thickly: she strained her eyes and called, "Susy! Susy!" but she heard no response: yet her heart misgave her, for the thoughts of her darlings being exposed to such a storm made her shudder; but necessity knows no law, and on the slender earnings of these two children depended the subsistence of herself and husband.

"Aw think tha wor mistakken, Jim: aw con see nowt," she said, as she returned and closed the door.

"Well, happen aw wor; but it's a sorry mornin to turn aght two little lambs like them. Bessy," he said, lowering his voice to a whisper, "aw know aw'm i'th' gate,—aw con do nowt but lig i' bed, an' aw know 'at thee an' th' childer have to goa short mony a time for what aw get, but it willn't be for long. Dooant rooar! tha knows it's summat 'at we've nowt to do wi; an' tha heeard what th' parson said, 'Ther's One aboon at 'll work all things together for gooid,' an' aw feel my time's commin' varry near; but aw'm nooan freetened like aw used to be; aw think it's gooin to be a change for th' better—an' He'll luk after thee an' th' little ens."

"O! Jim! tha munnot talk abaght leavin us yet; tha'll be better in a bit."

"Niver i' this world, Bessy! Come, put thi heead o' th' pillow here beside me, aw think aw want to rest."

She placed the little babe upon the coverlet, laid her head upon the pillow, and worn out with watching, she wept herself asleep.

The church clock had chimed the half-hour before Tom and his little sister landed at the mill yard, and it was closed. The storm was still raging, but to his repeated entreaties for admission the same answer was returned, "Tha'rt too lat! tha connot come in afoor th' braikfast." Experience had taught him how vain his endeavours would be to obtain admission; and had it been himself alone that was shut out, he would have gone quietly away and spent the time as best he might; but he felt emboldened by the responsibility that was upon him on his sister's account, and he redoubled his efforts, but the timekeeper was inexorable:—"My orders iz, az nubdy mun come in after a quarter past, an' if tha doesn't goa away aw'l warm thi Jacket for thi; tha should ha come i' time same as other fowk." Poor Tom! there had still lingered some little faith in the goodness of human nature in his breast, but as he turned away, the last spark died out. To attempt to go home he knew would be useless, and therefore he sought as the only alternative, some place where he might find shelter. At a short distance from the gate, but within the sound of the whirling wheels, he sat down with his uncomplaining sister upon his knee. The snow began to fall gently at first, and he watched it as the feathery flakes grew larger and larger. He did not feel cold now; he wrapped his little scarf around his sister's neck. The snow fell still thicker: he felt so weary, so very weary; his little sister too had fallen asleep on his breast;—he laid his head against the cold stone wall, and the snow still fell, so softly, so very gently, that he dozed away and dreamed of sunny lands where all was bright and warm: and in a short time the passer-by could not have told that a brother and sister lay quietly slumbering there, wrapped in their shroud of snow.

The hum of wheels has ceased; the crowd of labourers hurry out to their morning's meal; a few short minutes, and the discordant whistles again shriek out their call to work. Tom and Susy, where are they? The gates will soon be closed again!

Well, let them close! other gates have opened for those little suffering ones. The gates of pearl have swung upon their golden hinges; no harsh voice of unkind taskmaster greets them on their entrance, but that glorious welcome.

"Come, ye blessed!" and their unloosed tongues join in the loud "Hosannah."

But those pearly gates are not for ever open. The time may come when those shall stand before them unto whom the words, "Inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these, ye did it not to me," shall sound the death-knell of all hopes throughout an inconceivable eternity.

CHAPTER II.

It is night, and the wind is sighing itself away. The snow has ceased to fall, and the moon looks down upon the hills in their spotless covering, shedding her soft, mild light upon all. The little cottage on the hill side would be imperceptible, were it not for the light that streams through the window and the open door. The church clock has just struck eight, and for nearly an hour a woman has stood looking towards the town, her anxiety increasing every moment. She listens to the sound of feet on the crisp snow—they come nearer—they are opposite the turn that leads to the cottage: but they pass on. Again and again she listens:—once or twice she fancies she sees two children in the distance—but they come not. Passersby become less frequent; again the church clock chimes, and all is still. Her husband and her babe are asleep. Quickly putting on her bonnet and shawl, she runs to her nearest rleighbour to ask if she will sit with them until she returns, for she must go and learn how it is that her children have not come home. She fears no denial, and she meets with none; as soon as she has stated her case, the good woman replies, "Sit wi' 'em lass! aw'm sure aw will! an' thee," she said, turning to her husband, "put on thi hat an' coit an' goa wi' her."

"O, they're nobbut laikin at snowball, or else slurrin a bit," he said;—at the same time he put on his hat and coat, and showed as much alacrity to join in the search as the mother herself.

Owd Becca thrust into her capacious pocket a tea cake and two eggs, and taking the teapot into which she put a good supply of tea, she prepared for starting off; but suddenly recollecting herself, she returned and called in loud tones to her daughter: "Sarah I get that sucking bottle, an' fill it wi' milk for th' little en, an' nah, if yo two 'll nobbut bring th' childer back, aw'l see 'at all gooas on reight at hooam."

Bessy began to express her thanks, but Becca was determined not to hear her, and drowned all she said in exhorting her husband to "luk sharp." Bessy and Old Abe directed their steps to the factory, but often paused to ask passers-by if they had seen the two lost ones, but as there had so many children passed whose outward appearance corresponded with theirs of whom they were in search, they thought it best to go at once to the works and ascertain at what time they left.

Bessy's heart misgave her as she knocked at the gatekeeper's house; an indefinable dread came over her, and she scarce knew how to state her case. Little did she think that within sound of her voice lay the dear objects of her search; hundreds of feet had passed them during the day, but none had disturbed them; the whistles had screamed for them in vain, for they had gone to that lasting "rest prepared for the weary and heavy laden." From the gatekeeper they learned that the two had arrived too late in the morning and gone away somewhere, but had not returned or been seen afterwards. Bessy stood transfixed for a moment, scarce knowing what to do, but Old Abe could look at the case more calmly; and taking hold of her hand, he led her gently away, and proceeded forthwith to the police station, where he gave as full an account and as correct a description of the missing ones as he was able. It took but a short time to accomplish this much, but the journey homewards was not so speedily performed. Every dark corner was explored, and every alley and by-lane had to be traversed, and the morning was far advanced when they reached home after their unsuccessful search.

The husband and babe were still sleeping, for Becca had ministered to all their wants. She had buoyed herself with the hope that they would be successful: but when she saw them return alone, her spirits sank as low as those of the mother, and although she was silent, yet the frequent application of the apron to her eyes showed that she felt as a mother for one so sorrowfully placed.

Promising to "luk in i' th' morn'," they left the disconsolate Bessy to