Time passed on, and New Year’s day rapidly approached, the anxiously longed-for time, to which Henry had never ceased to look forward since he left his mother’s presence. Every passing day seemed to render his condition more and more uncomfortable. The air grew colder and colder, and the snow lay all around to the depth of many inches. A suit of cloth clothes had been “cooked up” for him out of an old coat and trowsers that had long since been worn threadbare by Mr. Sharp. Thin though they were, they yet afforded a most comfortable substitute for those their welcome appearance had caused him to throw aside. But the pair of shoes he had worn when he left Boston were still considered good enough, if thought of at all, notwithstanding they gaped largely at the toes, and had been worn so thin in the soles that scarcely the thickness of a knife-blade lay between his feet and the snow- covered ground. In regard to sleeping, he was not much better off. His bed was of straw, upon the floor, in a large unplastered garret, and but scantily supplied with covering. Here he would creep away alone in the dark every night, on being driven away to bed from crouching beside the warm kitchen fire after his daily toil was done, and get under the thin covering with all his clothes on. There he would lie, all drawn up into a heap to keep warm, and think of his mother, and long for New Year’s day to come, until sleep would lock up his senses in unconsciousness.
At last it was New Year’s eve, but the poor child had heard no word about going home. He could sleep but little through that night for thinking about the promised return to his mother on the next day, and for the dread he felt lest Mr. Sharp had forgotten, or would disregard his promise. The bright morning of another new year at length arose, clear and piercingly cold, and Henry crept early from his bed, and went down stairs to make the fires as usual. When Mr. Sharp at length made his appearance, he looked wishfully and inquiringly into his face, but no notice whatever was taken of him, except to give him some order, in the usual short, rough tone in which he always addressed him.
“Ain’t I going home to see my mother to-day, sir?” was on his tongue, but he feared to utter it.
After breakfast he watched every movement of Mr. Sharp, expecting each moment to see him go out and get the chaise ready to take him to Boston. But no such idea was in the mind of the thoughtless, unfeeling master. Nine, ten, and eleven o’clock came and went, and the poor child’s anxious heart began to fail him. Several times he was on the point of recalling to the mind of Mr. Sharp, his promise to his mother that he should be sent home at New Year’s, but as often his timid heart caused him to shrink back. At last dinner-time came, and yet nothing was said, nor were there any indications that the boy was to go home. The meal passed, and then Henry was directed to go on some errand about a mile away.
“But ain’t I going home to-day, Mr. Sharp?” said he, with a sudden, despairing resolution, looking up with tearful eyes, as he spoke.
“What’s that?” eagerly asked Mrs. Sharp, coming forward. “What’s that, ha?”
The frightened boy slunk back, and stood with his eyes upon the floor.
“Go where, did he say, Mr. Sharp?”
“Go to see his mammy, to be sure!” replied the hatter, in a half-sneering tone of surprise.
“His mammy, indeed! And pray what put that into his head, I should like to know?”
“Mr. Sharp told mother he would send me home to see her on New Year’s day,” the child ventured to says in explanation.
“Clear out! Off with you, Mr. Assurance!” exclaimed Sharp, in an angry voice, at this, half raising his hand to strike the lad. “How dare you!”
Henry started back trembling, at once conscious that all hope of seeing her he had so pined to meet for many long and weary days of suffering and privation, was at an end. Slowly he left the house, shrinking in the cold blast, and went on his errand through the hard frozen snow.
“Did any one ever hear such impudence!” ejaculated Mrs. Sharp, in breathless surprise. “Sent home on New Year’s day to his mammy! A pretty how-do-you-do, upon my word! the dirty little ill-conditioned brat!”
“I believe, now I come to think of it,” said Sharp, “that I did say something of the kind to his mother, just to pacify her, though I had no thought of doing it; and, indeed, I don’t suppose she cares any great deal about seeing him. She didn’t look as if she could keep soul and body together long.”
“If she wanted to see him so dreadful bad, why didn’t she keep him at home with her tied all the while to her apron string?” said the unfeeling woman.
“She would have had to work a little harder to have done that. No doubt she was glad enough to get rid of the burden of supporting him.”
“Well, all that I can say is, that any mother who is not willing to work to take care of her children, don’t deserve to see them.”
“So say I,” returned the husband.
“And as to Henry’s going home, I wouldn’t hear to any such thing. He’d not be a bit too good to trump up any kind of stories about not being treated well, so as to prevails upon her not to let him come back. I know just how boys like him talk when they get a chance to run home. Even when they do come back, they’re never worth a cent afterward.”
“Oh, no! As to his going home, that is out of the question this winter,” replied Sharp. “If his mother cares about seeing him, she’ll find her way out here.”
With a sadder heart than ever did poor Henry grope his way up into the cold garret that night, with but one thought and one image in his mind, the thought of home and the image of his mother. He dreamed of her all night. He was at home. Her tender voice was in his ear, and his head rested on her bosom. She clothed him in warmer garments, and set him beside her at the table, upon which was tempting food. But morning came at last, and he was awakened from visions of delight to a more painful consciousness of his miserable condition by the sharp, chiding voice of his cruel mistress. Slowly, with stiffened limbs and a reluctant heart did he arise, and enter upon the repulsive and hard duties of another day.
As he had not been permitted to go home, his next consolatory thought was that his mother would come out at once to see him. This hope he clung to day after day, but he clung to it in vain. It mattered not that, every-time the shop-door opened when he was in it, he turned with a quickened pulse to see if it were not his mother, or that he would pause and listen, when back in the house, to hear if the strange voice that came suddenly from the shop, were not the voice of her he so longed to see. She came not; nor was any word from her brought to him.
And thus passed the whole of the severe month of January, the long and cold winter adding greatly to his other causes of suffering.
CHAPTER VIII.
HENRY GASTON’S TREATMENT BY SHARP.
A BOY of more robust constitution and
