Kitabı oku: «Blade-O'-Grass. Golden Grain. and Bread and Cheese and Kisses.», sayfa 28

All night long the wind shrieked and whistled through the tents; the men, tired out with their exertions, did not wake. But the women did, and lay and trembled. David's wife awoke.

'David!' she whispered, but he did not hear her.

'What's the matter, mother?' murmured her daughter.

'Nothing, child, nothing. It's only the wind. Hush! we mustn't wake father. Go to sleep, darling!'

The sun rose late the next morning, and a dim blood-veil was in the sky, which made some of them think that it was night still. The miners found the snow round their huts to be three feet deep. They looked anxious at this.

'We can master the snow,' they whispered to one another, 'but the snow-drift will master us.'

Even as they spoke, the wind, which had lulled, began to moan again, and before they had been working an hour shovelling away the snow, the wind-storm, bringing the snow with it from the heights over which it rushed, blinded them, and drove them into their tents for shelter. They could not hold their feet. 'Let us hope it'll not last long,' they said; and they took advantage of every lull to work against their enemy, not like men, but like heroes.

'What makes you so downcast, Saul?' asked David; he had not begun to lose heart.

Saul looked in silence at David's wife and David's daughter; they were at the far end of the hut.

'You are not frightened, Saul, surely?' said David.

'Not for my self, David,' whispered Saul. 'But tell me. What kind of love do you bear for your wife and child?' David's look was sufficient answer. 'I have a perfect love for a woman also, David. If she were here, as your wife is with you, I could bear it, and so could she. David, we are beset by a terrible danger. Listen to the wind. I am afraid we may never get out of this.'

David's lips quivered, but he shook away the fear.

'We mustn't lose heart, Saul, and we must keep this danger from the wife and little one. There's men's work before us, and we must do it-like men!'

'Trust me, David,' said Saul; 'my heart beats to the pulse of a willing hand;' and said no more.

The wind-storm continued all the day with such violence, that it was impossible for the men to work. As the day advanced, the blood-veil in the sky died away, and when the night came, the moon's light shone clear and cruel, bright and pitiless.

Worn out with hard toil and anxiety, Saul Fielding lay down that night, and tried to sleep. 'I must have strength for to-morrow,' he thought. The fierce wind had grown faint, and it moaned now among the hills like a weak child. Saul smiled gladly, and accepted it as a good omen. He hugged his gold close, and vowed that he would not risk another season of such danger. 'If I do not get an ounce more,' he thought, 'I will be content. What I have will be sufficient for the home and for Jane. Jane, dear Jane!' Her name always came to him like a prayer, and with 'Jane' on his lips, and 'Jane' in his thoughts, he fell asleep and dreamt of her. He dreamt that he and the others had escaped from their snow-prison, and that he was on his way home. Blue waters were beneath him, bright clouds were above him, a fresh breeze was behind him, and the ship dipped into the sea and rose from it, like a light-hearted god. The sailors were singing, and he sang with them as he lent a hand with the ropes. He looked across the sea and saw Jane standing on a far-off shore, with glad face turned towards him. 'I am coming, Jane! he cried, and she smiled, and held out her arms to him. Nearer and nearer he approached to the haven of his hopes; nearer and nearer, until, although they were divided by many miles of water, he could speak to her, and hear her speak. 'See!' he cried, and held out his bag of gold. As she raised her eyes with thankfulness to the heavens, David's wife and David's daughter appeared suddenly by his side. 'Here are the friends who saved me, Jane,' he cried. 'David is below, asleep, and his wife is here, knowing your story and mine. She insists upon saying that you are her sister; she is a good woman. The shame of the past is gone.' As he said these words, a sudden and terrible wind sprang up; and the dark clouds, rushing down from the heavens, shut Jane from his sight. In a moment everything was changed. The ship seemed as if it were being torn to pieces; the waters rose; and the cries of the sailors were indistinguishable amidst the roaring of the wind. 'My God!' he heard David's wife cry, and at that moment he awoke, and rising swiftly to his feet, saw a candle alight in the tent, and David's wife standing in her nightdress on his side of the green baize which divided the tent. Her face was white with terror. 'My God!' she cried again; 'we are lost!' The storm that had arisen in his dream was no fancy. It was raging now among the hills furiously.

'Go into your room,' said Saul hurriedly. 'I will be dressed in a minute.'

In less than that space of time he was up and dressed, and then David tore the green baize aside.

