The Mysteries of the Court of London — page 272: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

STRUGGLES 241 tearfully. They embraced each other, they endeavoured to impart mutual consolation; but it was all in vain, for they had none to offer. Yet something must be done. Christina’s mind was made up; she could suffer privations herself, but she could not endure the idea that her beloved brother should want bread. He himself was racked by the same thought on her behalf, and he was about to propose that he should go and do that which Christina herself had resolved upon doing. It was in the afternoon of a chill December day when this deliberation took place, and Christina, on a certain pretext, got her brother to go off to some distance. She spoke of a place where he had called a few days back to ask for employment as a clerk; he had received no decisive answer, though the evasive one was almost tantamount to a refusal, and his sister now suggested that he should go and apply once more. She knew, or at least she feared, that the walk would be an unavailing one, and it cut her to the quick to think that her poor brother’s feelings were again to be wounded by a rebuff. But still she preferred that he should even endure this than have to experience that still deeper humiliation which in the love she bore him she now purposed to take upon herself. Christian set out, and when he was gone, Christina un- locked her work-box, lifted out the upper part, and drew forth a small packet tied around with tape. She unfastened the tape, she opened the packet, and tears trickled down her lovely pale cheeks, as she contemplated the articles therein contained. One was a long tress of raven hair, — a tress that must have constituted part of a luxuriant mass which might have formed the glory of a queen, ay, or the envy of one. This tress the poor girl placed to her lips, and kissed it reverently, devoutly, and, oh, how sadly, while the tears trickled faster and faster down her cheeks. “Oh, my mother!’ she murmured to herself; ‘* you whom I never knew, you who were snatched away from us long ere we had intelligence to appreciate your loss, you who must be a saint in heaven, look down and compas- sionate your poor orphans who have already commenced their hard struggle with the world.” Christina’s bosom was convulsed with sobs, as she thus mentally apostrophized the authoress of her being, and through the tears that dimmed her eyes, she gazed stead- (EO NMIE NOVO KS (E(O)