diff options
| -rw-r--r-- | .gitattributes | 3 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 19224-h.zip | bin | 0 -> 84832 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | 19224-h/19224-h.htm | 3888 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 19224.txt | 3814 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 19224.zip | bin | 0 -> 80147 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | LICENSE.txt | 11 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | README.md | 2 |
7 files changed, 7718 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/19224-h.zip b/19224-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..f93eabf --- /dev/null +++ b/19224-h.zip diff --git a/19224-h/19224-h.htm b/19224-h/19224-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..de10c66 --- /dev/null +++ b/19224-h/19224-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,3888 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Alchemist's Secret, by Isabel Cecilia Williams. + </title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + p {margin-top: .75em; text-align: justify; margin-bottom: .75em;} + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 {text-align: center; clear: both;} + table {margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;} + body {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .pagenum {display: inline; font-size: x-small; text-align: right; + position: absolute; right: 2%; border:1px solid white; + padding: 1px 3px; font-style: normal; + font-variant:normal; font-weight:normal; text-decoration: none; + color: #444; background-color: #EEE;} + .blockquot {margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 10%;} + .center {text-align: center;} + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + hr.full {width:100%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + hr.major {width:75%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + hr.minor {width:30%; margin-top: 0.5em; margin-bottom: 0.5em;} + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +Project Gutenberg's The Alchemist's Secret, by Isabel Cecilia Williams + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Alchemist's Secret + +Author: Isabel Cecilia Williams + +Release Date: September 9, 2006 [EBook #19224] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ALCHEMIST'S SECRET *** + + + + +Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<table width="400" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary="" border="1"> + <col style="width:100%;" /> + <tr> + <td align="center"> + <span style="font-size: 160%;"><br /><br /><br />THE ALCHEMIST'S SECRET</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + <span style="font-size: 80%;"><i>By</i></span><br /> + <span style="font-size: 100%;">ISABEL CECILIA WILLIAMS</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + <span style="font-size: 100%;">P. J. KENEDY & SONS</span><br /> + <span style="font-size: 80%;">44 BARCLAY STREET, NEW YORK</span><br /><br /><br /> + </td> + </tr> +</table> + +<hr class='major' /> + +<p class='center'> +Copyright, 1910,<br /> +BY<br /> +P. J. KENEDY & SONS.</p> + +<hr class='major' /> + +<h2><a name="Contents" id="Contents"></a>Contents</h2> + +<div class="smcap"> +<table border="0" width="500" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary="Contents"> +<col style="width:85%;" /> +<col style="width:15%;" /> +<tr><td align="left">THE PASSING OF TONY.</td><td align="right"><a href="#THE_PASSING_OF_TONY.">11</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">THE TRAMP.</td><td align="right"><a href="#THE_TRAMP.">27</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">"HE HATH PUT DOWN THE MIGHTY."</td><td align="right"><a href="#HE_HATH_PUT_DOWN_THE_MIGHTY.">42</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">A MEMORABLE CHRISTMAS MORNING.</td><td align="right"><a href="#A_MEMORABLE_CHRISTMAS_MORNING.">58</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">NANCY'S TALE.</td><td align="right"><a href="#NANCYS_TALE">72</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">PATSY.</td><td align="right"><a href="#PATSY.">88</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">THREE EVENINGS IN A LIFE.</td><td align="right"><a href="#THREE_EVENINGS_IN_A_LIFE.">103</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">THE ELEVENTH HOUR.</td><td align="right"><a href="#THE_ELEVENTH_HOUR.">116</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">THE STORY OF JULIE BENOIT.</td><td align="right"><a href="#THE_STORY_OF_JULIE_BENOIT.">130</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">PETER.</td><td align="right"><a href="#PETER.">150</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">GOD'S WAY.</td><td align="right"><a href="#GODS_WAY.">165</a></td></tr> +</table> +</div> + +<hr class="major" /> +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em;'> +<a name="THE_PASSING_OF_TONY." id="THE_PASSING_OF_TONY."></a> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">11</a></span> +<h2>THE PASSING OF TONY.</h2> +</div> + +<p>"Last mail in, Mis' Bascomb?"</p> + +<p>"Last mail's in, Tony."</p> + +<p>"Be there anything for me to-night?"</p> + +<p>Widow Bascomb knew perfectly well there was not, but she reached for a +small pile of letters in a pigeonhole on her right and glanced over them +rapidly. Her sour visage and rasping voice softened perceptibly as she +smiled on the little old man before her.</p> + +<p>"Sorry, Tony, there's nothing for you to-night."