'Saul,' he said, 'this is terrible!' And stepping to Saul's side, whispered, 'If this continues long, our grave is here.'

Saul went to the door of the tent, and tried to open it; he could not. The wind had brought with it thousands and thousands of tons of snow from the heights, and they were, walled up. Saul felt all round the sides of the tent. The snow was man-high. Only the frail drill of which the tent was made kept it from falling in, and burying them. In an instant Saul comprehended their dread peril.

'The tree!' he cried, as if an inspiration had fallen upon him. 'The tree!'

Just outside the tent, between it and the tent next to it, stood a great pine-tree, the only tree among the tents. Many a time had it been suggested to cut down this tree for firewood, but David had prevented it. 'Wait,' he had said, 'until we want it; when firewood runs short, and we can't get it elsewhere, it will be time enough.' So the tree had been saved from the axe, and stood there like a giant, defying the storm, Saul piled up the rough seats and the tables which comprised the furniture of the tent, and climbing to the top of them, cut a great hole in the roof of the tent. It was daylight above, and the snow was falling fast Saul saw the noble tree standing fast and firm in the midst of the storm. With a desperate leap he caught a branch, and raised himself above the tent. And when he looked upon the awful scene, upon the cruel white snow in which the tents all around him were embedded, and nearly buried, his heart throbbed despairingly.

But this was no time for despair. It was the time for action. When he had secured his position in the tree, he stooped over the tent.

'David!' he cried. David's voice answered him.

'This is our only chance,' he said loudly; he spoke slowly and distinctly, so that those within the tent might hear him. 'Here we maybe able to find safety until the storm abates and the snow subsides. Listen to me, and do exactly as I say. Get some provisions together and some water; and the little brandy that is left. Make them up in a bundle. Tie rope and cord round it, and let me have it. Quickly!'

Before he finished speaking, David's wife was busy attending to his instructions.

'Answer me, Saul,' cried David. 'What do you see of our mates?'

Saul groaned, 'Do not ask me, David! Let us thank God that this tree was left standing.'

David climbed on to the table in a few minutes, with the bundle of provisions in his hands. He was lifting it for Saul to take hold when the pile upon which he was standing gave way, and he fell heavily to the ground.

At this moment, a movement in the tent nearest to the tree arrested Saul's attention. One of the men inside had thought also of the tree, and had adopted Saul's expedient of cutting through the roof of the tent. His head now appeared above the rent. He saw Saul, but he was too far away to reach the tree.

'Give me a hand, mate!' he cried. 'Give me a hand, for God's sake!'

'One moment,' replied Saul, deeply anxious for the fate of David, for he heard the generous-hearted digger groan, and heard David's wife sobbing. 'Keep your hold and stand firm for a little while. You are safe there for a time. There is something here in my own tent I must see to at once.' Then he called, 'David! David! Are you hurt?'

The voice of David's wife answered him with sobs and cries. 'He can't move, Saul! He can't move! O, my poor dear David! He has broken his leg, he says, and his back is hurt. What shall I do? O, what shall I do?'

But although she asked this question, she-true wife and woman as she was-was attending to the sufferer, not thinking of herself.

'God pity us!' groaned Saul, and raised his hand to the storm. 'Pity us! pity us! he cried.

But the pitiless snow fell, and the soft flakes danced in the air.

Then Saul cried, 'David's wife! The child! the child!'

'Let me be, wife,' said David; 'I am easier now. Pile up those seats again; make them firm. Don't hurry. I can wait I am in no pain. Lift our little daughter to Saul, and the provisions afterwards.'

She obeyed him; she piled the seats one above another. Then brought the child to David. He took her in his arms, and kissed her again and again.'

'My pet! my darling!' he moaned. 'Kiss father, little one!'

And the rough man pressed this link of love to his heart, and kissed her face, her hands, her neck, her lips.

'Now, wife,' he said, and resigned their child to her. David's wife stood silent for a few moments with the child in her arms, and murmured a prayer over her, and blessed her, and then, keeping down her awful grief bravely like a brave woman, climbed to the height, and raised her arms to Saul with the child in them. Only her bare arms could be seen above the tent's roof.

'Come, little one,' said Saul, and stooping down, at the risk of his life, clutched the child from the mother's arms, and heard the mother's heart-broken sobs.

'Is she safe, Saul?'

'She is safe, dear woman.'

