Beadle's Dime Novels No. 47: Tim Bumble's Charge — page 73: what you’re looking at

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

A LETTER FROM ANNIE. 71 perhaps, than if she knew my true relatiof toward-her. Some- times my brain is confused—sometimes I feel that I am wrong- ing them—but no, no; that can not be—that can not be;” and talking still to himself, he entered his seep and retired to his old place. Mrs. Lattison sat sailing and sighing over a small minia- ture. A letter, broadly edged with black, lay open before her. It was from Anne, bringing intelligence of her mother’s death. Old Mrs. Lattison was gone—had died breathing blessings on her son, of whose supposed fate she had not been allowed to learn. Anne’s letter was like herself, calm, unim- passioned, but filled with expressions of sorrow for her broth- er’s misfortune and sad suicide, and her mother’s less terrible fate. It seemed as if she had of late been fearing some such termination, and that she was in a measure prepared. Misfor- tune had also overtaken her—her husband had failed, and her great regret was that she was not in a situation to mae her sister a home. “ Who would have thought, sixteen happy years ago,” she wrote, “ when we all met at the Grove with our loved ones around us, that iu this time we should be separated—some of us dead—and others in affliction ?” ! Again the deserted wife lifled the miniature. “If I could have seen him only once more,” she said, the tears gathering, “ if I had only stayed at home thatday! I see him in dreams how often—and always he has come back to me from some long journey, with the white light of heaven Pt sag in his face.” = A light footstep was heard. Mrs. Lattison gathered the letters together and placed them away. Ella came in to her for some advice. She was working at a dress which she had turned, for their means were so limited that new dresses were an impossibility. Ella was startled at her mother’s look. do tell me if you have any new grief,” she asked, as her mother sighed heavily. “My dear,” was her reply, “I believe we are growing very poor.” “Poor! oh, no,-mother—uncle would not surely let us be very poor.” Comichkooks "com