But this particular Saturday evening brought no such suffusion of bliss
to Fessenden's,--if, indeed, any ever did. He saw, through the
streaming, misty air, the happy homes in the village lighted up one by
one as it grew dark. He had glimpses, through warm windows, of white
supper-tables. The storm made sufficient seclusion; there was no need to
draw the curtains. Servants were bringing in the tea-things. Children
were playing about the floors,--laughing, beautiful children. Behold
them, shivering beggar-boy! Lean by the iron rail, wait patiently in the
rain, and look in upon them; it is worth your while. How frolicsome and
light-hearted they seem! They are never cold, and seldom very hungry,
and the world is dry to them, and comfortable. And they all have
beds,--delicious beds. Mothers' hands tuck them in; mothers' lips teach
them to say their little prayers, and kiss them good-night. Foolish
fellow! why didn't you be one of those fortunate children, well fed,
rosy, and bright, instead of a starved and stupid tatterdemalion? A
question which shapes itself vaguely in his dull, aching soul, as he
stands trembling in the sleet, with only a few transparent squares of
glass dividing him and his misery from them and their joy.
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