It was hardly day-dawn as I entered the carriage. My breath froze against the window panes. After a short ride the horses stopped before the wretched snow-covered hovel (where he had seen the beggar child once enter). I opened the carriage door, leaped out, and placed my hand on the latch. The door opened. It was neither bolted nor locked; for no thief would enter there. In the corner of the room lay a bundle of rugs, with some straw, but it was unoccupied. Near the fireplace, where nought but a little well-charred bark remained upon the cold ashes, half reclining in a large wooden chair, lay the beggar boy.
THE LOST HEIR.
His cap had fallen on the ground, and his dark, curling hair fell clustering over his extended arm, as his head rested upon it. He had seemingly fallen asleep the night before, for his thin summer clothes were on his person, and his basket, yet filled with the fragments of broken feasts, remained untouched at his feet. I placed my hand upon his beautiful head; it was icy cold. Quickly brushing back the fallen ringlets from his face, the unmistakable evidence of death met my gaze.
He had apparently fallen asleep weeping, for a tear-drop lay frozen between the long lashes that fringed the eyelids.
I raised the stiffened body of the ill-fated youth, and tearing away the thin sleeve from his left arm, I distinctly discovered the letters ‘H. T.’ thereon.
Deserted, famished, and frozen, death had claimed the darling, lone boy before he knew a mother’s love!
This sad tale is taken from “Scenes in Northern Practice by Dr. Dewees, N. Y.”—Scalpel, 1855. (And like all the stories herein, it has the merit of being true to the letter.)
The Terrible Caller.
It was about half past nine in the morning.