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A CHILD OF NATURE. .

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A CHILD OF NATURE. A Story of Life in Cardiff. By E. PATrEKSON, Author of "Tales of Cardiff." CHAPTER X. Take that, you Cur After a few brief moments locked in each other's aims, Giynarth made Agnes as comfort- able a, seat as he could under the circumstances, And in truth the gul needed help, for she was weak and stiff from her enforced imprisonment Mid want of food. Then he plied her with ques- tions as to how she came to be shut up in the iottage. But beyond telling him that her captor had visited her the evening before, and iad announced his intention of doing so every Sight until she promised to give Giynarth up, she lould not teil him anything more than the reader already knows. And when she had given him all the information she could he ceased bis questions and relapsed into silence. Day was now slowly disappearing and night ilowiy creeping up from the east the workers ) f In the gardens round about had all gone home, bnd the whole scene wore a look of tranquility. j •J Still Giynarth sat in ctep thought, wondering who it could be that had dared to make Agnes a prisoner m a tumble down hovel. Who was jj\ the prime eause of her incarceration he knew, or ab least he surmised who it was but how to 'jj, bring the crime home to him was what troubled ;1, Blynartb. At last, rising to his feet from his leak on the window sil1, the shutters of which he )ad now Laken down to admit more air ? Into the place, he bade Agnes not to i< tell anyone where she had been during the £ past two day*, nor anything about the matter, if Ihe could possibly help do;ng so uiitit he gave her permission. He had now made up his mind what *•. to do. Then putting up the shutters to the | irindow again and closing the door, he jr !ed her away towards the town, supporting I her as well as he could until they reached theroad where people were moving about. He then j, released his hold of her and walked by her side antil they reached his father's shop. He did leave her to go to the Freeman's Arms Court. He had other plans in view. He knew his mother tad a kindly, motheriy heart, apart from the fact that she was always ready to meet; his wishes, and an this evening he meant to put her to the test, ptfcle fearing that she would readily fall in with )is views. Agnes slowly reoo&foi. Bidding Agnes iol-w hird he entered jhe ?• ihop, and after jr'. lS'Jer>on' a ft?w words to his lather, who yC ".e"ind the c enter, he led v Jhe girl ,}eD lnt)er rjom &nd bade her be Jeatedo Irom his garditig the looks of utter i UDpreff.,) lJnger brother f and two sisters «fliiousIy intr«#i.,«- °°n^aot (lof thus uncere- <faeir respectable m vf J11'01-' id stranger into a"d, as briefl he rew ,lis .where he hart ■/ 38 P°ss'Me.l r, explained how nee>ci of m, n ,D" tbejrmfirl, and her now The Story atteDf m'ion- Jff Jras more ihan on,,„ ?,fc,*ble c condition of Agnes P* »f Mrs Oiver, M>?)0 to exc te the sympathy & gT'rl's W;,n.. once set ,about to attend to i enjoined his moth' W'e Glr1 ynarth, who had i>rder to prevent th silent be^e on the matter in H *°. warn the ahdtir»^ SCl>ry fron,idw gating about and I *ith his father Wea" mf' -o the shop and did bother—enlisted thl ije done with his *»d persuaded him t, Sympathy for Agnes present. Having e story to no one at room, and •««> 6 ,J!v,\ he returned to the JTOod hands, he stoJ« fcMi. the girl was in an tern used for U(! out• secured a dark «ouse and the store-r" J iI:r and fro between the as possible haVt>0II° ext1,> aQd bent his steps as f8* as the ° t'le garden, which he fmJr,' and night proc,ate vestige of twilight faded \m-g a quiok m;<Pe"r assumed her reign. Vh 'n- ''Je now f&' t tauce at the landscape around Inight be w a'rY -ib gathering darkness, to see 1 *■* '^erfnetching his movements, he with- | dr e^»l%cf "i £ "from the shntters, climbed in by Jjj^ the window, and pub up the shntters again. Before going home lie had driven the staple into the doorpost again, and so secured the door. When he had fastened the window and shutters "he struck a match and hb his lamp, turned the ihade across the glass, and stood near the door to ifcw&it whatever might occur next. In the night Agnes had been dragged into the EM?V tombledown cottage by an unknown hand for a ii, purpose_ more fitted to a hundred years ago than py?