LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume VIII, Issue 1014, 25 September 1877, Page 3

LITERATURE.

POPPIES.

[By the Author oi ' Phocbe of Plasthwaite.J

(Tinsley,)

( Continued.)

The bright summer-time passed away, autumn came, and winter ; and life on Jonas Dickinson's farm went on steadily and surely. Harvest-time had gone, and the earth was taking its rest, ready to wake again when the spring days should bring life and work. But before them came hard and bitter frost, and dull heavy rains. And then at the call of his duty old Silas Black, like a faithful soldier, fell stricken. Tending his sheep he heeded not himself, and the sharp frost arrows wounded mortally the strc g firm body that had looked forward to long years of battle. Instead of more fighting he had lighted upon a fair land, where there was only rest and sweet summer air.

But Margie, bright sunny Margie, was left behind, alone, and sorrowful. And in the days when her sorrow was first upon her, and when she was told she must let others take her place in the old home by the hayricks, Lancelot, her young master, told her of his love for her —how it was greater and stronger than aught else in the world. It was a dream, bright and glorious, eclipsing for the moment her sorrow, her past life, and her future, but still a dream. How could it be real ? She a poor shepherd's child, he her master ! Her master ! That one word was enough to chase away like some cruel nightmare the fairy visions that had gone before. Lancelot, manly and true, held firmly to his word, and Margie gave him her love. How could she help it 1 He was so brave and good.

But his father —for Lassie told him at once of the matter—declared the boy was mad. He was furious. He would hear no word from his son. And when the farmers about met him, and ventured to speak about it —for it was soon common news that youDg Lassie Dickinson wanted to wed a shepherd's daughter—he burst into violent fits of anger, declaring that he had toiled and saved that his boy might be a gentleman, and threatened such outrageous things that at length they thought the old man himself was losing his senses. To make a long story short, Margie went away to London, where she had an aunt who did sewing work, and who would help her to gain a living for herself iu the same way. And she well away, Jonas grew more quiet, and thought his son would forget. However, it was only a false peace, for the subject once more mooted gave rise to bitter angry words, and the two, father and son, each thinking the other to be without his peer in the world, patted in anger and deadly feud.

A woman's love had come between them, and old Jonas vowed that he would never see or hear word of his son again. One cold winter's nicht, when the farm-house sittingroom was bright and aglow with candle and firelight, the nightly pipes were left on the table untouched, and Jonas cast his son from his door. He came back to his high-backed chair by tne fireside with a cruel smile on his bronzed face, and muttering as he rubbed his toil-hardened hands together, ' Let him go; he'll come round fast enough when he sees the old man's not going to give in. I never was bst yet, and I'm not going to be by a bit lad like that!' Outside in the driving snow Lancelot staggered, and leant against the low green gate that led from the trim old-fashioned garden on to the high road. At first all tenderness was driven out of him—even thinking of Margie, his love grew hard and fierce in its determination not to be conquered— and such words had been said by his father as to destroy all hope of peace again between them. Sonship henceforth was nothing ; independent manliness, truth, and honor had been assailed, and he must stand alone. He could never enter the old home again. And with that one thought he lifted himself from the low gate, aud strode down the hill towards where, a mile or two off, came clustering houses, shops, and a railway station Swift walking and the cold air, and, above all, the clear perception of things that comes in these critical moments of existence, built up a plan in his mind. He had some small property that had come to him from his mother entirely in his own control, and with this he would emigrate to Australia, with Margie as his wife. A very clear and feasible plan, at first sight, for the money he had and the wife he could have. But he did not know where she was in London. To gain some knowledge of that, he retraced his steps to some cottagers who did know. That learnt, he went on through the driving snow, and reached London when its people were asleep, and when the drowsy hum that murmurs never ceasing over the great city was the only sound heard. Through the long hours that passed afterwards his thoughts travelled back to the old home, elm-shaded, and the old man so hard and so cruel. The love of all his life crowded into the young man's heart, and for one moment he longed to go back j but the next moment the bitter words rang out shrill and clear, and he Avas too hard. No ; never again would he set foot in the old home. The morrow rose bright and clear. The heavy snow lay thick and pure white on the dingy T ondon streets, and the smoke-black-ened houses looked more grimy and duller than usual. But in one narrow street was a window three stories high, that shone with bright frost pictures, and across which came dancing the dickering light of a fire.

Inside the room was neat and clean, and the window was shaded by muslin curtains white as the snow itself. In it sat two women at work on various parts of a dress. One was quite a girl, young and fair; the other a middle aged woman. This one was a dressmaker earning a sufficient livelihood. All about her showed care and thrift; but no superfluity ; and it was only by hard work every day that the plenty was not reduced to bare necessaries. But though she was only a poor woman, she had sent for her young niece when the girl's father had died, meaning to take her for her own. Of her own kith or kin she had none nearer ; and childless lone woman as she was, she was glad to see the young life about her. Margie was this niece, and, coming to her aunt, proved herself a help instead of a burden; and the two had done well to gether. (2b be continued.)