Other heads rose from other tents and turned despairingly about. But no help for them was near. They were in their grave.

David's wife raised the provisions to Saul, and went down to her husband.

'Wife,' said David, 'leave me, and see if you can reach Saul. It will be difficult, but you may be able to manage it.'

She looked at him tenderly.

'My place is here, David,' she said; 'I shall stay with you, and trust to God. Our child is safe, in the care of a good man.'

He tried to persuade her, but she shook her head sweetly and sadly, and simply said, 'I know my duty.' He could say no more, for the next moment he swooned, his pain was so great. Then his wife knelt by him, and raised his head upon her lap.

Meanwhile, the man in the next tent who had called to Saul to give him a hand had not been idle. He found a plank and was raising it to the roof, with the purpose of resting it upon a branch of the tree. As with more than a man's strength he lifted the plank forward, Saul heard a thud beneath him, and looking down saw that the walls of the tent in which David and his wife were had given way, and that the snow was toppling over. He turned his head; he was powerless to help them. The tears ran down his face and beard, and he waited, awe-struck by the terror of the time. He thought he heard the voice of David's wife cry,

'Good-bye, my child! God preserve you!'

In a choking voice, he said solemnly to David's little daughter,

'Say, God bless you, mother and father!'

'The child repeated the words in a whisper, and nestled closer to Saul, and said,

'I'm so cold! Where's mother and father? Why don't they come up?

Saul, with a shiver, looked down. Nothing of David or of David's wife did he see. The tent was not in sight. The snow had covered it. And still it fell, and still it drifted.

The digger who occupied the next tent had fined his plank; not a moment was to be lost; his tent was cracking. Creeping along the plank, with the nervous strength of desperation, clinging to it like a cat, he reached the tree and was saved for a time. As he reached it, the plank slipped into the snow. And still it fell, and rose higher and higher. Men signalled to each other from tent to tent, and bade God bless each other, for they felt that, unless the snowdrift and snowfall should instantly cease, there was no hope for them. But still it fell; fell softly into the holes in the canvas roofs and sides, into the chambers below; crept up to them inch by inch; wrapt yellow gold and mortal flesh in soft shrouds of white, and hid the adventurers from the light of day.

Only three remained. Soul, and David's little daughter, in the uppermost branches of the tree. The digger from the nearest tent clinging to a lower branch.

This man was known by the name of Edward Beaver; a silent man at best, and one who could not win confidence readily. His face was covered with hair fast turning gray. Between him and Saul but little intercourse had taken place. Saul had not been attracted by Beaver's manner, although often when he looked at the man, a strange impression came upon him that he knew the face. Saul spoke to Beaver once, and asked him where he cane from; but Beaver answered him roughly, and Saul spoke to him no more. In this dread time, however, Beaver's tongue was loosened.

'This is awful,' he said, looking up at Saul.

Saul looked down upon the white face which was upturned to his, and the same strange impression of its being familiar to him stole upon him like a subtle vapour. An agonising fear was expressed in Beaver's countenance; he was frightened of death. He was weak, too, having just come out of a low fever, and it needed all his strength to keep his footing on the tree.

'Do you think we shall die here?' he asked.

'I see no hope,' replied Saul, pressing David's little daughter to his breast. The child had fallen to sleep. Saul's soul was too much troubled for converse, and the morning passed almost in silence. Saul lowered some food and drink to Beaver. 'I have very little brandy,' he said; 'but you shall share and share.' And when Beaver begged for more, he said, 'No, not yet; I must husband it. Remember, I have another life here in my arms to care for.'

The day advanced, and the storm continued; not a trace of the tents or of those who lay buried in them could be seen. The cruel white snow had made a churchyard of the golden gully!

Night fell, and brought darkness with it; and in the darkness Saul shuddered, with a new and sudden fear, for he felt something creeping up to him. It was Beaver's voice creeping up the tree, like an awful shadow.

'Saul Fielding,' it said, 'my time has come. The branches are giving way, and I am too weak to hold on.'

'God help you, Edward Beaver,' said Saul pityingly.

And David's little daughter murmured in her sleep, 'What's that, mother?' Saul hushed her by singing in a soft tender voice a nursery rhyme, and the child smiled in the dark, and her arms tightened round Saul's neck. It was a good thing for them that they were together; the warmth of their bodies was a comfort, and in some measure a safeguard to them.