_ to the time cf which we write, and left there sagged and bound hand and foot with a barbarity bordering on devilishness and in the night Giynarth had retolved, if possible, to learn who it was who had treated her so brutally. When Agnes told him her captor had returned to her on the previous night, he naturally sup- posed that the abductor would repeat his visit as sooir as he thought it safe to do so. And after thinking the matter over, as we have seen before taking her to his mother, he decided to follow oat bis present plan for the detection of he offender. ^K. Slowly the time passed away to Glyn, as he crouched on a piece ot wood by the wall awaiting be knew not what. His thoughts were too busy with what had been revealed to him during the past few hour-, with conjecturing on who the wrongdoer would prove to be—supposing Glyn was fortunate enough to unmask him—and in what way he (Giynarth) should punish him for bis insane brutality to Agnes, for the time to B' bang heavily. Yet in the midst of it all no thought came to him of what might possibly happen to himself ere the matter was finished with. He did not realise the fact that he was in anything but a safe or detiirabld situation. He had nob taken into account, when forming his plans and hurrying to oarry them out, the possibility of the man—who ever he might prove 4o be—bein? so much his superior in point of strength or skill, and perhaps unscrupulous enough as to make him pay dearly for what he was doing. H He had not thought of himself, even if he were tufficiently selfish to allow a thought of bis danger to intrude itself on his plans. He wanted to see who had so dared to ill-use her, and— whether it was Christian-like or un-Christian-like —he was human enough to feel his heart throbbing and his fingers tingling to physically mark his sense of the injury done to Agnes, ■f In a word, his impulsive nature and leaping ■t Wood desired some substantial reparation to ^B satisfy his outraged feeliugs. Thus it was that ^B while awaiting the coming of the evil-doer he thought not that he himself might be the greatest Batterer in the conflict. When more than an By hour had passed away after he had lit his lamp, B* be heard a quiet, cautious step on the path which M" led to the cottage door. Then silence; and a ||t few moments later his ear detected the sound of a K/. key being inserted into the lock. Now his heart B& beat with redoubled energy, and he trembled ■I with intense excitement. His left hand gripped tbe handle of the lamp like a vice, and the B)' fingers of bis right band doubled themselves B* into the palm until the muscles of his Hr hand and arm shook with the tension. A little Hg. later and the door was quietly opened a man's SE^ form stepped into the aperture and stood silently there for a moment, and Giynarth felt a maddening impulse to administer at once that punishment his whole being hungered to give to the stranger, for he felt sure that this was the brutal abductor of Agnes. Bub he restrained K himself. Stepping softly into the cottage the man closed the door behind him. Giynarth stood rigidly by the wall, the muscles of his whole j." frame stiffened with excitement and anger. Half f a minute, which seemed quite half an hour to « Glyn awaiting silently in the darkness for what be considered to be the right moment to declare bis presence, passed away, during which he heard the man fumbling about his pockets, and the next moment the siience was broken by the man striking a match and saying, in a thick muffled tone: "Now, my fine lady, 'ow 're——" But he said Bo more. His ejaculation was cut off abruptly it' tw a stinging blow on the side of his head that I Bent him reeling. The burning match fell from his hand, and left the place in darkness. The man no sooner touched the floor than he eprang to his feet again, and striking another match, which he took from his pocket whiie rising from the floor, he rushed, with flashing eil behind his improvised crape mask, at Cr'ynai-th—who was now busy endeavouring to • turn the shade of his lamp which had somehow irot jnhimec,iiitl returned the blow with I interest fling open the door he dashed out of the cottage into the night, having Giynarth i to struggle to his feet with the mortification of being toiled in bis attempt to discover the identity of Agnes's persecutor. CHAPTER XI. ■ 4 An Asylum. < It is strange that night, the foster-mother of meditation and ail soul-uplifting: thought, and I which comes as a silent cloak to hide the glaring fins of day, should be at once the begetter and Mreener of those passions which are generally lying dormant through the day, as if afraid or ashamed to show themselves in the sunshine. Whatever is too sympathetic, too soft and tender, too bad or too good, too lovely or too repulsive for the garish and searching light of day finds its out- let in the night. In the night lite seems to un- loose, disrobe, and bathe itself its heartaches, Its passionate longings, its tears, its wil forbidden ey8 and pleasures, its wrongs, injustice, and its at, as if it found for its woes a balm and a oure, | *nd for its sir? a screen and a cloak therein. In | Ihe night, /ben angels—-we natmally think— I hover around m, if ever they do, ib seems that I devils are more unloosed and given a tenfold power. For more crimes are committed in and and hidden Ly a siDgJe night than seven days are called upon to bear. A serenely beauteous daylis, in contrast to a murky day, a Lucifer by the side of a Gabriel. Thus as we have seen Agnes had been deprived of her liberty in the night, and in the night her young lover had endangered himself to a great extent in order to discover who had so brutally ill-treated her, and in the night he was grievously foiled in his plans foiled, at least, for the present, for, young though he was, he was not one to be discouraged by the failure of a first attempt. And when he regained his feet with the knowledge that the man had actually escaped, he mentally vowed that if the thing were not im- possible he would yet know who had imprisoned her for two days in that dirty, miserable hovel. Having gathered himself together, he struck a light, re-lit his lamp, and cast its rays around in search of his hat, which had fallen from his head when he dropped under the man's blow. Having discovered his headgear, he turned to leave the place, and in doing so he saw lying on the opposite side of the room a man's cap. Walking over to where it Jay he picked it up, and found that it was an ordinary cloth cap such as many workmen wore at the time. By the aid of his lamp he gave it a rapid survey, but there was nothing in it out of the common, nothing about it by which to identify its owner. Thar, it belonged to the man who had escaped him he doubted not, because he knew it was not there when he and Agnes left in the evening. And so, although he could at present see no means of connecting it with the owner, he put it in his pocket, determined to make what be could of it later on. It was the only clue he had, and, faint though it was, he was not going to ailow it to pass unnoticed. After throwing the light of the lamp around the room, and having satisfied himself that nothing else remained, he left the cottage, closed the door, and bent his steps towards home, not very well pleased with himself at having failed in his object. When herarrived home it was getting late, and his father had already closed the shop. The younger members of the family had gone to bed, and when Giynarth entered his father asked where he had been. For once in his life the son refrained from giving his father a direct and truthful answer. He did not like to own himself foiled, and having failed so ignou>:nious!y, he felt somewhat reluctant to tell his father where he had been, and for what purpose, lest he should get a reprimanding for doing what he had on his II own responsibility. Moraover, he had a secret and unaccountable desire to get at the bottom of the matter himself, and so he simply and evasively answered that he bad been trying to find out something about who had kept the girl in the cottage, but had not discovered anything of account. As to the mark of the blow on the side of his face, given by the man just before rushing out of the cottage, although somewhat swollen and discoloured, he contrived to keep sufficiently out of sight as to prevent awkward questions being asked about it. When he entered the sitt;ng-rooin an exchange of glances took place between him and Agnes, who sat by the window in a comfortable chair, looking pale and weak, but much batter in conse- quence of the kindly attention of Glynarth's mother, an exchange of glances which on her part told him plainly that all was well up to the present, and conVt-yed from him to her the fact that he was disappointed in something, which something she at once diviued to be the