ng ceased when the
faint light of day pierced their cheerless shelter.

Hearing the voices of some neighbours in the yard, Clarence hastened out,
and seizing one of the ladies by the dress, cried imploringly, "Do come to
my mother, she's sick."

"Why, where did you come from, chil?" said the lady, with a start of
astonishment. "Where have you been?"

"In there," he answered, pointing to the wood-house. "Mother and sister are
in there."

The lady, accompanied by one or two others, hastened to the wood-house.

"Where is she?" asked the foremost, for in the gloom of the place she could
not perceive anything.

"Here," replied Clarence, "she's lying here." On opening a small window,
they saw Mrs. Garie lying in a corner stretched upon the boards, her head
supported by some blocks. "She's asleep," said Clarence. "Mother--mother,"
but there came no answer. "MOTHER," said he, still louder, but yet there
was no response.

Stepping forward, one of the females opened the shawl, which was held
firmly in the clenched hands of Mrs. Garie--and there in her lap partially
covered by her scanty nightdress, was discovered a new-born babe, who with
its mother had journeyed in the darkness, cold, and night, to the better
land, that they might pour out their woes upon the bosom of their Creator.

The women gazed in mournful silence on the touching scene before them.
Clarence was on his knees, regarding with fear and wonder the unnatural
stillness of his mother--the child had never before looked on death, and
could not recognize its presence. Laying his hand on her cold cheek, he
cried, with faltering voice, "Mother, _can't_ you speak?" but there was no
answering light in the fixed stare of those glassy eyes, and the lips of
the dead could not move. "Why don't she speak?" he asked.

"She can't, my dear; you must come away and leave her. She's better off, my
darling--she's _dead_."

Then there was a cry of grief sprung up from the heart of that orphan boy,
that rang in those women's ears for long years after; it was the first
outbreak of a loving childish heart pierced with life's bitterest grief--a
mother's loss.

The two children were kindly taken into the house of some benevolent
neighbour, as the servants had all fled none knew whither. Little Em was in
a profound stupor--the result of cold and terror, and it was found
necessary to place her under the care of a physician.

After they had all gone, an inquest was held by the c