CHAPTER II.

Observer, Volume 3, Issue 68, 31 December 1881, Page 248

CHAPTER 11.

Ring- out the want, the care, the sin. It is New Year's Eve, 1880, in London. Snow lies thick on the ground. A keen, cold wind sweeps tlie fleecy shower hither find (hither in eddying spray. 'The stars shine out clear and cold in the midnight sky. The lights of myriad lamps fall in long streaks on the white carpet of the streets, heightening its dazzling whiteness. Suddenly the bells ring out the knell of the dying old year* and the herald of the new year that, is being ushered in. King out, wild hells, to the wild sky, The flying- cloud, the frosty light, The year is dying in the night ; Ring out wild hells, and let him die. Millions of people— high and low, rich and poor, good and wicked — hear the sounds with varying feelings. To some they are the promise of another year of luxury, of enjoyment, of newborn hopes ; to many but the harbinger of another year of poverty, of misery, of despair. Many believe or hope they will hear these midnight bells for many years more ; some wish that they have heard them for the last time on earth ; that they were the knell— if bells -would ever be tolled for such as them— of their parting souls as well as of the expiring year. For they are weary of life, and wish to rest. Among these last is a lone woman in a miserable garret. As a human habitation it is inferior to the very stables on the great Shoddyvillc estate — dim, dingy, small, unwholesome ; almost destitute of furniture. The walls are bare of ornament, save a few poor pictures and a clock, whose hands point to the hour of twelve. Time is all in all to this poor woman. She works by time ; she is always striving to overtake it, but it speeds too fast. She drags out her hopeless existence by minutes, and hours, and days; 'but she cannot] with her weary fingers and aching body, press the work of two days into one. She is a seamstress, with pale, worn face and hollow eyes, stitching by the flickering light of a candle. The fire, like the old year, has died out. Ever and anon she shivers with, the cold. She is thinking of happier days, ere she knew hunger, bitter toil, and sorrow. She thinks of her brother John, who emigrated to New Zealand thirty years ago, and -wonders whether fate has dealt more kindly with him than with her. The joyous ringing of the bells brings back the memories of her wedding-day twenty years ago, when Henry Marsden made her a happy bride. Presently there is a movement in a coiner on the floor, and the head of a child emerges from the bed-clothes. It is a young girl of ten years, with great blue eyes and a wan, sickly face. ' Mamma, where is sister ?' ' Hush, dear ; she has not yet come home.' ' Mother, is there any bread ? I'm soliungry.' 'My darling, I gave you the last bit ; but try to go' to sleep, and I will finish this and get more,' and the mother rises wearily from her seat and for a brief space mingles her sobs with those of the famished child. There is a light footstep on the stairs, and a handsome young woman of about nineteen softly enters the room. She bears a remarkable likeness to the mother. The latter rises, while the child claps her hands with delight. ' You are very late to-night, Gl-race.' ' Yes, mother ; but we were kept waiting to finish, some contract work that must be delivered to-morrow,' and the girl produces food from a ■work-basket, and a few pieces of silver from her pocket. ' Have you been talking to that young gentleman again ? I must be plain with, you, Grace. I speak only for your welfare, but I cannot think any good can come of it, considering the difference in our circumstances.' ■ • Hush, mother ; he is coining to-morrow to ask you to let me marry him.'