unearth- ing of her persecutor. We say d'vined because Giynarth had not even to.d her of his intention to return to the cottage that n;gilt for the purpose of endeavouring to dis- cover the identity of her gaoler. As to what ought to be done, or what course to follow under tho circumstances, but very little had been said during his absence, owing to his father having been kept busy serving in the shop, and the whole affair, as far as possible, kept entirely from the younger members of the family. Thus it was that after Glynarth's return a. council was held as to what mode of procedure to take in the matter. That the girl was partly known to Mr and Mrs Owen will be at once seen by the fact of her haging frequently visited the shop for articles for Molly and the neighbours, but beyond the fact that she lived in Court, and W:1S the reputed daughter of Molly and Gumer. who were well known in the vicinity, Glanarth's parents knew nothing of her. tshe was a creature of a kind en- tirely out and beyond the pale of their lives and kind. And but for their natural kindness, and sympathy with her present condition, the chances are that Agnes would never-or at least for sorno year3 to come—have become so familiar with the interior of Glynarth's home. During the two hours or so spent by Agnes in the society cf Glynarth's mother, after his return to the cottage, the motherly woman had instinctively taken a peep into the girl's better nature. £ >he had talked with Agnes about her life in the court, and the treatment of her by those who lived there and, prompted by her woman's natural curiosity, had asked the girl many questions concerning her parents—Gomer and Molly — and, without gleaning many material facts owing to Agnes's manner of reply- ing to them, had guessed at much of the truth, and sympathised with the girl accordingly, nntii Agnes had won quite a large part of the kindly woman's heart. When Glynarth proposed during the council held after his return home that Agnrss should be allowed to remain under their roof until the following day, putting forward her weak condi- tion and her probable reception at the hands of Molly—a fact which had just been elicited from the girl-his mother readily agreed with him, and expressed it as her opinion of being the best thing to do under the circumstances. Owen himself said but little either way beyond the fact that he thought the best thing to do, and the right thing, would be to give the whole matter into the hands of the police. But in this he quietly, albeit, somewhat negatively, allowed himself to be overruled by his wife and son, and agreed with them that the girl's feelings should be first considered, which was, as Glynarth had during the council instilled by insinuation into her mind, and afterwards drawn out by inference, that the matter should be allowed to drop where it was, and that Agnes should remain with them until the following day and then return home. Thus it was that this unconventional child of Nature, this wild, rebellious briar rose, her half- developed, bud-like Gipsy beauty, toned down and softened by the pallor consequent on her two days' incarceration in the cottage, came tafind a night's asylum under the roof that sheltered her young lover, while their love was yet unknown and unsuspected by his parents. And when his mother had shown her into the room where she was to sleep with his two sisters, who lay slumbering, to whom the bitter heartaches and the passionate tears of a life like hers were things unknown and undreamt of, and had left her to disrobe and retire at her leisure, she cast her eye around the neat, cleanly room, with its walls decorated with small pictures, illuminated texts, bows of ribbon, and bits of clean, if common, lace. And when she had gazed around the room, and her mind had drunk its fill, her thoughts dwelt for a moment on the youthful occupants of the bed-their ages were respectively fourteen and sixteen years—and their peaceful lives in contrast to her own stormy one. But not with envy. In the bosom of this dark- eyt-d, passionate dweller of the squalid court envy had no place. Budding as she was into woman- hood, with &.1 a woman's quick instinctive feeling, depth of soul, and yearning tenderness lying halt asleep and almost untouched in her hot, young, and unconventional heart, she yet bad the trae womanliness to look with a kindly eye and thought at those better off in the world