ell, and the wind, in fitful blasts, howled about them,
threatening at almost every step to overthrow them. But they had no time
to think of these things; slipping and running, giving each other all
the aid in their power, they pressed on in the direction of the
factory--the fear of being too late over-whelming every other
consideration.

"Come on, Susy!" said the little lad, whom we should take to be the
older of the two. "Come on, we shall niver be thear i' time; come on!
stand up! tha hasn't hurt thi, has ta?" he said, as she fell for the
third time upon the slippery pavement.

Tenderly he helped her to rise, but poor Susy had hurt herself, and
although she strove to keep back her tears and smother her sobs, Tom saw
that she had sustained a severe injury.

"Whisht!" he said, "tha munnot cry; whear ar ta hurt? Come, lain o' me,
an' aw'l hug thi basket."

"O, Tom, aw've hurt mi leg--aw cannot bide to goa any farther; tha'd
better leave me, for aw'm sure we'st be too lat."

"Happen net--tha'll be better in a bit,--put thi arm raand mi shoulder,
tha'rt nobbut leet; aw could ommost hug thi if it worn't soa slippy. Sup
o' this tea, si thee, it's warm yet, an' then tha'll feel better: an' if
we are a bit too lat, aw should think they'll let us in this mornin'."

Susy drank of the tea, and, revived by its warmth, she made another
attempt to pursue her way. But it was slow work; Tom did his best to
help her, and tried to cheer her as well as he could, though now an'
then a tear fell silently from his eyes, for his little fingers were
numbed with cold, and he felt the rain had already penetrated to his
skin, and the dreadful prospect of being late, and having to remain in
the cold for two hours, was in itself sufficient to strike dread into
the heart of one older and stronger than he. Even the watchman as he
passed, turned his light upon them for a moment, and sighed. It was no
business of his,--but under his waterproof cape there beat a father's
heart, and he murmured as he paced the solitary street, "Thank God, they
arn't mine."

But we must leave them to pursue as best they can, their miserable way,
whilst we return to have a glance at the occupants of the cottage from
which we saw them start. It is a one storied building, with but one room
and a small out-kitchen; in one corner is a bed, on which is laid a
pale, emaciated young man, to all appearance not yet thirty years of
age: he is asleep, but from the quick sho