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- THE BARRIER BETWEEN; OR.…

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THE BARRIER BETWEEN; OR. REPENTED UNTO DEATIL CHAPTER XIII.—(Continued., "HE offered me money; but, bitter as my destitu- tion is, I could not take it. I threw it at his feet and Jted- Enough, enough. Ask me no more, for I cannot bfar it. I scarcely know how I got back here, but I come, and I have been sitting in the darkness for hours, afraid to touch my child with my freezing hands, and yet dreading that the light of another day 'ould show him to me even colder than I myself am. Oh, Margaret, are there not creatures on this earth S;"Wre?^ aS was *n kQur greatest tribu- ^o,no the Groat Father has himself said,' Am I not or,Ta?S with 3"ou ancJ would you blaspheme your y help and refuge ? What have the poor but faith I? eav«i ? Without that we should indeed be lost. sPcak so dreadfully, I entreat. Do not look so fir*> °U are weary arK"l exhausted. I will make a %vak(>nt" ^aVe some co^ee ready by the time mother "I cannot share your morning meal, for my last mottf 1S g°ne' and 1 wil1 not rob V°u and your blind j er °f the little you can earn to keep yourselves starving," was the despondent reply. arSarf't only replied by pressing her hand, and she active preparations for the slender repast evid +1 tneans °f setting forth. In doing so, she sin« ] £ reat carc °f her hands, which were of Well delicacy and fairness. She drew on a pair of W(vlVV°!"n S^ves before touching the scanty supply of **1 winch was to fill the small stove that stood in one the apartment. ne« ar°usecl Mrs. Gordon from her stupor of weari- es and grief, and she arose and took the wood from jj' as she said— j £ v^I-visorrow makes me selfish, and heedless of others. to-dav Th'S' your hands wiU be unfit for lace work not rpf me prepare our food as usual, and 1 will use to partake of it this morning at least." largaret earnestly asked— knowre you sure you will take your portion? You von^ ■l^ as ^0!1o as I have anything to share with neither you n»r Grief shall want." tha v Margaret, and I thank you more deeply now 1,vorf-s may express; but after this morning I will Wo /esPass uP°n your kindness. I must find other r" that pays better than the needle. An idea curred to me as I sat here in the darkness last night. ou remember the sketches and poems which I have ornetimes amused Grief by reading aloud? They were "Titten in happier days, and I will select from them such as I think best and offer them to the editors of Some of the numprous periodicals in this city. Some of them pay what to me would now seem a large sum for such work, and I may chance to get enough to keep us from starving till my boy recovers, or enough to pay for his coffin and a decent grave in the country, or I could not bear to have him buried where there is ?° sunshine, no waving trees to make music above his •ast resting-place." Do not speak of the child's death, Mrs. Gordon, I have hopes of him still. There is life, much life, in the darling little fellow yet." The mother glanced hopelessly toward her sick son, jWid an expression of passionate anguish swept over her face, as she said— Yes, there is life enough to be fanned back into a vital flame, if I had a moiety of the wealth that should be freely poured out for him. In this miserable place-with no comforts, no aid-my little lad will go down to darkness and the grave Then will I seek him, and hurl my wretchedness upon him!" The expression of Mrs. Gordon's passionate sorrow was interrupted by the awakening of Margaret's mother, who was blind, and nearly helpless. She Could not walk, but she had perfect use of her hands, and darkened as her sight was, she added a trifle to the common stock by knitting fancy articles in Berlin 'Wool; she excelled in the variety and beauty of her Patterns, and such was the delicacy of her touch that e selected her colours wirh unerring skill. At nics she was peevish, and particularly apt to be so >st aroused from sleep she sharply asked > hat is the matter, Margaret ? What is all this dead?"11 a^ou^' Has anything happened? Is Grief « v is ph 0'.mother; Grief is still sleeping. Mrs. Gordon „ ev*ng over his condition—that is all." thm ? well she may, poor thing—well she may, tha Ugh the lad is going from her to a better father fo she'll ever find for him on earth. But it's nature the mother's heart to grieve when death comes to her darling. Ah, me I know what it is, for more than oncc. Death took from me all girl8 r £ ng' healthy boys and left mo only one delicate as J? 110 choice but to become a lace-worker, sight-as I h Was before her> to wear out her °ye" halJ Of her e*we <Jone- and live in darkness the last Mrs. Gord °e*" beginning t^w^^ f™m the fire which was just crinkled fare 'A? £ azed wistfully at the worn her, tenderly e speaker. She went toward Pillow at her hart ,1Gr in her arms, and placed a ped-clothes am,, i le her daughter arranged the her body from ,nU her in such a manner as to protect She said in i, Siting coldness of the atmosphere. "Mrs s t0.nes— before mf. e; Grief is my only one, and he lies Is 'tC, strlcken-stricken-even unto death." tender > A° bad Wlth the lad as tJiat ? Must the branny. U Perish, while the withered and sapless His f^^ains ? How is it with the lad, Margaret ? m°ther is easily alarmed for him, but you can Judge calmly." He sleeps quietly, mother, and I trust that he will awake stronger than he was last evening," replied the girl, with cautious regard to her mother's feelings. "You hear, Margaret