Mary Barton

the wealth of

ese same tiny

ankrupts in th

ke some remors

we fondly th

Tw

he world. She determined to flit from that cellar to another less full of painful associations, less haunted by mournful memories. The board, not so formidable as she had imagined, had inquired into her case; and, instead of sending her to Stoke Claypole, her

ked for them, without wronging their helplessness of a crumb; and when she had restored them to their mothers at night, she set to work at plain sewing, "seam, and gusset, and band," and sat thinking how she might best

ain; for they were helpless, gentle, silly children, but not the less dear to their parents and to their strong, active, manly, elder brother. They were late on their feet, late in talking, l

the window. Nor was this the case even now, when Jem Wilson s earnings, and his mother'

of suffering, the three hearts that loved them so, each felt, though none acknowledged to the other, that they had little chance for life.

and gone off straight to her brother's house, in Ancoats; but she was often absent for days, sent for, as h

trast which such woful tidings presented to the gay and loving words she had been hearing on her walk home. She blamed herself for being so much taken up with visions of the golden future, that she had lately gone but seldom on Sunday afternoons, o

on her knee, crying without let or pause, but softly, gently, as fearing to disturb the troubled gasping child; while behind her, old Alice let her fast-dropping tears fall down on the dead body of the other twin, which she was laying out

God has taken h

at to say; it was so much worse than she

nce for the other

customed bed in its parents' room. But earnest as the father was in watching the yet-living, he had eyes and ears for all that concerned the dead, an

ped longer, louder,

his mother. He cannot di

said Mary, in a

to stay on earth. The soul o' them as holds them won't let the dying soul go free so it has a hard struggl

imming and imploring eyes, declared, in earnest whispers, that she was not wishing him, that she would fain have him released from his suffering.

s while, for I cannot; no, I cannot bring mysel to let my two childer go in one

ld, and then gave him up to Alice, who took him with tender care. Nature's

aching heart to comfort hers. Again Alice laid out the dead, Mary helping with reverent fear. T

stood in quiet sorrow for some time.

for Jem, poor fellow,

s he?" a

rder fra' forrin parts; and yo' know, Jem mun work, thou

t in thought, and aga

day out, and she comes to me, and tells me some cousins o' mine bid her find me out, and say how glad they should be to ha' me to bide wi' em, and look after th' childer, for they'n getten a big farm, and she's a deal to do among th' cows. So many a winter's night did I lie awake and think, that please God, come summer, I'd bid George and his wife good-bye, and go home at last. Little did I think how God Almighty would b

e of sickness; making up the fire, and setting on the kettle for a cup of tea for h

he would have been sorry at another time to have been seen by Mary. But just now he hardly saw her; he went straight up to Alice, and asked how the little chaps were. They had been a shade better at dinner-time, and he had been working a

would not understand her shake of

oth gone,"

ea

ut two o'clock. Joe went first, as easy

ot

om some evil to come, or he would na ha' ma

rong agony. The two women were frightened, as women always are, on witnessing a man's overpowering grief. They cried afresh in company. Mary's heart melted within h

e way so; I cannot

the happiness of that moment, when her soft hand's touch thrilled through his frame, and her silvery voice was whispering tenderness in his ear. Yes ! it m

d she again, believing that his sil

his firm yet trembling grasp, and said, in tones

rs lie dead, and father and mother are in such trouble, for all my life that's past and g

er sweet face, he saw that it expressed unfeigned distress, almost amou

and she quickly went

take this time of trouble to tell her how I loved her; n

ire, and partly, perhaps, from a penitent wish to share to the utmos

hat she need have no fear of going home through the deserted and quiet streets, to try and get a little sleep before work-hour. So leaving kind messages to George and Jane Wilson, and hesitating whe

ey

morn t

w, or whether it was over-excitement, it was long before she could catch a wink of sleep. Her thoughts ran on Jem's manner a

ing wi' him to-night, when sure enough it was his aunt's place to speak to him. I don't care for him, and yet, unless I'm always watching myself, I'm speaking to him in a loving voice. I think I cannot go right, for I either check myself till I'm downright cross to him, or else I speak just natural, and that's too kind and tender by half. And I'm as good as engaged to be married to another; and another far handsome

n her carriage, with wedding bells ringing, and take up her astonished father, and drive away from the old dim work-a-day court for ever, to liv

ses, and afterwards never rested till he had freely, though respectfully, made her acquaintance in her daily walks. He was, to use his own expression to himself; quite infatuated by her, and was restless each day till the time came when he had a chance, and, of late, more than

t nothings appertaining to lady hood. It was a comfort to her, when scolded by Miss Simmonds, to think of the day when she would drive up to the door in her own carriage, to order her gowns from the hasty-tempered yet kind dressmaker. It was a pleasure to her to hear the general admiration of the two elder Miss Carsons, acknowledged beauties in ball-room and street, on horseback and on foot, and to think of the time when she should ride and walk with them in loving sisterhood. But the be

ions in which Mary indulged, and which she was

ry. A thrill would yet come over him when he remembered how her hand had rested on his arm. Th