A few days are past, and the great event of Amelia's life is

consummated. No angel has intervened. The child is sacrificed and

offered up to fate, and the widow is quite alone.

The boy comes to see her often, to be sure. He rides on a pony with a

coachman behind him, to the delight of his old grandfather, Sedley, who

walks proudly down the lane by his side. She sees him, but he is not

her boy any more. Why, he rides to see the boys at the little school,

too, and to show off before them his new wealth and splendour. In two

days he has adopted a slightly imperious air and patronizing manner.

He was born to command, his mother thinks, as his father was before him.

It is fine weather now. Of evenings on the days when he does not come,

she takes a long walk into London--yes, as far as Russell Square, and

rests on the stone by the railing of the garden opposite Mr. Osborne's

house. It is so pleasant and cool. She can look up and see the

drawing-room windows illuminated, and, at about nine o'clock, the

chamber in the upper story where Georgy sleeps. She knows--he has told

her. She prays there as the light goes out, prays with an humble

heart, and walks home shrinking and silent. She is very tired when she

comes home. Perhaps she will sleep the better for that long weary

walk, and she may dream about Georgy.

One Sunday she happened to be walking in Russell Square, at some

distance from Mr. Osborne's house (she could see it from a distance

though) when all the bells of Sabbath were ringing, and George and his

aunt came out to go to church; a little sweep asked for charity, and

the footman, who carried the books, tried to drive him away; but Georgy

stopped and gave him money. May God's blessing be on the boy! Emmy

ran round the square and, coming up to the sweep, gave him her mite

too. All the bells of Sabbath were ringing, and she followed them until

she came to the Foundling Church, into which she went. There she sat

in a place whence she could see the head of the boy under his father's

tombstone. Many hundred fresh children's voices rose up there and sang

hymns to the Father Beneficent, and little George's soul thrilled with

delight at the burst of glorious psalmody. His mother could not see

him for awhile, through the mist that dimmed her eyes.




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