herself dares not give hope. My pretty lad--my bright promising child must perish, because I have not the means of saving him from the grave that want and misery are digging for him." Even as she spoke there was a feeble motion in the bed of the child, and a faint voice asked for water. Bis mother sprang to his side, and Margaret held a cup to his lips. As the boy's head was lifted from the pillow, it revealed a noble and intellectual out- hne, and the attenuated features were of a rare order of beauty. His hair lay in matted rings, above his broad brow, and the eyes which lifted their weary lids were of the deep azure of the midnight sky—they _ere like the eyes into whose passionate depths Madeline had looked in the days of love and hope; she almost shrank from the tender look which rought back that vivid dream of happiness which tnade the solitary thread of gold in her blighted life. My love, my precious darling, are you better this morning ?" she tenderly inquired. be 1 am nearer to Heaven, mother, and that is fe and a bright smile flashed over the sunken a ures. The mother involuntarily clasped him <W 10 her heart. tak not thus, my child. I cannot bear it. It srw>6? away the little courage I have left to hear you m this manner." Gri f°°r I know you will cry for your little ha„e, Unt'' the shining angel makes you know that he I _ecome your little Joy. In my dream last night 0T ttlt away with him, and he bore me in his arms ^er me was the silent river; its waters mov P and clear> but so still they did not seem to « Y' t"'10uSh a soft air was blowing all the while." Ca es, my child, those waters were motionless, be- they are formed by the tears wrung from the hearts of earth-born mortals; the air that a hes above them, of their siehs." be °h, mother, if those who weep could look in* Q(\ that dark river, and see what was shown me litti-7 (^r.eam, they would no longer mourn. I saw thev C drcn sporting among beautiful trees, and evervWCre crowned with the flowers that grew in ^oice v°°k- ^hey sang in chorus, and, as their He R S I d AWAY> a bright angel came into their midst, tene t G swee% to them, and I thought I heard him I h ^hat Mrs. Seyton has so often read to me since forav.° been ill, 1 Suffer little children to come unto me, „° SUch is the kingdom of heaven. 'd you are ready to go to him, my darling ? To J"e me here desolate—desolate ?" Dear mother, to leave this cold, dismal room for at beautiful place would be best. You would then 110 longer have me to work for, for I know that I am a great burden to you." the KS sP°^e this child, mature beyond his years, to hari ak'n" heart to which he was held. His mother 6er Ca^ec* him her Grief in the first dark days of her Unr?^7' he had wound himself into her affections 1 he had become the hope of her life. att 16 fare the uncommon beauty of her child, cf wh° looked on him and the sad heart him 'e sa^en mother admitted bright hopes for Ga m the future. She vaguely dreamed that tho claim^ C0lne ln which he would be proudly and rejcct<(/|le fat^lcr wbo had tacitly cast him off talent of a fair orri ™a^natlcn» fancy and poetic the precocious Madehne assiduously Cultivated beneath her fond 3hich brightened daily village, she had enioved hefSel £ in an obacure education as are there affor(qp^«^C]i. opportunities of lot too liberally endowed with this ^a™iIies of those natural taste for literature prompted ho,?*3 ° l lit a hours of leisure to the cultiva^nj^, ^vote Powers. Time proved her to be one of those a ^children ofgeuius before whom no future suiterl their capacities ever opens. The anguish of a great overwhelming sorrow had first unsealed this 6h„ 10J* her being, and the country girl knew that had the gift of poesy. She poured forth for 1fif ^at would have touched the universal heart, bleed; 7 041116 fresh from her own, crushed and Ii„ht n^T~but not debased; but none of them saw the state 'fhose which most vividly pourtrayed her own Mother BueelinS were destroyed^ lest the eye of with wv,-°v^^ read and comprehend that bitterness In the oJ? ^'e stranger intermeddleth not." bel°nging8 fi!'run'i which contained almost her whole 311 d snatches FC were a number of prose sketches, 5entiment or 80ng on familiar themes, in which £ he had refer^°Ir.ow had no part, and it was to these fs a means ^e<7 in. her conversation with Margaret, her chii^ obtaining money to sustain herself and CHAPTER XIV. JBTTOV FAITH' was a, Nottinghamshire woman of humble birth, and her family for several generations had been lace-workers. After the death of her hus- band and four sons, the temptation of good work and higher wages induced her to remove with her young daughter to London. Here her expenses were so much greater than in her native village that little was gained by the exchange, except that Margaret obtained a fair education. Mrs. Seyton's sight had long been failing, and the successive losses she wept over with passionate grief, caused its complete loss. She became totally blind, and this affliction was speedily followed by paralysis of the lower limbs. Thus Margaret was compelled to apply herself to her mother's trade as a means of living. At first, the life of Mrs. Seyton was an inex- pressible bitterness and weariness to her, and she re- belled against the fat-e which had laid her aside, a darkened, helpless cripple but soon the abiding faith of her soul arose triumphant even above this aflliction, and she turned her active mind towards the possibility of assisting in supporting herself. With fingers skilled in the delicacy of touch neces- sary to a