 | This, that and the other |  |
WOOED AND WON.
“Div me just a little piece of b'ead, dear mamma! P'ease,
dear mamma, and baby will be so good! Baby hundry — baby
so hundry — no b'ead so lon' time! P'ease div baby a little!”
“O, God, it is too much!” and Kathleen threw down her
work, already stained with tears, and caught her famished child
to her heart. Time was when Kathleen had never known want,
— when her little foot sank half-buried in rich carpets, when
her delicate form reclined on velvet and down, and her fastidious
taste was pampered by viands the rarest and most costly. Then
there was a broad, strong breast for Kathleen to rest upon, a
fond arm to shelter her, and a voice which called her, many times
every day, “Kate, my life's star, my darling!”
But he had died, — died with his head upon her bosom; and
she had seen the sod piled above his breast, and turned away,
a stricken, lonely woman, clasping her little Winnie to her heart.
Then came ruthless creditors, whose rights she never dared
to question, and swept away from her her fair home, and even
the treasured bridal tokens given her by the friends of her own
orphan childhood. Kathleen was destitute. Those who had
courted her society of old — who would have given a small fortune
to be invited to her parties, or take an airing in her carriage
— swept by her now on the other side. Only one friend
remained. He was an old man, rich and influential, one
Harry, and who renewed his offer now, and still in vain. She
had buried her heart, she said, in Harry's grave, and she should
die if she could not be true to his memory. O, how wearily had
toiled those fingers, unused to labor! and still her scanty pittance
could not procure the little Winnie bread, and still the hunger-fiend
was gnawing at her own vitals.
She strained the little one to her bursting heart. “Mother
will give Winnie bread pretty soon, darling, if she has to beg it.”
There was a step upon the stair, and the old man entered.
“What! your child, Kathleen, wailing for bread! That must
not be! If you will not be the old man's wife, you must be
his child; — come to my house, Katie, for I am very desolate.
I will take care of you and Winnie, — you shall never want
more.”
“B'ead, mamma, p'ease div Winnie some b'ead,” broke in the
infant's wailing cry; and, raising her dark eyes to heaven,
Kathleen made answer,
“I have no right, Mr. Green, to accept your generosity, without
making you some equivalent. My heart is dead, buried
with Harry; but, if my hand, with my esteem, and my unswerving
truth and gratitude, can make you happy, you shall have it.
Harry will forgive me, when he knows it is for his child's sake I
do it.”
And thus it was that Kathleen became the old man's darling,
and the world said she had forgotten and was happy. But she
bore the same resemblance to the Kathleen of old as does a
marble statue to the model after which it is chiselled. Sometimes,
in her hours of solitude, she would clasp his child to her
no statue could have been colder or prouder. Every one said
Mrs. Green was more beautiful than ever, but there seemed a
kind of mystery about her. No one dared to address her as of
old, and yet every one sought her society. The throbbings of
her proud, true heart were bound down with folds of silk and
velvet, and the gems which glittered in her hair were not colder
or brighter than her cold, proud eyes. But the world did not
see her in her hours of lonely anguish. They could not share
her lonely vigils, kneeling at the foot of the cross; or know how
sweet was the release, when the kiss of the death-angel froze the
smile upon her lips.
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