"Have I had no inward suffering to blanch these hairs? Have not I
toiled and struggled even to these years with hopes in my heart that
all centred in my boy? I did not speak of them, but were they not
there? I seemed hard and cold; and so I might be to others, but not
to him!--who shall ever imagine the love I bore to him? Even he
never dreamed how my heart leapt up at the sound of his footstep,
and how precious he was to his poor old father. And he is gone--
killed--out of the hearing of all loving words--out of my sight for
ever. He was my sunshine, and now it is night! Oh, my God! comfort
me, comfort me!" cried the old man aloud.
The eyes of John Barton grew dim with tears.
Rich and poor, masters and men, were then brothers in the deep
suffering of the heart; for was not this the very anguish he had
felt for little Tom, in years so long gone by, that they seemed like
another life!
The mourner before him was no longer the employer; a being of
another race, eternally placed in antagonistic attitude; going
through the world glittering like gold, with a stony heart within,
which knew no sorrow but through the accidents of Trade; no longer
the enemy, the oppressor, but a very poor and desolate old man.
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