THE BEGGAR BOY.
“What brought you out, and where are you going, on this cold winter morning, my poor boy?” I exclaimed.
He raised his beautiful dark eyes to my face, and my heart grieved at their look of utter hopelessness, as he faintly answered, “To beg for me and old grandma.”
“Are you not very cold, in those thin clothes?” I asked.
His little teeth chattered, as he replied, “O, I am very—cold—sir.”
The impatient horses plunged violently in the traces, and the coachman asked to be allowed to drive on. I gave the poor boy the few silver coins that were in my pocket, and we passed on.
I never saw that boy but once again; his look haunts me to this day.
As I rode on, memory was busy tracing where I had ever seen features like his. The dark hair, that lay in uncombed curls upon his forehead, and clustered warmly about his neck, as though in protection against the bitter cold; his large, black eyes, with their long lashes; the finely-chiselled outlines of his mouth and nose,—these all impressed me that I had somewhere seen a face which strikingly resembled his. Poor boy! beauty was his only possession.
At breakfast a letter was handed me, summoning me immediately to one of my own children, who lay sick in a distant town. Before leaving I wrote a hurried note to Mrs. T., stating the cause of my sudden departure, desiring her to call another physician, during my absence. The young girl’s fate and the poor beggar boy’s face were almost forgotten in my own cares.
On the sixth day following, I again found myself at home. My first thought was for poor Emily. I dreaded to ask; there was something whispering to my heart that all was not well.