boxes are arranged so as to extemporize a bed, now unoccupied, but from
which the two little factory-workers have but lately arisen. A jug of
herb tea is on the table. The fire is very low, and the light from it is
only sufficient to render all indistinctly visible. In a chair opposite
is a young woman with such a mournful, careworn face, that a glance
inspires you with sorrow; and from a bundle of clothes on her knee
issues the fretful wail of a restless child. The monotonous tick of an
old clock is the only sound, saving the longdrawn sigh of that young
mother, or the quick, hollow breathing of the sleeping man. Now and then
the wind whistles more shrilly through the crevices of the door, and the
rain beats with greater force against the little window. The mother
draws still nearer to the few red embers, and turns a timid glance to
the window and then to the bed: another sigh, and then the overburdened
heart overflows at her eyes, and the large bright drops fall quickly on
that dearly loved infant.

The church clock chimes a quarter after six--this rouses the mother once
more to set aside her own griefs; the wind still howls, and the rain
beats with unabated fury against the glass: her thoughts are of those
little ones, and a tremor passes over her as she fears lest they should
be shut out. The man moves wearily in his bed, and opening his eyes, he
looks towards his wife. She is at his side in an instant.

"Have they gooan, Bessy?" he asks.

"Eea, they've gooan, an' aw hooap ther thear before nah."

"It saands vary wild. We ne'er thowt it ud come to this twelve year sin,
Bess,--an' it's all along o' me!"