THE CATASTROPHE OF TWELVE HOURS. 667 



fire. Both were occupied by a train of reflections suggested by the 

 previous conversation, and with thoughts of the family left by Mary 

 Jones. Some degree of friendship had existed between the families, 

 and to a certain extent gratitude was owing to Jones, who by accident 

 had been instrumental in procuring work for her husband. It is 

 rare, indeed, that benefits can be conferred in these situations, and 

 Sarah had felt the obligation deeply. Suddenly rising, she spoke to 

 her mother, and hurriedly putting on her cloak, seemed preparing to 

 leave the house. 



" Mother, mother," she said, " I must go and see Mary's poor 

 orphans, and strive to do something for them." 



At first it did not appear that her mother heard her, or if she did, 

 she heard imperfectly ; for time, which had passed lightly over her 

 in some respects, had rendered her somewhat deaf, added to which 

 her daughter spoke in a low and agitated voice, and it was not before 

 she had addressed her again that she fully comprehended her inten- 

 tion. When she did, however, she appeared utterly confounded, and 

 catching hold of her cloak, intreated her to remain. 



" Oh ! Sarah, you must not go. Remember, Mary caught the 

 plague by visiting a neighbour, and the town will take care of the 

 children. My dear daughter, you will not be so rash what must 

 become of us if any thing should happen to you ? we should all be 

 ruined think how you have toiled to keep me from the workhouse 

 a home I fear worse than death ; but if you go, such must be the 

 refuge for the miserable remant of my days. Think of little Sarah 

 you cannot go, my dear child !" and bursting into tears, she clung to 

 her daughter, and in a voice choked with sobs, continued her in- 

 treaties. All were, however, in vain governed by one of those 

 impulses peculiar to woman, Sarah gently disengaged herself from 

 her mother's grasp, and hastened away upon her perilous errand. 



CHAPTER IV. 



A matter, deep and dangerous, 

 And full of peril."- Heny IV. 



In a few minutes Sarah was approaching the house lately the 

 abode of the deceased Mary Jones. It stood close to, and its walls 

 were partly washed by, the foul and inky-looking stream of the Irk, 

 which in this neighbourhood is almost built over by numerous dye- 

 works, soap-houses, and vitriol manufactories, the noisome stench ex- 

 haling from which is enough to poison a whole district. It was 

 slightly detached from a mass of other cottages, chiefly inhabited by 

 individuals working at these various nuisances, upon a miniature penin- 

 sula projecting into the river. As she neared it, a confused sound of 

 crying, wailing, and sobbing struck her ear, and opening the door a 

 scene presented itself, horrible and appalling enough to have checked 

 all but a mother's advance. A deadly faintness and sickness, in- 

 deed, came over her, as she stood within the room, and some minutes 