When Saul's soft singing was over, he heard Beaver sobbing, beneath him. 'I used to sing that once,' the man sobbed in weak tones, 'to my little daughter.'

'Where is she now?' asked Saul, thinking of those he loved at home.

'Bessie! Bessie!' cried Beaver faintly. 'Where are you? O my God! if I could live my life over again!'

Saul thought of George's Bessie as he asked, 'Where do you come from? What part do you belong to?'

It was a long time before he received an answer, and then the words crept up to him, faint and low, through the darkness, as though the speaker's strength were waning fast.

'From London-from Westminster.'

'From Westminster!' echoed Saul, and Beaver's face appeared to his imagination.

'I must tell you,' gasped the dying man; 'I must tell you before I die. You may be saved, and you will take my message home.'

'I will, if I am spared,' replied Saul, in a voice which had no hope in it.

'I have been a bad son and a bad father. My name is not Beaver-it is Sparrow, and my father, if he is alive, lives in Westminster.'

'Old Ben Sparrow, the grocer!' cried Saul, in amazement 'I know him! I saw him a few weeks before last Christmas. You are Bessie Sparrow's father; I thought your face was familiar to me.'

'Bad son! bad father!' muttered the man. 'O my God! the tree is sinking! the branch is giving way! Tell me, quickly, for mercy's sake. My daughter-Bessie-she is alive, then? Tell me of her.'

'She was well when I saw her,' replied Saul, with a groan, thinking of George and his lost hopes. 'She has grown into a beautiful woman.'

'Thank God! If you ever see her again, tell her of me-ask my father to forgive me. Take the love of a dying man to them. I have gold about me-it is theirs. Say that I intended to come home, and ask forgiveness, but it has been denied me. God has punished me! I am sinking! – '

A cry of agony followed, and the wind took it up, and carried it over the hills. Then all was hushed, and the erring son and father spoke no more.

Saul offered up a prayer for Bessie's father, and waited sadly for his time to come.

As the night waned, the fierce wind grew softer, and sighed and moaned, repentant of the desolation it had caused. What a long, long night it was! But at length the morning's light appeared, and then Saul, looking down, saw that he and David's little daughter were the only ones left. Stronger grew the light, until day had fairly dawned. As Saul looked over the white expanse, he felt that there was no hope for him, and his mind began to wander. Long-forgotten incidents of his childhood came to him; he saw his father and mother, long since dead; he saw a brother who had died when he himself was a child; he saw Jane as she was when he first met her, as she was on that sad night when she told him of the duty that lay before him; he saw George and the lights on Westminster-bridge. All these visions rose for him out of the snow. And fields and flowers came, and he wandered among them hand in hand with Jane, as they had done on one happy holiday. It did not seem strange to him that there was no colour in any of these things; it caused no wonder in his mind that all these loved ones and the fields and flowers, perfect in form and shape, were colourless, were white and pure as the snow which stretched around him on every side. They were dear memories all of them; emblems of purity. And in that dread time he grew old; every hour was a year. But in the midst of all the terror of the time he pressed David's little daughter closer and closer to his breast, and committed their souls to God. So that day passed, and the night; and the sun rose in splendour. The white hills blushed, like maidens surprised. With wild eyes and fainting soul, Saul looked around; suddenly a flush of joy spread over his face. Upon a distant mount, stood Jane. 'Come!' he cried. And as Jane walked over the snow hills towards him, he waited and waited until she was close to him; then sinking in her arms, he fell asleep.

PART III

I HAVE COME TO RETURN YOU SOMETHING

On the afternoon of the day on which the Queen of the South (with George Naldret in it, as was supposed) sailed out of the Mersey for the southern seas, young Mr. Million, with a small bouquet of choice flowers in his hand, made his appearance in the old grocer's shop. Ben Sparrow, who was sitting behind his counter, jumped up when the young brewer entered, and rubbed his hands and smirked, and comported himself in every way as if a superior being had honoured him with his presence. Young Mr. Million smiled pleasantly, and without the slightest condescension. The cordiality of his manner was perfect.

'Quite a gentleman,' thought old Ben; 'every inch a gentleman!'

Said young Mr. Million: 'As I was passing your way, I thought I would drop in to see how you and your granddaughter are.'

'It's very kind and thoughtful of you, sir,' replied old Ben Sparrow. 'Of course, we're a bit upset at George's going. Everything is at sixes and sevens, and will be, I daresay, for a few days. Bessie's inside'-with a jerk of his head in the direction of the parlour-'she's very sad and low, poor dear.'