than herself. But she was tired, and the soft white bed was as inviting to her still aching body as it was strange, and relinquishing her thoughts of the two sisters she glided gently round to the opposite side ta where they lay, and sinking on her knees—as Giynarth had taught her to do-she offered her brief silent prayer to the One whose existence she neither understood nor questioned. Then slipping off her borrowed garments she laid her head on the soft pillow and closed her eyes in thankfulness, with a peace at her heart she had se'dom, if ever, felt before. CHAPTER XII, En Passant. And the bishop smiles, as on high he sits, At the scholar who writes and starves by fits And the girl, who her nightly needle plies. Looks out for the summer of life—and dies. ANON. Be me sowl, Molly, but it's a divil av a hard miathrpaaytt'd make. anyhow cried Ciay, laugh- ingly, to the virago who sat on a low stool by the I door of her bouse reviling Agnes on her supposed laziness. To Hoe so yeuvj. An* if you'd such a blab to deal with itatrikes as how you'd not laugh so much answered Molly, touched with thij remark of her neighbour in spite of the accompanying laugh. Ah begorra, but Oi wouldn't thrust yez wid tbe care av a sick dog wid a muzzle on it for fe^r ye'd git out av patience au' bate the poor baste," said tho Irishwoman, who felt in a tRiitahzing mood. Oh wouldn't yer ? sullenly. Divil a bit would Oi, for it's inoiglity little m trey ye'd have on the animal. But, say—is it to the funeral yez gooan ? I don't know," said Mollie, with A little more I don't know," said Mollie, with A little more friendliness in her voice now that the subject was changed. Maybe I am, an' maybe I ain't. Wv. are you goin' V Av course gooan Yez dooant think gooan to miss a bit av daoent excitement whin Oi can get it, do yez ? Be jabbers loife's dull enough at the bist av toimes. Och miss a funeral ? Not me, begorra." And Clay rubbed with redoubled vigour at the coarse shirt she was engaged in washing. Wy, there'll not be much fer themselves, let alone anyone else," said Motile, gloomily. "Faith it's a foine wet blanket ye'd make jest now, Mollie, The very look of yez is enough to put a iore out." ïJ' I should like ter put this useless brat out," answered the termagant as she turned to address an abusive remark to Agnes. Where 1 Out in the Cemethary ?" enquired Clay, with a knowing leer at her neighbour, who, alio knew very well, would ba glad to see the girl gone over to the majority, but for one thing—the probabilitvof her being of use. Aye or anyw'ere else out of my sight," replied Mollie. Ah ? let the choild alone, Mollie. Shure, ye make tier tin tunes worse than she would be. But fvvhat's that ye said ? There won't be any- thing for thimselves ? Be the powers av soap, an' tuat's a slippery oath "—and the soap slid from her hand to the round-" come here, ye I shiidden' gossoon, come here "—liifikmg a grab at the article. Siiure, more difficult to hould than a fiekle colleen. Fwhat's that ye said, there'll be nothen' for thimselves ? Divil a bit av it, woman Haven't ye haerd the news, at aall, at aali wot news ?" inquired Mollie, pricking up her ears. Be me sowl, but a body 'ud think ye'd bin ta some foreign couuthry ba ye're ignorance. Dooant yez know that the gurl was inshured for fifteen gouiden sovereigns ? "WIlD told yer that ? asked Mollie, now fully alive to the importance of her being one of the funeral party, and craning her neck forward to catch Clay's reply. "Faith, 'twas the gurl's own mother as towld me an' the man's gooan to bring the money this afternoon." Oh then I s'pose be worth w'ile ter go." With an expectant and satisfied look in her bleared eyes at the thought of the feasting and drinking she would be enabled to indulge in. Piase the pigs, but Oi'm agooau, Mollie, me darlint." And wIth a laugh at her own irony, Clay arose from her seat and vanished within the portals of her house, an action which Mollie followed, and expended a little more of her ill- humour on Agnes, who had now been home a fortnight since her forced detention in trie old cottage in the garden. Where the-girl had spent the time Mollie cared nothing, and her questions on the matter were about equal to her concern in it, hence the whole three days' absence and the calle ot it—was quietly allowed to drop into the maw of oblivion, as it would not have done had the girl been possessed ot more humane