</p> + +<p>"Thank you, Mis' Bascomb, p'raps it'll come to-morrow," and Tony turned +away with a sigh and moved towards the door.</p> + +<p>A group of men were gathered around the stove, smoking and exchanging +the gossip of the town. These greeted him kindly as he passed and he +returned the greetings half absently. Before opening the door, the old +man stopped to give his woolen muffler one more turn around his neck.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">12</a></span></p> + +<p>"Purty cold snap, this," he remarked to the company in general. "Looks +as if we'd have snow 'fore mornin' and a white Christmas after all. +Good-night, Mis' Bascomb; good-night boys. A merry Christmas to you +all!" and Tony stepped out into the frosty air of the December evening.</p> + +<p>He sighed again as he turned up over the hill to the left and started +for home. It had been a long, cold walk down to the village, and it +would be equally long and even colder on the way back, for a sharp wind +was blowing directly in his face. It was a bad night for an old man like +Tony to be abroad and he was almost sorry that he had ventured out. But +there was his promise to Martha; it would never do to break that. Martha +had always been of a more hopeful turn of mind than he, anyway. While +she was still alive she had imparted to him the same spirit of trust and +hopefulness which shone in her steady gray eyes, but since God had taken +Martha and left him all alone in the world of care and trouble, life had +been hard indeed.</p> + +<p>He had promised Martha never to omit the daily visit to the post-office +to inquire for the letter which, thus far, had failed to arrive. Martha +had been so<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">13</a></span> sure that Sallie would write to them some day; Sallie, +their handsome, wilful daughter, who had passed out of their lives +nearly fifteen years before. He never blamed Sallie for wanting to leave +them; what could a tiny village like this offer to one as clever, as +pretty, as ambitious as Sallie had been? The neighbors had said many +unkind things of Sallie but he heeded them not. They had called her +vain, idle and silly; they said the folks at the big house had spoiled +her and put notions into her head. They told him he did a foolish thing +when he allowed her to go as maid to the lady of the big house over on +the shores of the lake, and to go down to the city with the family when +they moved home in the autumn. To tell the truth, poor Tony had little +voice in the matter. Sallie, as usual, had taken affairs into her own +hands and decided for herself.</p> + +<p>Nearly fifteen years! It was a long, long time; and never a word from +the truant since the day she had left the village. Martha had waited, at +first impatiently, then anxiously, and finally with a pathetic +hopefulness that was more than half assumed. It was she who had insisted +that Tony must go to the office every day, and during those long years, +every evening, rain or shine,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">14</a></span> the same little scene was enacted in the +village post-office. Every evening he had the same story of failure to +report.</p> + +<p>"No letter to-night, mother."</p> + +<p>"Never mind, father; it'll sure come to-morrow," and Martha would sigh +and clasp her hands in her lap.</p> + +<p>Presently, by the movement of her lips he would know she was praying for +the absent one. He would lay aside his pipe, fetch his beads, and +together they would say the Rosary, begging the blessed Mother of God to +keep special watch over their child. She was the only one they had left, +four little white stones marking the resting-place of the four little +angels who had been permitted to remain with them for only such a very +short space of time.</p> + +<p>Martha was sleeping now beside her babies and he was alone in the world; +for who could tell what had become of Sallie? She, too, might be at rest +in God's Acre. Sometimes he felt that she must be, or surely, surely, +some word would have come from her. She must have known how anxiously +they would watch for news of her, and certainly she would not be so +heartless as to keep silence all this long time.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">15</a></span></p> + +<p>Perhaps she had written and the letter failed to reach them. Well, +whatever the trouble was, Tony had long since given up all hope of +hearing from her, but, because of his promise to Martha, he still made +his nightly visit to the post-office in the village. Had it not been for +that promise he would certainly not take that long walk day after day, +in summer heat and winter storms, for hope had long since died in Tony's +heart. At least, so he told himself, but somehow the walk home always +seemed twice as long as the walk down, after hearing those depressing +words "No letter to-night, Tony."</p> + +<p>Of late, the daily visit to the village had been almost more than the +old man's failing strength had been able to support. How often he wished +he had not been obliged to sell Lassie. She was the last of his horses +to go; the last, in fact, of all his possessions. There was nothing left +to him now but the old house, and that was in such a state of +dilapidation as to be really unfit for habitation. In the old days, his +dogs and his horses were better housed than he was now; in the old days, +when his farm was one of the most prosperous in that section of the +country. It was lonely indeed<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">16</a></span> since Martha went away, but he was glad +she had not lived to see him brought to this pass. He was glad he had +been able to surround her with comforts up to the very end, though to do +so he had been obliged to sell timber-land, horses, cows, everything he +owned, one after another.