The Stolen Child

by Caroline Orne

"I'm cold, Archie,” said a little child; and going up to a boy crouching by a small, rusty stove, she cuddled down close by his side.

“Well, I can’t help it, sis,” said the boy. “There isn’t a chip or coal left;” but he opened the stove door, blew off the white ashes which had gathered over the dying embers, and placed the child so that she could feel the faint warmth they emitted. It was very sad to see how eagerly she thrust forward her small hands, purple with cold, so as to catch what little heat there was. In a minute or two, a noise was heard outside the door, as if someone was fumbling with the latch.

“There, sis, he is comin’ now, and you’ll be in his way;” and, snatching up the unresisting child, into whose large, brown eyes came a sudden fear, he placed her on a pile of straw, in one corner of the damp cellar-room, hastily threw over her a tattered quilt, and then ran and opened the door.

“Why didn’t you let me in, and not keep me out in the cold all night?” said the man, who, with marks of moral degradation stamped on his face, and those of physical destitution exhibited in his soiled, threadbare garments, seemed eager for some cause of complaint.

“I thought the door was unfastened, so you could open it yourself.”

“You didn’t think any such thing. What did you let the fire go out for?” he then angrily demanded.

“’Cause fire al’ays goes out when there’s nothin’ to burn.”

“What’s become of the coal and chips you picked yesterday? But I needn’t ask. You wasted it all to keep that little imp in yonder corner warm. See that you don’t do it again, for when I come home, I must, and will have a fire. We must get rid of the young ‘un somehow, and if you don’t do it, I will.”

“You stole her, sir, and now I think you ought to take care of her.”

“How dare you say that I… Read More