'We mustn't let her mope, Mr. Sparrow,' remarked young Mr. Million, striking up a partnership at once with the old grocer.

'No, sir,' assented Ben; 'we mustn't let her mope; it ain't good for the young-nor for the old, either. But it's natural she should grieve a bit. You see, sir,' he said confidentially, 'George is the only sweetheart Bessie's ever had. She ain't like some girls, chopping and changing, as if there's no meaning in what they do.'

'We must brighten her up, Mr. Sparrow. It wouldn't be a bad thing, if you were to take her for a drive in the country, one fine day. The fresh air would do her good.'

'It would do her good, sir. But I couldn't leave the shop. Business is dreadfully dull, and I can't afford to lose a chance of taking a few shillings-though, with the way things are cut down, there's very little profit got nowadays. Some things almost go for what they cost. Sugar, for instance. I don't believe I get a ha'penny a-pound out of it.'

Young Mr. Million expressed his sympathy, and said it ought to be looked to. He would speak to his father, who was a 'friend of the working-man, you know.'

'I don't know how to thank you, sir,' said Ben gratefully. 'Indeed, I haven't thanked you yet for the kindness you-'

'I don't want to be thanked,' interrupted young Mr. Million vivaciously. 'I hate to be thanked! The fact is, Mr. Sparrow, I am an idle young dog, and it will always give me pleasure to do you any little service in my power. I will go in, and say How do you do? to Miss Sparrow, if you will allow me.'

'Allow you, sir!' exclaimed Ben. 'You're always welcome here.'

'I brought this little bunch of flowers for her. Flowers are scarce now, and the sight of them freshens one up. Although, Mr. Sparrow, your granddaughter is a brighter flower than any in this bunch!'

'That she is, sir; that she is,' cried Ben, in delight; adding to himself, under his breath, 'Every inch a gentleman! His kindness to George and me is a-maz-ing-A-MAZ-ING!'

The idle young dog, entering the parlour, found Bessie very pale and very unhappy. She was unhappy because of the manner of her parting from George last night; unhappy and utterly miserable because of the poisoned dagger which had been planted in her heart.

'I was passing through Covent garden,' said the idle young dog, in gentle tones, thinking how pretty Bessie looked even in her sorrow, 'and seeing these flowers, I thought you would do me the pleasure to accept them.'

Bessie thanked him, and took them listlessly from his hand. Tottie, who was playing at 'shop' in a corner of the room, weighing sand in paper scales, and disposing of it to imaginary customers as the best fourpenny-ha'penny moist (is this ever done in reality, I wonder!), came forward to see and smell the flowers. The idle young dog seized upon Tottie as a pretext for taking a seat, and, lifting the child on his knee, allowed her to play with his watch-chain, and opened his watch for her, and put it to her ear, so that she might hear it tick-a performance of which she would never have tired. His manner towards Bessie was very considerate and gentle, and she had every reason to be grateful to him, for he had been a good friend to her grandfather and her lover. Certainly he was one of the pleasantest gentlemen in the world, and he won Tottie's heart by giving her a shilling-the newest he could find in his pocket. Tottie immediately slipped off his knee, and went to her corner to brighten the coin with sand; after the fashion of old Ben Sparrow, who often polished up a farthing with sand until he could see his face in it, and gave it to Tottie as a golden sovereign. Tottie valued it quite as much as she would have done if it had been the purest gold.

The idle young dog did not stay very long; he was no bungler at this sort of idling, and he knew the value of leaving a good impression behind him. So, after a quarter of an hour's pleasant chat, he shook hands with Bessie, and as he stood smiling at her, wishing her good-day, with her hand in his, the door suddenly opened, and George Naldret appeared.

His face was white and haggard, and there was a wild grief in his eyes. The agony through which he had passed on the previous night seemed to have made him old in a few hours. He stood there silent, looking at Bessie and young Mr. Million, and at their clasped hands. It was but for a moment, for Bessie, with a startled cry-a cry that had in it pain and horror at the misery in his face-had taken her hand from young Mr. Million's palm; it was but for a moment, but the new expression that overspread George's face like an evil cloud was the expression of a man who had utterly lost all faith and belief in purity and goodness: and had thus lost sight of Heaven.

Bessie divined its meaning, and gave a gasp of agony, but did not speak. Not so, young Mr. Million.