</p> + +<p>But Martha never knew; patient, suffering Martha, confined to her room +by illness for many years before God had sent her release from pain. +Thank God, Martha never knew; she had trouble enough without worrying +over their poverty. Her room was always bright, always cheerful; her +favorite flowers blossomed in the window, a fire of logs burned cosily +upon the hearth. The neighbors were kind in helping him to care for her, +in bringing her little delicacies to tempt an invalid's appetite; fresh +eggs, chickens, new lettuce, which Martha supposed had come from their +own farm.</p> + +<p>It would never do to let her know that all their land was gone, all save +that upon which the house stood and Martha's flower garden which +stretched from her windows to the road. How he had worked in that +garden, cultivating the flowers she loved to see growing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">17</a></span> there. +Sometimes he would lift her from the bed and place her in the large +chair by the window, where she could watch him at his work; where she +could watch, too, the road that led from the village. Often, he would +glance up from his spading to meet her brave, cheery smile that +sweetened all his labor; oftener still, it would be to find her eyes +fixed upon that long, dusty line that wound over hill and valley, in and +out through orchards and corn fields, the road that led to the village +and thence to the city beyond. He knew her mind had gone out into the +wide, busy world, of which an occasional echo would reach them, gone out +in a vain effort to guess at the whereabouts of the girl who had passed +down that country road so many years ago never to return. To the very +end, Martha had never ceased hoping, never ceased praying for the return +of the wanderer, or at least for some word of assurance that all was +well with her.</p> + +<p>By the time Tony reached the dismantled farmhouse the snow was falling +thickly, silently, on all around.</p> + +<p>"Twill be a bad storm," thought Tony. "God pity any who are abroad this +night."</p> + +<p>Pushing open the kitchen door he entered quickly,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">18</a></span> divesting himself of +cap, muffler, and ragged overcoat, and hanging them near the stove to +dry. He lighted the lamp and threw some wood upon the fire which had +burned low. Then, turning, he spied for the first time, a basket upon +the table. A pleased smile overspread his face. So they had not +forgotten, after all! How he and Martha had always watched for that +Christmas basket from Cousin John's folks over at the market town! It +was not so much the value of the gift, for John was not over-plentifully +blessed with the goods of this world and had a large family dependent +upon him. It was more the fact of being remembered kindly, the knowledge +that there was still some one who thought of them occasionally.</p> + +<p>He commenced unpacking the basket and arranging the contents upon the +table: home-baked bread, pies, cakes; a package of tea, another of +tobacco; oranges, nuts, candy; warm mittens and socks that John's wife +had knit for him. She was a good woman, John's wife, kind-hearted and +thoughtful; she must have guessed how badly he needed socks and mittens +now that Martha was no longer there to make them for him. He started for +the cupboard, a pie in one hand, a loaf<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">19</a></span> of bread in the other, then +stopped in the middle of the room and eyed them meditatively. What was +it Martha used to say?</p> + +<p>"Never, never let Christmas pass without doing something for some one. +No matter how poor one may be, Tony, they're always others poorer still. +If it be no more'n a loaf of bread, give something to the poor at +Christmas time in the name of the little Babe that had none but the +shepherds to do a hand's turn for Him."</p> + +<p>Each year he and Martha had found some one to whom they gave in the +Christ-Child's name, for the sake of the girl who was never absent from +their thoughts by day or by night. Even last year, as poor as he was, he +had met with one more needy still and sent him on his way rejoicing—a +poor lad, out of work, out of money, tramping from city to city in +search of employment. They had taken him in for Sallie's sake, given him +food and shelter, and when the boy left the farm a silver dollar, nearly +the last of Tony's small store, was pressed into his hand. The dollar +had been returned, for at the next town the object of Tony's charity had +found steady work. That was last year.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">20</a></span> This Christmas he was not doing +a thing for any one; he had forgotten completely, probably because +Martha was not there to remind him.</p> + +<p>He placed the bread and the pie back upon the table and stood looking at +them long and earnestly. He knew of one who needed them far more than he +did, a poor widow over in "the hollow," whose five small children, +sickly, starved little creatures, were more than half the time crying +with cold and hunger. He opened the package of tobacco, filled his pipe +and sat down in his chair by the stove to smoke and think.