleasure always pleased
him.
Mrs. White herself was not at all an ill
meaning woman. She was shockingly I'M
tidy, though, in her appearance, and she
had temper of her own.
One gray October Sunday afternoon Mr..
Ciarkson found himself, after two months
absence on his summer holiday, again near
Mrs. Whites house.
1t was depressing day, and mt its most
depressing time-between three and four
o. clocf. As he walked down the dingy
81 ,,.l IA
of him-houses that had Il look of grim con
tent about them, as 1t they had now grown
proud of their dirt, and would not, If they
could, he dillercnt-l say, as he walked
along, smoking very good cigar, he heard
the melancholy cry of Watercresses; fine
water crosses !"
In front of him, with short clay pipe in
his mouth, man was forcing II reluctant
donkey drawing barrow, the contents OF
which the driver roared out, from time to
time, in II voice suggesting that he would
speedily do violence to the passers-by if they
did not purchase his nuts and apples.
Tang, tang" kept on all the time from
what, to judge by the sound, must have
been very cracked church-bell.
Mrs. White resided at No. - Upper
Poplar Row. wonder if at any time an y
poplar had grown there or thercabouts
Nineteen was the dingiest house in the
row; it certainly was, thought Clarkson, as
he once more came in sight of it. The bell
handle was of; the knocker had long parted
from the door. Clarkson applied his walk
ing stick. Mrs. Whites voice could bt
heard within.
ago down stairs; do, Bob, you bad boy
you arc enough to kill me, that you are
Take that, now, and be of"
And very evidently Mrs. Whites hanc
came in contact with her oflspring's face
| Then followed howl-perhaps. under tn,
circumstances, not wholly unjustilied-i
sound of feet hastily retreatinG to lower re-
gions: then the door opened and disclosed
Mrs. White. II cannot be said that her fac,
was clean. Her dress was In holes. II wa,
fastened at the throat by tawdry brooch
Once, however, she must have been quite ,
pretty woman.
ola, sir, is it you am glad to see yo,
| back. Such worries AS Pye had-these neo
| pie in the first floor not paving their rent
| in tell YOU what that nan ia sir. He's
| nasty. low. good. for nothing, rum. drinkinf
| ralIow And no rnr baar ha ,v,e M hon,