'Good Heavens!' he cried, with a guilty look which he could not hide from George's keen gaze. 'George, what has happened?'

George looked at young Mr. Million's outstretched hand, and rejected it disdainfully and with absolute contempt. Then looked at the flowers on the table-hothouse flowers he knew they were-then into Bessie's face, which seemed as if it were carved out of gray-white stone, so fixed did it grow in his gaze-then at the earrings in her ears: and a bitter, bitter smile came to his lips-a smile it was pity to see there.

'These are pretty flowers,' he said, raising them from the table; in the intensity of his passion his fingers closed upon the blooming things, and in a moment more he would have crushed them-but he restrained himself in time, and let them drop from his strongly-veined hand. 'I beg pardon,' he said, 'they are not mine. Even if they belong to you-which they do, of course-I can have no claim on them now.'

He addressed himself to Bessie, but she did not answer him. She had never seen in his face what she saw now, and she knew that it was the doom of her love and his.

'I have come to return you something,' he said, and took from his breast a pretty silk purse. It was hung round his neck by a piece of black silk cord, and he did not disengage it readily. It almost seemed as if it wished not to be taken from its resting-place.

As he held it in his hand, he knew that his life's happiness was in it, and that he was about to relinquish it. And as he held it, there came to Bessie's mind the words he had spoken only the night before: 'See here, heart's-treasure,' he had said, 'here is the purse you worked for me, round my neck. It shall never leave me-it rests upon my heart. The pretty little beads! How I love them! I shall kiss every piece of gold I put in it, and shall think I am kissing you, as I do now, dear, dearest, best!'

'Take it,' George said now.

She held out her hand mechanically, and as George touched her cold fingers he shivered. Both knew what this giving and taking meant. It meant that all was over between them.

Old Ben Sparrow had come into the room, and had witnessed the scene in quiet amazement; he did not see his way to the remotest understanding of what had passed. But he saw Bessie's suffering, and he moved to her side. When the purse was in her hand he touched her, but she repulsed him gently. Some sense of what was due to herself in the presence of young Mr. Million came to her, and her womanly pride at George's rejection of her in the presence of another man came to her also, and gave her strength for a while.

George's hand was on the door, when young Mr. Million, who was deeply mortified at George's manner towards himself, and who at the same time thought it would be a gallant move to champion Bessie's cause, laid his hand on George's sleeve, and said:

'Stay; you owe me an explanation.'

'Hands off!' cried George, in a dangerous tone, and a fierce gleam in his eyes. 'Hands off, you sneaking dog! I owe you an explanation, do I? I will give it to you when we are alone. Think what kind of explanation it will be when I tell you beforehand that you are a false, lying hound! Take care of yourself when next we meet.'

Every nerve in George's body quivered with passion and pain.

'You can't frighten me with bluster,' said young Mr. Million, who was no coward, 'although you may try to frighten ladies with it. As my presence here is likely to cause farther pain to a lady whom I esteem'-with a respectful look towards Bessie, which caused George to press his nails into his palms-'I will take my leave, unless Mr. Sparrow wishes me to stay as a protection to him and his granddaughter.'

'No, sir; I thank you,' replied Ben Sparrow sorrowfully. 'George Naldret can do my child no more harm than he has done already.'

'Then I will go;' and he moved towards the door, 'first saying, however, that I tried to be this man's friend-'indicating George with a contemptuous motion of his hand, and repeating, 'that I tried to be his friend-'

'You lie!' cried George.

'-Thinking,' continued young Mr. Million, with quiet disdain, 'that he was better than others of his class. But I was mistaken. Mr. Sparrow, you exonerate me from all blame in what has taken place?'

'Entirely, sir,' said Ben Sparrow, in a sad and troubled voice.

'I wish you and your grandchild good-day, then, and leave my hearty sympathy behind me.'

With these words, and with a triumphant look at George, the idle young dog took his departure. Then, after a brief pause, George said:

'I have nothing more to stop for now.'

And, with a look of misery, was about to depart, when Tottie ran to his side, and plucking him by the coat, looked up into his face.

'Don't go,' said Tottie; 'stop and play.'

'I can't, my dear,' said George, raising the child in his arms and kissing her. 'I must go. Goodbye, little one.'-He set the child down; tears were coming to his eyes, but he kept them back.

'One moment, George Naldret,' said old Ben Sparrow, trying to be dignified, but breaking down. 'George-my dear George-what is the meaning of this?'