THE ANGLERS OF THE DOVE.
BY HARRIET MARTINEAU.
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CHAPTER VII. A HARVEST EVENING AT TUTBURY.
It was a glorious harvest day in Farmer Chell’s fields, but dreary and darksome in the house, when Polly sat there, with no companion but the little dying brother who lay across her lap. The whole household, except these two, were in the field. The farmer had summoned all hands, to make the best use of the fine weather; and there they were, in the sunshine and the shade, reaping, binding, singing, resting, drinking ale and cracking jokes, while Polly had darkened the window, and was moistening the child’s lips, and wishing that somebody would come to the door. Her mother had thought the child was worse; but all the rest had said that these kind of cases went on without end; and she might as well say he would die next Martinmas as to-day. Since the morning, however, there had been a change; and Polly perceived that he could not live to see his parents again. She once went as far as the door, to look out for the chance of some one being within sight: but the slightest movement so distressed the child that she returned to her low seat, and remained motionless till he had breathed his last sigh, with his head on her shoulder.
She was full of awe. She had seen more than one person die; but she had never before been alone with death. The hour was too solemn for tears. She laid him down on his little bed, closed his eyes, crossed his thin hands upon his breast, and stood looking at him, thinking of the first time she saw him, when he was only a few hours old, and of the plaything he was as an infant, and of the growth of her love for him since, and of the relief it would be to that love for him that he would now suffer no more. She was startled from her reverie by a touch on the shoulder. Two of her village acquaintances, Dolly and Cicely, the silk knitters, who could carry their work about with them, and knit as they went, and who were apt to infest their friends’ houses as persons of other trades could not, had entered unheard. They were full of excitement. The Queen of Scots was coming back,—coming to the Castle that very night,—some said within an hour,—some said at any minute now. Polly must come and see the sight.
When she turned, her countenance startled them. She pointed to the little corpse. The intruders cast a scared glance at each other, and rushed out of the house without waiting for a word. They ran till stopped by want of breath: and when each asked the other why she was so frightened, neither could very well say. It was so strange,—that moody girl all alone with the dead child—standing staring at him, and with no