Page:New Peterson magazine 1859 Vol. XXXV.pdf/28

 “IN THE BITTER COLD.”

growing cold upon her breast, and that gave her a little energy. She broke to pieces a wooden stool, and kindled a flame with it, wrapped her- self in a coarse cloak that still remained, and sat down, holding the child, while the boy crouched close to her side.

Suddenly there was the tramp of a horse—it paused before the house. Margaret know that the moment had come.

The outer door opened, and the landlord entered, muffled to the chin.

“Well, Mrs. Moulton, here I am you see—I expect you are going to square accounts and give me a supper into the bargain?”

Margaret had not stirred from her seat; she felt no dread, though the boy was crouching in fear to her side, but she was past that.

“Indeed, sir,” she said, lifting her dreary gaze to his face, ‘‘I have not a penny of money, nor have I tasted food since last night.”

“Hey day! a fine story; and what are you going to do about paying your debts?”

“Have a little mercy—for these children’s sake do not be too hard upon me—at least let us die here!”

“Don’t talk to me! Why, you've got a bigger fire than I'd think of having. Hallo! if you ain’t burning up the furniture for fear I'll seize it! Why, you wretched, abominable woman!”’

“I couldn't see these children freeze! Qh, think what your own feelings would be to hear your babes cry with cold and hunger, and not a morsel to give them!”

“People shouldn’t have children unless they’re able to support them. No, ma’am, out of this you shall go! I shouldn’t wonder if you had plenty of money—you only want to get rid of paying your debts.”

“Do I look like it?’? she exclaimed, throw- ing back the hood of her cloak, and exposing her pale, famine-stricken face. ‘‘Take all there is in the house, but leave us the shelter of this roof for a few days longer.”

“Take all there is? Of course I shall—it’s mine by right; but I don’t want any of the live stock with it, so you must pack!”

“Not tonight—oh, my God—not tonight! Hear the wind—you would not murder us!”

“Go and beg—anybody’ll let you sleep in their barn—but I’ve been so cheated that you needn’t expect any mercy from me.”

“Just tonight? We will go in the morning, but wait till then.”

“I won't wait a moment! Come, you've got your cloak on and are ready to start—you ought to be obliged to me for leaving you a rag to wear. Out with you, I say!”

“Qh, you would not drive me away now—you must be human! To-morrow will be the first day of the New Year—would you leave a memory like that to haunt you?”

“Don’t attempt that sort of thing, it’s all no use. Up with you, I say, and be off!”

He forced her out of the chair, and pushed her toward the door with coarse imprecations.

Margaret ceased to struggle—she uttered no word, but still holding the babe to her breast, and the boy still clinging to her robe, allowed him to thrust her along. He pushed them out upon the steps, and the door closed clanging.

She heard him nailing fast the windows and doors, and in a few moments he appeared. He fastened a placard upon the fence, and then turned toward her.

“If you are seen round these premises tomorrow morning, I'll find those that'll clear you out,” he said; “remember, I am a man of my word!”

He got into his sleigh and drove off; the echo died in the distance: there was no sound but the moan of the wind and the low wail of :he child.

The snow was falling rapidly, and cut like ice upon her bare forehead. She dragged her self along a short distance from the house, and sank down against a high fence. A paper was rattling in the wind—it was the announcement of the coming sale of her furniture.

“Mamma, mamma!” pleaded the boy, “do speak to me! I don’t mind the cold; but it seems as if you were dead.”

“Yes, Willie, yes,” she said, faintly, “mamma is here.”

“Can’t you walk, mamma? Do try! Somebody’ll let us stay in their house, I know they will.”

“It’s of no use,” murmured Margaret, “it will soon be over—very soon!’’

She was so weak and exhausted that the cold had taken an almost instantaneous effect upon her; the blood in her veins seemed congealed to ice: yet, in spite of all, a strange drowsiness which she could not overcome, stole over her.

“Mamma! mamma!” cried the boy again.

His voice of agony brought her back to her- self. She opened her eyes and looked round.

“Yes, Willie, yes!”

“Come, mamma, do come!”

She strove to rise, but fell back upon the ground. The snow was sifting heavily upon their garments, and each instant the wind in- creased in force, till it threatened to overwhelm them in the gathering drifts.

Margaret’s senses began to forsake her—she heard strange voices in the beating storm——her