</p> + +<p>How those poor children would enjoy the bread and pies and cakes which +John's wife had sent him! Poor little things, they seldom, if ever, +tasted fare like that. He really did not need them; he managed to get +along pretty well and the neighbors were all good to him; especially +since Martha died. He would really be glad to give those children +something, but he was so tired, so tired, and it was quite a walk over +to the hollow.</p> + +<p>Then, the storm! How the wind shrieked and tore around the house, and +how steadily the snow beat against the window panes! It was warm and +comfortable there by the fire, but outside——. And he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">21</a></span> was unusually +tired to-night; that walk to the village had been almost too much for +him. Besides, he must be up in time for first Mass in the morning; he +had never missed first Mass and Holy Communion on Christmas since the +day he and Martha were married. Year after year, they had knelt side by +side at God's altar; for many years Sallie had knelt there with him; now +he was all alone but he meant to continue the custom for Martha's +sake.</p> + +<p>How the storm did rage, to be sure; but those poor children, those poor +little children! Perhaps somewhere in the wide world his Sallie was in +need of help and comfort this night and those who might give it to her +were too tired or too lazy. He guessed that was the trouble, he was +growing lazy in his old age. Well, he would do this for Sallie; it would +be one more little sacrifice added to the many which he and Martha had +offered for their wandering child, that God might keep guard over her +wherever she might be. Yes, he would do it for Sallie's sake and to +please Martha. From Heaven she was watching him and would know that to +please her and for the sake of their child he was going to brave the +storm once more and carry a little<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">22</a></span> Christmas happiness to those poor +children over in the hollow. The walk over and back again would not hurt +him; he was growing old and lazy, that was all.</p> + +<p>But first he must light the lamp. Dear, dear, he was growing forgetful +as well as lazy. He had nearly forgotten to light Sallie's lamp. What +would Martha say to that? Every night as soon as dusk had fallen, Martha +had insisted upon placing a lamp in the window of what had once been +Sallie's room. If the child came back unexpectedly, she would see the +light shining from her window and know they were waiting and watching +for her. The room itself was as she had left it years ago, her clothes +still hanging in the closet, her slippers laid ready for the tired feet +to slip into them, the fire on the hearth all prepared against the day +of her home-coming, and by night the lamp in the window shining a +welcome that could be seen afar down the road that led from the village. +He must light Sallie's lamp, then off once more into the storm and +darkness to carry a bit of Christmas cheer to the little home in the +hollow.</p> + +<p>Nearly an hour later, a thoroughly worn-out but very happy old man sat +by the stove in the farmhouse<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">23</a></span> kitchen. He was too tired even to light +his pipe; he simply sat there and tried to rest. It had been a hard +fight against the storm, but how pleased those poor little children +were! Well, he had done it for Sallie, just one more little sacrifice +for Sallie who was somewhere out there in the cold, weary world, far +from the home of her childhood, far from the ones who loved her best.</p> + +<p>Sallie gone? Sallie far away in the storm and darkness? Why no, of +course not. Sallie was only a little child sleeping quietly in her own +little room. See, the door was ajar and a ray of light from the lamp in +Sallie's room was streaming across the kitchen floor. He must go in and +extinguish the light before it awakened the sleeping child. Why had +Martha left the lamp burning? Surely she must know it would disturb the +child. Well, as soon as he was rested he would go and put it out.</p> + +<p>How tired, how tired he did feel! He'd worked pretty hard to-day, and +the sun had been hot, so hot. Well, never mind, the hay was all cut now, +a few more days like this and his barn would be filled with the finest +hay in the country. A few more years like<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">24</a></span> this one and he would be the +richest farmer hereabouts. For himself, he did not care, and Martha had +simple tastes like his own. But there was Sallie. She was only a wee tot +now but she would be a woman some day. They must give Sallie all the +advantages they had missed; they must lay by money against the time when +Sallie would be a grown up woman and want things like other girls of her +age.</p> + +<p>What ailed him, anyway, that a day's work in the hay field should make +him feel like this, so tired, so very tired?