It is night, and the wind is sighing itself away. The snow has ceased to
fall, and the moon looks down upon the hills in their spotless covering,
shedding her soft, mild light upon all. The little cottage on the hill
side would be imperceptible, were it not for the light that streams
through the window and the open door. The church clock has just struck
eight, and for nearly an hour a woman has stood looking towards the
town, her anxiety increasing every moment. She listens to the sound of
feet on the crisp snow--they come nearer--they are opposite the turn
that leads to the cottage: but they pass on. Again and again she
listens:--once or twice she fancies she sees two children in the
distance--but they come not. Passersby become less frequent; again the
church clock chimes, and all is still. Her husband and her babe are
asleep. Quickly putting on her bonnet and shawl, she runs to her nearest
rleighbour to ask if she will sit with them until she returns, for she
must go and learn how it is that her children have not come home. She
fears no denial, and she meets with none; as soon as she has stated her
case, the good woman replies, "Sit wi' 'em lass! aw'm sure aw will! an'
thee," she said, turning to her husband, "put on thi hat an' coit an'
goa wi' her."
"O, they're nobbut laikin at snowball, or else slurrin a bit," he
said;--at the same time he put on his hat and coat, and showed as
much alacrity to join in the search as the mother herself.
Owd Becca thrust into her capacious pocket a tea cake and two eggs, and
taking the teapot into which she put a good supply of tea, she prepared
for starting off; but suddenly recollecting herself, she returned and
called in loud tones to her daughter: "Sarah I get that sucking bottle,
an' fill it wi' milk for th' little en, an' nah, if yo two 'll nobbut
bring th' childer back, aw'l see 'at all gooas on reight at hooam."
Bessy began to express her thanks, but Becca was determined not to hear
her, and drowned all she said in exhorting her husband to "luk sharp."
Bessy and Old Abe directed their steps to the factory, but often paused
to ask passers-by if they had seen the two lost ones, but as there had
so many children passed whose outward appearance corresponded with
theirs of whom they were in search, they thought it best to go at once
to the works and ascertain at what time they left.
Bessy's heart misgave her as she knocked at the gatekeeper's house; an
indefinable dread came over her, and she scarce knew how to state her
case. Little did she think that within sound of her voice lay the dear
objects of her search; hundreds of feet had passed them during the day,
but none had disturbed them; the whistles had screamed for them in vain,
for they had gone to that lasting "rest prepared for the weary and heavy
laden." From the gatekeeper they learned that the two had arrived too
late in the morning and gone away somewhere, but had not returned or
been seen afterwards. Bessy stood transfixed for a moment, scarce
knowing what to do, but Old Abe could look at the case more calmly; and
taking hold of her hand, he led her gently away, and proceeded forthwith
to the police station, where he gave as full an account and as correct a
description of the missing ones as he was able. It took but a short time
to accomplish this much, but the journey homewards was not so speedily
performed. Every dark corner was explored, and every alley and by-lane
had to be traversed, and the morning was far advanced when they reached
home after their unsuccessful search.
The husband and babe were still sleeping, for Becca had ministered to
all their wants. She had buoyed herself with the hope that they would be
successful: but when she saw them return alone, her spirits sank as low
as those of the mother, and although she was silent, yet the frequent
application of the apron to her eyes showed that she felt as a mother
for one so sorrowfully placed.
Promising to "luk in i' th' morn'," they left the disconsolate Bessy
to her grief.
Who shall attempt to describe the anguish of that bereaved parent?
Statuelike she sat, nursing a sorrow too deep for tears. Hours passed,
and the first faint streak of dawn found her still sitting, with her
eyes intently fixed on vacancy. Her husband's voice was the first thing
that roused her from the state of despondency into which she had sunk.
He spoke with difficulty, and his voice was feeble as a child's.
"Bessy," he gasped, "tha munnot leave me ony moor. It's drawin varry
near. Awr little Tom an' Susy have been here wol tha's been off; aw
heeard 'em calling for me, but aw could'nt goa until aw'd had a word wi'
thee. Aw'm feeard tha'll tak it hard, lass, but if tha finds tha cannot
bide it, ax th' parson to tell thee what he tell'd to me, an' it'll
comfort thee." Bessy was unable to reply. Sorrows had been heaped upon
her so heavily that her feelings were benumbed; she scarcely
comprehended what was said, but in the bitterness of her soul she fell
upon her knees and sobbed--"Lord, help me!"
Her husband feebly took her hand and drew her towards him. "He will help
thee, lassie, niver fear. One kiss, Bessy; gooid bye! Tom! Susy!--It's
varry dark.--Aw think aw want to sleep."--
"And ere that hour departed.
All death reveals, he knew."