By T. S. Arthur
THOMAS CLAIRE， a son of St. Crispin， was a cleversort of a man； though not very well off in the world. He wasindustrious， but， as his abilities were small， his reward wasproportioned thereto. His skill went but little beyond halfsoles，heel-taps， and patches. Those who， willing to encourageThomas， ventured to order from him a new pair of boots orshoes， never repeated the order. That would have been carryingtheir good wishes for his prosperity rather too far.
As intimated， the income of Thomas Claire was not large.
Industrious though he was， the amount earned proved sosmall that his frugal wife always found it insufficient for anadequate supply of the wants of the family， which consisted ofher husband， herself， and three children. It cannot be denied，however， that if Thomas had cared less about his pipe and mugof ale， the supply of bread would have been more liberal. Buthe had to work hard， and must have some little self-indulgence.
At least， so he very unwisely argued. This self-indulgence costfrom two to three shillings every week， a sum that would havepurchased many comforts for the needy family.
The oldest of Claire’s children， a girl ten years of age， hadbeen sickly from her birth. She was a gentle， loving child，the favourite of all in the house， and more especially of herfather. Little Lizzy would come up into the garret where Claireworked， and sit with him sometimes for hours， talking in astrain that caused him to wonder； and sometimes， when she didnot feel as well as usual， lying upon the floor and fixing uponhim her large bright eyes for almost as long a period. Lizzywas never so contented as when she was with her father； andhe never worked so cheerfully， as when she was near him.
Gradually， as month after month went by， Lizzy wastedaway with some disease， for which the doctor could find noremedy. Her cheeks became paler and paler， her eyes largerand brighter， and such a weakness fell upon her slender limbsthat they could with difficulty sustain her weight. She was nolonger able to clamber up the steep stairs into the garret， orloft， where her father worked； yet she was there as often asbefore. Claire had made for her a little bed， raised a short spacefrom the floor， and here she lay， talking to him or looking athim， as of old. He rarely went up or down the garret-stairswithout having Lizzy in his arms. Usually her head was lyingupon his shoulder.
And thus the time went on， Claire， for all the love he feltfor his sick child—for all the regard he entertained for hisfamily—indulging his beer and tobacco as usual， and thusconsuming， weekly， a portion of their little income that wouldhave brought to his children many a comfort. No one buthimself had any luxuries. Not even for Lizzy’s weak appetitewere dainties procured. It was as much as the mother could do，out of the weekly pittance she received， to get enough coarsefood for the table， and cover the nakedness of her family.
To supply the pipe and mug of Claire， from two to threeshillings a week were required. This sum he usually retainedout of his earnings， and gave the balance， whether large orsmall， to his frugal wife. No matter what his income happenedto be， the amount necessary to obtain these articles was rigidlydeducted， and as certainly expended. Without his beer， Clairereally imagined that he would not have strength sufficient togo through with his weekly toil—how his wife managed to getalong without even her regular cup of good tea， it had neveroccurred to him to ask—and not to have had a pipe to smoke inthe evening， or after each meal， would have been a deprivationbeyond his ability to endure. So， the two or three shillings wentregularly in the old way. When the six-pences and penniescongregated in goodly numbers in the shoemaker’s pocket， hisvisits to the ale-house were often repeated， and his extra pipesmoked more frequently. But， as his allowance for the weekdiminished， and it required some searching in the capaciouspockets， where they hid themselves away， to find the stragglingcoins， Claire found it necessary to put some check upon hisappetite. And so it went on， week after week and month aftermonth. The beer was drunk， and the pipe smoked as usual，while the whole family bent under the weight of poverty thatwas laid upon them.
Weaker and weaker grew little Lizzy. From the coarse foodthat was daily set before her， her weak stomach turned， andshe hardly took sufficient nourishment to keep life in herattenuated frame.
“Poor child！” said the mother one morning， “she cannotlive if she doesn’t eat. But coarse bread and potatoes andbuttermilk go against her weak stomach. Ah me！ If we onlyhad a little that the rich waste.”
“There is a curse in poverty！” replied Claire， with abitterness that was unusual to him， as he turned his eyesupon his child， who had pushed away the food that had beenplaced before her， and was looking at it with an expressionof disappointment on her wan face. “A curse in poverty！” herepeated. “Why should my child die for want of nourishingfood， while the children of the rich have every luxury？”
In the mind of Claire， there was usually a dead calm. Heplodded on， from day to day， eating his potatoes and buttermilk，or whatever came before him， and working steadily throughthe hours allotted to labour， his hopes or fears in life rarelyexciting him to an expression of discontent. But he loved Lizzybetter than any earthly thing， and to see her turn with loathingfrom her coarse food， the best he was able to procure for her，aroused his sluggish nature into rebellion against his lot. Buthe saw no remedy.
“Can’t we get something a little better for Lizzy？” said he，as he pushed his plate aside， his appetite for once gone beforehis meal was half eaten.
“Not unless you can earn more，” replied the wife. “Cut andcarve， and manage as I will， it’s as much as I can do to getcommon food.”