</p> + +<p>He felt a little better now; he would rest a few moments more, then be +off home to supper and to Martha and Sallie. But who was that calling to +him? Why, Martha, to be sure, standing there by the five-barred gate. +She had come to meet him with their baby in her arms. That was strange; +it was not Sallie, it was their first-born, the boy with his mother's +eyes who had blessed their home for only a few short months and then +been laid to rest in the churchyard on the hill. The other little tots +were with her, three of them, clinging closely to her skirts. They were +all smiling and holding out their hands to him in invitation.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">25</a></span> But +Sallie, where was Sallie? Once more Martha called his name. At the sound +of her voice all the wonder, all the worriment, fled from Tony's heart.</p> + +<p>"Coming, Mother, coming," he called happily, and the smile upon Martha's +face was reflected on his own.</p> + +<p>Christmas morning dawned bright and clear; the storm had passed in the +night. Something else had passed, too—the soul of an aged farmer. It +was not until the next day they found him, still sitting in the lounging +chair by the stove in which only a small heap of charred ashes remained. +They looked upon that serenely smiling face, then from one to another, +and sadly shook their heads. One of their number stepped forward and +with trembling fingers placed in the stiff, cold hand of old Tony, the +letter for which he had watched through long and weary years, the letter +that had come too late.</p> + +<p>Too late? Nay, not so. Those standing by could not see, as Tony saw, the +woman who lay dying in the great hospital down in the city. They could +not see, as Tony saw, the last rites of the Church administered, the +Sisters of Charity bending near praying, praying<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">26</a></span> for that soul about to +depart upon its last long journey. They could not hear, as Tony heard, +the pale lips speaking their final words:</p> + +<p>"You wrote the letter, Sister?"</p> + +<p>"I wrote the letter, dear. It must have reached them by now."</p> + +<p>"You told them I was dying? You asked them to forgive?"</p> + +<p>"I told them all and I'm sure they have forgiven already."</p> + +<p>"Dear father and mother! God bless them both! God have mercy upon me!"</p> + +<p>They could not know, but Tony knew. Perhaps that explained the smile on +Tony's face, the smile they could not comprehend.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em;'> +<a name="THE_TRAMP." id="THE_TRAMP."></a> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">27</a></span> +<h2>THE TRAMP.</h2> +</div> + +<p>"A pretty tough looking character, that! But I suppose you see a great +many just such specimens in this quaint little town of yours."</p> + +<p>Father Antony's back was turned to the speaker and for several moments +he remained standing at the top of the veranda steps, following with his +eyes the slouching figure that had just passed through the gate and was +tramping slowly along the county road. Then, with a sigh he returned to +his seat and, running his fingers through his hair, remarked half +absently:</p> + +<p>"Poor fellow, he looked almost exhausted. I tried to persuade him to +remain here a little longer and rest for a spell. What a life theirs is! +Some of them, of course, really enjoy it, but others——. Ah, me! those +poor others. And somehow that tramp who has just left us seems to me to +belong to the latter class rather than to the former. But pardon me, +Father, what<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">28</a></span> was it you were just saying? I was so interested in my +tramp that I failed to catch your words."</p> + +<p>"I merely remarked," returned the younger priest, smiling, "that you +must see a great many of these nomadic individuals in this quaint little +town of yours. I have been here but a week and that is the sixth +villainous looking rascal who has presented himself and demanded +something to eat."</p> + +<p>"Yes, a large number of tramps pass through here in the course of a +year, for we are on the direct road between the two largest cities of +the State. Many of them are, as you say, villainous looking, but I do +not think they are half as bad as they look. In fact, in some cases, I +have found them to be pretty good fellows once you had passed the rough +exterior and reached the real man underneath."</p> + +<p>"You must have had some very interesting experiences with these tramps +of yours; have you not, Father?" asked the younger man curiously. "I +wish you would tell me some of them."</p> + +<p>Father Anthony shifted his chair so as to command a better view of the +road. He watched in meditative silence until the tramp had become a mere +blot upon<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">29</a></span> the whiteness of the dusty road and had finally disappeared +over the brow of a distant hill. Then he spoke in tones of reminiscence:</p> + +<p>"It was on just such a May evening as this, clear and beautiful only +much cooler, that I sat in this very chair and watched the road as I am +doing now. But on that evening I watched anxiously, divided between +hopes and fears, for the figure that was so long in coming; I was +watching for Jim, the tramp. Jim had promised faithfully, but with some +men promises are made only to be broken. I began to fear that Jim was +one of these. Still I prayed fervently and continued to hope, though the +twilight deepened and brought no sign of my vagrant.