CHAPTER II.

THE DIM FUTURE.

ON Sunday, the day after the burial, before anyone else was astir in Abbott's Court, Barbara got up without disturbing her mother to perform a task,-bitter, indeed, but which she could not leave to other hands. Quietly she collected together on the table before her everything her darling had worn or played with. She dared not leave a single garment or toy to meet her gaze hereafter; but felt it as necessary to bury them as the poor little senseless, empty body itself. The stained red shoe, the sleeve bent to the shape, seemed even fuller of life just now than the foot or arm had ever been which the sexton had lowered into the dark earth.

She worked on in the morning twilight, with hurried, trembling fingers, seldom daring to pause over any one of the things she touched. O, the luxury to have given way to the hot tears that pressed so at her aching eyes! O that she might but sit there and cry over those things all the day long, as other mothers might-mothers who had no occasion to rouse themselves from their grief till they wearied of it, in nature's own time and way. But Barbara knew well there were no such grief-luxuries for her. She must break down every impulse of sorrow that had the

least savour of indulgence in it. Monday morning must find her ready to go on as of old, taking her usual place and struggles in the ceaseless battle of life.

When she had collected the things together in a handkerchief, she tied the whole, knot upon knot, and then dropped the sacred little bundle into the seat of the old settle, and shut it up, to come no more into the light for many a year. Poor Barbara! This was like a second burial to her; and as she sat down, when all was over, she felt once more as though there could be nothing remaining to live for, or to do.

Presently her thoughts reverted to her mother, who was sleeping peacefully; and Barbara tried to draw some spirit and energy for labour from the study of that worn but invincibly patient face. As she looked, many thoughts— some apparently reproach ful-began to rise, and a moist glitter appeared in her eye. That future, as it now presented itself, was inexpressibly blank and drear. She had to work at the factory side by side with her former companions, who would be always reminding her, as they talked among themselves, of days, hopes, and feelings which she must forget, if she were ever again to be at peace. Recent events, too, seemed to have broken all ties of sympathy with them. What the change in herself might yet portend she knew not, but she was greatly changed; and she shrank from the idea of again sharing their daily life, with an emotion of repugnance so strong, that she was angry with herself for its injustice. But there was no help. She must return to the mill, with no other earthly hope or aim but that of finding means to preserve what she most longed to part with-life. Her

mother might still get along as of old by doing needlework for some neighbouring ladies, but Barbara had no such resource; she must go to the mill. It was a dreary prospect, and one that chilled her soul to look upon.

That morning, mother and daughter went to church. It was the first time for many Sundays, and it was against Barbara's wish they did so now. But when they had left the close court, and were ascending the hill, she was not sorry she had consented. The soft, sunless, tender morning harmonised well with her feelings. The breeze, too, soothed and comforted her. As she reached the church, she could not but observe how kindly, and it seemed even respectfully, every one she knew spoke to her; or, better still, passed her with a quiet, cordial, hand-grasp. Then the music of the organ seemed suddenly to take possession. of her, the instant she entered the church, and not to be willing to let her go, until her every thought and feeling became attuned to the day and place. The service began. Solemn words reverberated through the edifice, warning the sinner to repent. Every one of them sank deep into Barbara's soul. They seemed meant for her. She remembered now, with deep and growing anguish, the wild and wicked expressions that had escaped her during her child's dying hours, her bitterness of feeling towards her absent husband, and her vow-but there she stopped. That vow was still right in her eyes, and should at any cost be maintained. But she began now, as she knelt with the rest of the congregation, and tried to keep back the hot tears that dropped on her prayer-book, to pray in true contrition of heart. She could not follow the set forms of the book, nor had she the least idea of what she ought to have

been doing at any particular moment; but what she did do was this:—with all the strength of her naturally strong soul, she pleaded passionately for pardon; she told unto the Divine Father all that there had been in that poor wrecked, desperate, but loving soul of hers when she sinned. She made yet a second vow that she would endeavour by her whole future life to atone ; and then, forgetting herself, she asked for forgiveness and all imaginable blessings on his head-her erring and absent husband's. Then she waited, and was, as she believed, answered; for the organ, at the close of the service, broke forth into a strain of mighty exultant thanksgiving. With a lightened heart and a chastened spirit, Barbara came forth. There was a buoyancy in her step, a kindling of her eye, and a faint flush of lovely colour just touching her cheek, that made her look at once so beautiful and so peculiar, that her mother could not for some time dissociate her in idea from the angel in the painted window she had so often gazed upon during the service, wondering if anybody else saw the likeness there to Barbara.

As the two were leaving the churchyard, Mrs. Wolcombe appeared among the crowd, speaking first to one, then to another, in her sweet, quiet, self possessed way, so that it attracted no attention when she went up to the widow and her daughter, and spoke to them.

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Barbara, I shall come down to see you this afternoon." Then she added, in lower tones, "I have something to say to you." With a nod and half smile she passed on.

Barbara said nothing to her mother about Mrs. Wolcombe's words, but she thought of them a good deal. So did the widow, but she too kept her conjectures to herself.

In the afternoon, when Abbott's Court seemed to be deserted by all but themselves, the widow noticed a little flutter in Barbara's manner, and she guessed from that how anxiously her daughter waited their promised visitor; but still neither of them would venture to speak. Presently they both heard through the open window Mrs. Wolcombe's voice, in remonstrance with Job, who had been caught taking a nap on an old horse-stone under the chestnut tree at the end of the court; and when, in that lady's opinion, he ought to have been at church. As the two listened they could not help exchanging glances; and the widow thought she saw a flickering smile hovering about Barbara's mouth, notwithstanding a certain impatience at the delay Job was making for her.

"Pooh, pooh, nonsense, Job; no chance, indeed! See how you have been idling through all this long drought. Every pump has been dry, and the water in the well too low for anybody but you to get it up. You ought to have made quite a little fortune. I expected to have found you dreadfully worldly-minded for Sunday. I expected to have seen you pretending to pull a long face of sympathy with the poor housewives, but bursting out all over with secret glee, as you counted the coppers in your pocket."

"Aw bin seekin' more reg'lar wark, ma'am."

"All a pretence, Job. I know you too well to believe anything of the kind. Or, if you do go to seek it, I am sure you are praying to Heaven all the while that you mayn't find it."

Seeing Job rather enjoyed the joke than otherwise as he turned it over and over in his mind with unmistakable