The child?--
Ay, that strikes home--my child--my child.
Love and Hatred. By ----.
----Lose I not
With him what fortune could in life allot?
Lose I not hope, life’s cordial.
Crabbe.
The morning following the mysterious disappearance of little Frank
Winthrop, unusual symptoms of gloom might have been discerned in the
village. The may-pole still stood trimmed with ribbons, but no children
gamboled around it. There was a party of lads and a group of girls
standing talking to each other--not merrily, but earnestly, on what
appeared to be a subject of grave import. There were neither shouts nor
laughs to be heard. And at almost every cottage door mothers might be
seen with their infants in their arms, or old men and women shaking
their heads sadly, and whispering to one another.
One called to mind how he had seen the child at the festival on the day
previous, and what a pensive, half-ominous air his childish features
wore. Another told that he had wondered much that one so young as he,
should be bold enough to remain alone in the meeting-house with his baby
companion. And the children went thither in little knots, and with
half-fearful steps entered the pew where Ruth had left the lost boy
sleeping.
As to the bereft mother, for many hours they had little expectation of
her surviving, but grief is strong and she recovered. Some faint hope of
his ultimate discovery seemed to animate her heart in this season of
agony. The father took an active and energetic part in the search that
was made by the villagers. It was a trait in his character to conceal
deep grief, which with him, in this case, seemed to lead to action, not
despair or despondency.
For weeks an investigation and search, led by himself, was followed up;
but it proved without success. Those who have known the blank that
follows the death of an idolized child--the uneasy void, the sense of
desolation that will come when something beloved is missed at every
turn--they can faintly guess how those unhappy parents pined as their
faint and shadowy hope deferred from day to day till their hearts grew
sick. With the mother, a removal from the scene of her late bereavement
was tried, in order to discover whether change of place would rouse or
cheer her. But alas! she was henceforth the same--a broken-hearted
woman. The sympathy felt for her in the village was profound. As she
appeared among them those who met her drew back to make way for her, and
give her a softened greeting. Some shook her kindly by the hand, some
stood uncovered as she glided by, and many cried, “God help you!” as she
passed along.
Months passed on, and still no tidings of Frank Winthrop cheered the
ears of the villagers. Years, too, in their course, gradually rolled on,
and many changes were witnessed in the settlement--the old died and were
buried--new children were added to the colonists--the young began to
approach the season of maturity--yet still the vanished one was seen
not, and tidings of him were heard in that place no more.