THE BEGGAR BOY AND THE GOLDEN-HAIRED HEIRESS.--MY MIDNIGHT CALL.--THE CONSCIENCE-STRICKEN MOTHER.--"OLD SEROSITY."--THE ILLEGITIMATE CHILD.--DEATH OF THE BEAUTIFUL.--WHO IS THE HEIR?--A TOUCHING SCENE.--FATE OF THE "BEGGAR BOY."--THE TERRIBLE CALLER.--AN IRISH SCENE, FROM DR. DIXON'S BOOK.--BIDDY ON A RAMPAGE.--TERRY ON HIS DEATH BED.--THE STOMACH PUMP.--BIDDY WON'T, AND SHE WILL.--THE BETRAYED AND HER BETRAYER.--"IS THERE A GOD IN ISRAEL?"--THE HUSBANDLESS MOTHER.--THE CRISIS AND COURT.--ANSWER.--THERE IS A "GOD IN ISRAEL." Ill-clad poverty, benumbed with cold, was abroad alone, exposed to that winter's night, as the white snow fleeced the frost-hardened ground. But never mind earth's cold bosom. The rich man's heart warms _him_, making him merry, however blows the wind or rages the storm. Shiver, shiver on, beggar poor! Starvation and sense-dulling cold alone belong to you. Through the crunching snow-drifts trudged a weary boy, with alms-basket on his shivering arm. From his figure, he seemed not over ten years old; but his face was so wan and melancholy, that it was difficult to tell how many year-blights the beggar child had experienced. Summer clothes were still clinging to him; a tattered comforter was the only winter article he wore. [Illustration: CHARITY THROWN AWAY.] A gay carriage rolled noiselessly by, with a beautiful girl within, well wrapped in fur and cloak, whilst the snow was dashed from the rapid wheels like white dust. She saw, through the dim light, the weary, thin-clad boy, as he stopped, with face bent aside to the flake-burdened blast, to gaze at the smoking horses, as they plunged through the fast-deepening sheet. She dropped the sash, and threw the boy a coin. It sank from her warm hand deep into the drifted snow. It might have brought him bread and a cheering fagot, but the smitten child never found it. The snow closed over the coveted prize, while the blast grew keener. On, on toiled the beggar boy, through drift and darkness, more weary as night gathered on. Thus is it ever with the humble poor; their load grows heavier as life lessens. No light or warming hearth is there--things that make house a home--to welcome the wandering boy. The clock had just struck two as I was summoned to the house of Mrs. T. The same carriage that, in the evening, had borne the beautiful young girl, awaited at my door, with its impatient horses snorting against the frosted air. A few minutes later I entered the house. Mrs. T. met me in the hall, with her face deadly pale, and manner much excited. Her singular nervousness had before struck me on my visits, whenever her daughter ailed. She informed me that her "darling Emily" was very ill with a high fever.