lace-worker, she was speedily able to distin- guish colours by passing her hand over them, and she commenced knitting articles in Berlin wool. The exquisite combinations she had once imitated with her bobbins, she now re-produced from memory, and wrought articles which were readily purchased by dealers in fancy goods. Four years had passed since this calamity fell on her, and the blind widow and her daughter had managed to live without appealing to the aid of charity. When Madeline Gordon came on her wild quest to London, she wandered from lodging to lodging, each one poorer than the last, as the money she had brought with her melted away. Accident made her known to Margaret Seyton, and she became a joint tenant of the little room occupied by herself and her mother. Her stay was to be temporary, but soon the four forlorn creatures became so strongly attached to each other, that all thought of parting was abandoned. While Margaret worked at her bobbins, and Made- line made shirts, by which a pittance was gained that barely enabled to keep her son and herself above want, the little Grief would sit upon the bed of the blind woman and read aloud to her from the Bible, or from the Pilgrim's Progress," and Doddridge's II.Itise and Progress," three books which the widow prized above their weight in gold. This tranquil though poverty-stricken life was broken by the restlessness of the boy and his deter- mination to do something toward taking care of him- self. There was no opening for a friendless lad like himself, save one-with a trilling capital he could start as a newsboy. With many tears and misgivings, his mother saw him start on his new career, but his success in the first week gave her confidence in his ability to win his way slowly but surely to a better position in life. All her hopes were dashed by his illness. Exposure, to which lie was unaccustomed, brought on an attack of pneumonia, which ended in a permanent affection of the lungs, and the bright, promising boy was stricken with hopeless disease. Then all the misery of her position came home to the agonised mother's heart. Her resources were exhausted, and she was in the midst of that most heartless, soulless place—the modern Babylon, with- out a home, without friends who could a.id her in her need. While her money lasted she had advertised and t inquired in every direction for Harold Gordon, Artist. She wrote again and again to the same address, im- i ploring aid for her child, for the noble and gifted creature who might be rescued from death, to become an ornament and a pride to that family to which lie rightfully belonged. These appeals, written with all the pathos of a breaking heart, could not, of course, reach the person for whom they were intended. Like thousands of others penned with the same failing hopes, the same faltering despair, they were sent to the dead letter ( office, to be tossed over by some careless official, and thrown amid the blazing pile of perished hopes and wasted efforts. The breakfast, which consisted of a few potatoes, and a cup of hot coffee, without milk, and with very little sugar, was soon prepared. Margaret brought forth a small loaf of bread, from which she cut a slice for her mother, and another for the sick child but when it was offered to him, with a portion of the coffee, he turned from them with an expression of disgust. All his mother's entreaties would only induce him to swallow a few morsels, which were evidently unpala- table to him. My darling, what could you eat ? Tell me; perhaps—perhaps I may be able to get something better for you. Speak, my own, and let me know what you would like." I wish I had some grapes, mother and something to hold me up—I mean something to keep away this feeling of sick faintness, that makes me think some- times that I am dying." You need wine; and you shall have it, and the grapes too, my precious boy." The large, eager eyes of the lad sparkled with mo- mentary brightness, and then the joyful expression faded. He glanced around the miserable room ana said— I believe I can do without them, mother. I know you cannot get them for me without pinching your- self, and you give me too much from your earnings now." Madeline tried to smile on him, as she replied- Never mind now about that. I have discovered a. new means of making money. I have something here I have only just thought of, which, I hope, will be worth much to me. And she held out a worn port- folio which she had taken from the bottom of her box. Grief half smiled; he asked— Are you going to sell my pretty poems, mother ? Take those you wrote for me, and maybe some one else may think them as beautiful as I do. Oh how much I should like to see them printed for everybody to read." That's where, I hope, you'll soon see them," said Margaret. Madeline opened the leaves of the portfolio, and looked over its contents. She selected two prose sketches, and four short poems, which she considered among the best, and then, with a beating heart, pre- pared to go out on her errand. Margaret brushed the mud from her black dress, and wrapped her own shawl around her-a worn but heavy woollen one, which had more warmth in it than that belonging to her friend. Promising to take every care of the sick boy, the mother and daughter sent her forth, with many fervent wishes for her success. Nerving herself to the task before her, by the thought of her suffering child, Madeline walked rapidly until she came to a street in which there were several printing offices, from which she knew popular literary papers were issued. Should