parents. nd as to her father, when returned liom"-r,t the end of the week, he was too much engaged in carousing at the New Inn to think of the welfare of his daughter. Moreover, Agnes had often, when driven out by Mollie's tyranny, remained away for twenty four hours; so that her prolonged absence caused but httle surprise or comment, either in her own home or m the court generally. The foregone conversation between Mollie and Clay Maguire took place in the forenoon, and toward two o'clock in the afternoon the court began to assume an unusual appearance of activity and better garments. Quiet faces were seen passings to and fro, and occa- sionally a sad one and a bent head. Conversations were carried on in whispers or subdued tones, and even Mollie's harsh notes were softened down out of respect for the dead. Another unusual thmg was that every doorstep bore the signs of a recent wash clean window-blinds-where obtainable— had been hung to greet the eyes of chance strangers to the court and show respect to the bereaved. In short, the windows, window-blinds, doorsteps, and inhabitants of the place all bore an air of cleanliness and quietness much out of their common groove. Three days ago death had visited the court and borne away a young woman of about the age of Agn.s, the daughter of a labourer who lived next door to Clay Maguire, a quiet and inoffensive girl who had sickened and died in the foul atmosphere so loved by her hardened parents. At two o'clock the procession was to start for the Cemetery, and for some time previous to that hour those of the neighbours who were most in touch with the mother of the dead girl had kept the woman company. At about a quarter to 2 the undertaker's man arrived to screw down the coffin lid, and most of those present accompanied him into the room where lay in its homely casket, the now tenantless house of clny. Fwhat a lovely corpse she makes, ta be sure," murmured the irrepressible Irishwoman, gazing in hushed ecstacy at the beautiful, saintly white face, with its closed eyelids, lying motion- less on its last pillow, "Begorra, but it's a swate thing ta doie young, if ownly ta look lovely," whispered Clay to the nearest neighbour as they gathered around the cotfin. Ye3," answered the woman in a hushed tone, and gazing absently at the dead. an' its a good thing for 'er, poor thing, 'at she's gone. She waa too good fer this world, she was." Sure, et's thrue yez are: for the choild brought her pigs to a bad market when she came into this worruld. Begob it's an avil place for sich dilicate bits av humanity," answered Clay, still in a whisper. Indeed to goodness, there's a ejaculated Davy ill a hushed voice, as he stole in and crept up behind the women stretching his head forward to get a better view of the coffin and its occupant. The Lord hath given an' the Lord hath taken away." "Hould ypz canten' thongue, ye, ye whoitewashed haethen an' be thruthful 10 the prisince ov the dead," whispered Clay in disgust. I wass a pittee, to be sure, but the Lord shall gath&r His Lambs to His breast." replied Davey. Hould yez thongue, will yez ? An' 'ave some pity for the pure (poor) snfferin' mother. Shure, the divil can ooite Scripture for his parpua." Ah she's an excellent ooman, Misus Maguire, but the Lord knows best. May His 'arvest be plentiful." At this juncture the man lifted tho coffin lid and placed it over the still form, and Clay, hurrying forward, exclaimed in a constrained whlsper- Hould on a minute Let me kiss tbe beauti- ful face afore yez cover it up. Shure, et isn't every day wan gits a chance ta kiss an angel," And stooping over the edge of the ooffin she lightly and reverently pressed her coarse lips to the brow of the dead girl and then to each cheek, an action which was followed by everyone present, including the hypocritical Davy and the hard, coarse Mollie. Then the lid was screwed down, the coffin was lifted and borne out into the court, where it was placed on three chair3 the mourners and those accompanying them prepared to take up their places in the procession, the bearers lined up, the coffin was again rnised and borne out through the passage—under the public-house where had been spent the money which might have kept the girl alive-into the open street, with its burden of freed humanity carried away from contamination, from pollution to purity. (To be continued.)

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