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Johnny Blossom dashed homeward over the hill, bounding his swiftest so as to get home soon, for he had thought of something he was eager to carry out. If the master of Kingthorpe were alive Grandmother would ask him for money, she had said. Well, but really—he, Johnny Blossom, was master of Kingthorpe now, so he must, of course, attend to it. And he knew how he could do it. He would sell the fishing rod Uncle Isaac had given him—it cost an awful lot of money, Miss Melling had said—and Grandmother should have all he got for it. And his collection of coins—he would sell that, too. It ought to bring a lot of money—those old two-shilling pieces were so curious; and there was the English coin—my! that was worth ever so much!—and the queer old medal. “A railroad goes to the job all right, Bob, but it’s meant for freight and a train runs only three times a week. The line was built by the Service and belongs to the Government. We’ve come the wrong day to catch that train.” There came a year of bad harvest, and the famine was so severe that these poor people determined to get rid of their children. One evening, when they were all in bed, and the woodcutter was sitting over the fire with his wife, he said to her, with an aching heart, "You see plainly that we can no longer find food for our children. I cannot let them die of hunger before my very eyes, and I have made up my mind to take them to the wood to-morrow, and there lose them, which will be easily done, for whilst they are busy tying up the faggots, we have only to run away unseen by them." "Ah!" exclaimed the woodcutter's wife, "Can you find the heart to lose your own children?" In vain her husband represented to her their great poverty; she would not consent to the deed. She was poor, but she was their mother. After a while, however, having thought over the misery it would be to her to see them die of hunger, she assented to her husband's proposal, and went weeping to bed..
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Conrad
“It’s more than I can bear,” she said. “I’m all weak and trembly in my knees. God bless you, boy, what is it you say? Shall I see once more? Oh, God’s mercy is great!” Bob was interested in this view of the matter. Once again on the piazza Jerry said, “What is it?” The distant torrent's melancholy note.
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