she offer her productions there or would they be more suitable for a magazine ? was the question debated in her mind. Feeling as if the walk would re-animate her waning courage, she decided in favour of the magazine, and cautiously picked her way over the icy pave- ments, through the streets leading to. an extensive publishing establishment. We will not follow her efforts in detail, nor will we catalogue her disappointments and humiliations. Suffice it to say, that she at last found an apprecia- tive purchaser of her productions, and received a not illiberal compensation, together with cheering words of encouragement. As the manager handed her the money for her pieces, he said— These contributions will fill three columns of our paper, and I have given you the price we pay to our best contributors. It is not usual to give so much to an unknown writer, but your pieces have un- common merit, and if you continue to produce such good work you may probably soon command the highest remuneration." A flash of joy gleamed a brief moment upon her ex- pressive face, but it immediately faded into hopeless- ness as she said— I have no such hope-no such aspiration now. To smooth the way to a child's grave, and find means to lay myself beside him, is the utmost limit of my wishes. I thank you, sir, for your kindness it has lightened my heart of a heavy load." She passed quickly out, and with hurried steps proceeded toward the dreary place she called home. Going a little out of her way for that purpose, she came to the shop of an old woman who sold fruit, from her Grief had often been in the habit of buying apples and oranges as long as his health lasted, and his mother's means could compass such indulgencies. Is it grapes you want ?" she asked in a doubtful tone. They be scarce and high-very high at this season." I know it, but they are for a sick person, and I must have some at any cost.' The old woman peered into her face, and remem- bered her. She quickly said I hope it's not the pretty lad that used to buy from me, that is down with sickness ?" "Yes — it is my little son for whom I want the fruit." Oh, then, dear, you snail have them as cheap as I can possibly afford it, for lie was a bright-spoken boy as ever I saw. Not much the matter with him, I hope P" Not much," replied the mother, vaguely. Only an early summons to heaven. God wants him among his angels, and I shall not keep him much longer." The old fruit-seller gazed at her with an expression of compassionate surprise. She dived into a basket which was kept carefully covered, and drew forth two bunches of nice grapes. There," she said, take one to the sick lad, and tell him who sent it to him. The other bunch you can have for a shilling, and much good may they do the poor fellow." But I have money to pay for both. Here are two ehillinss" f J' No—by your leave. I am well enough to do in way. Take the grapes, and tell the lad I him come himself and I'll freely give •r. ? have them or can get them, to see him in health again." The mother sighed heavily. II That will never be. 1 know now that when he comes forth into the streets again, his hands will be folded upon all earthly Work, and the cold will no longer have power to chill him-the pitiless cold that is sapping his young life away." Madeline was now speaking more to herself than to the fruit-seller, and she mechanically walked away to a wine-merchant's, where she purchased a bottle 01 port, and hurried on. She had been absent three hoars, and in that time her child might be worse. She had UQ thought for the effect of the stinging cold upon herself—her mind was solely occupied with him, ind what she could do to alleviate his suffering, and cheer the brief remnant of lite yet left to him. But yesterday she had prayed for his restoration- to-day no such prayer came to her lips for now she felt that he would probably be regarded as an un- welcome intruder in the home of that father to whom she had desired to give him, before she herself became unfitted to take care of him. What refuge, then, could there be for Grief, save that grave which opened its sheltering arms to snatch him from penury and temptation, ere the tension on her own heart and brain caused a cord to snap which would class her amoiij those she shuddered to think of as her future com panions. Madeline knew that she had once already suffered from a distressing and dangerous species of melancholia, and with sad prescience she foresaw the doom that awaited her, unless her heart should break over the fate of her perishing child. But a broken heart does not alwavs destroy the frame that enshrines it, though it may shatter the life which tunes the spirit to harmonious action, and send the stricken soul a sad wanderer amid the unreal phantoms of the maniac's unrest. When she again entered the dim room, she found Grief lying in a half slumber, while Margaret crooned a low song to him, keeping time with the motions of her fingers over a small pillow covered with green silk, on which a delicate lace collar was nearly com- pleted. Her mother was placed in a large chair near the scanty fire, knitting and assorting her colours with a rapidity and accuracy that was surprising. As Madeline entered, Margaret looked with a joyful smile, and softly said— I see bv your face that you have been successful, and Grief has been so patient; you can't think how much credit he deserves." At the sound of her voice, the child aroused himself and looked eagerly towards his mother. (To be continued.)

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