</p> + +<p>"My meeting with Jim had come about in this way. For some time I had +been playing a game of hide and seek with a certain backsliding member +of my congregation. The hiding was all on his side, the seeking on mine. +Try as I would I could not seem to obtain an interview with him. He was +never at home when I called; so I decided that my only chance of coming +to close quarters with the enemy was to surprise him at his work. That +afternoon I had gone to the quarries<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">30</a></span> and found my man superintending +the gang in charge of the stone-crusher. He certainly was surprised and +not very pleased to see me, and all I could obtain from him after more +than an hour of argument and pleading was a promise that 'he would think +about it.' The 'it' referred to the making of his Easter duty, the time +for which had nearly expired. Bitterly disappointed, and with a feeling +of utter defeat, I was turning away when my steps were arrested by a not +unpleasant voice:</p> + +<p>"'Why don't you try your hand on me, Father? I'm a black enough sheep to +keep you busy for a few moments anyway.'</p> + +<p>"I wheeled around and found myself confronted by a short, thick-set man +of most unattractive appearance, a man whom you would scarce choose as a +companion along a lonely road at night. At a glance I sized up my new +acquaintance: a typical tramp who had taken a job at stoking the engine +to vary the monotony of the road. He was no professional 'hobo,' but +belonged to that class who take to tramping from necessity rather than +from choice—a too great love for the bottle being the necessity. They +find an odd job here<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">31</a></span> and there, hold it until pay day, squander the +month's earnings in the nearest saloon, then on again in search of a job +somewhere else.</p> + +<p>"I am well acquainted with these men, but there was something about the +rough looking specimen before me, a certain something in his manner, in +his speech, in the twinkle of his eyes, which set him apart from the +rest of his class. A grizzled beard of iron grey concealed the lower +half of his face, and the right temple and cheek were disfigured by a +scar which gave the countenance a decidedly sinister appearance. In +spite of that I felt that the man before me had at one time been +accustomed to a very different life from the one he was leading now.</p> + +<p>"'Why don't you try your hand on me, Father?' he repeated, and the smile +accompanying the words made the ugly face almost pleasing.</p> + +<p>"There was not time for a lengthy conversation, the engine requiring +constant attention, but the tramp volunteered the information that he +answered to the name of Jim, and promised to report at the rectory in +the evening and give me a chance to try my hand on him.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">32</a></span></p> + +<p>"In the evening, then, I sat and waited, half fearing that he had +changed his mind and would not come. But just as the first pale stars +began to twinkle in the sky Jim pushed open the gate and I went to meet +him with both hands extended in warmest welcome. He gave me his left +hand, and for the first time I noticed that the right was +gone—amputated at the wrist. Jim saw my glance of shocked pity and +smiled as he said calmly:</p> + +<p>"'It was the drink did it, Father—the hand and this scar on my face. +I'd been hitting it up pretty lively and didn't realize where I was +walking. The track wasn't wide enough for me and the train. One of us +had to get off, and as the engine was the stronger of the two—well, you +see the result before you.'</p> + +<p>"'How long have you been tramping, Jim?' I asked.</p> + +<p>"'More years than I care to think of now, Father. The drink again. In +fact, it's been the drink at every turn; it's ruined my life, made a +complete fool of me. But let's get down to business; only, you'll have +to help me out, it's so long since I went to confession I've almost +forgotten how.'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">33</a></span></p> + +<p>"'Come into the house or the confessional in the church,' I suggested.</p> + +<p>"'The house or the confessional in the church? No, thank you, Father. My +little friends up yonder, those pretty, sparkling stars, my only +companions on many a lonely night, have been the witnesses of my +degradation. Let them now behold my restoration to the favor of the God +whom I've offended.'</p> + +<p>"Strange words, those, from a tramp, and I marveled at them. Without +more ado we 'got down to business,' and it was nearly two hours later +when we parted at the gate. In answer to a question of mine, Jim replied +whimsically:</p> + +<p>"'Where do I live while I'm working on this job? Well, you see, Father, +I am rather particular with regard to my lodgings, and as there is +nothing around here that quite suits me, I just crawl under the engine +and sleep there.'</p> + +<p>"'But when it rains, Jim?'</p> + +<p>"'Well, it just rains, that's all.'</p> + +<p>"The next morning Jim attended my Mass and received Holy Communion, and +every morning after that when I entered the church to offer up the Holy<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">34</a></span> +Sacrifice the first person I would see would be my one-armed tramp +kneeling in a far corner, his rosary slipping through his fingers. The +rosary had belonged to his mother, and during all his years of tramping +he had guarded it as his most precious treasure. He had worn it in a +little chamois bag suspended from a string around his neck, but had not +used it in many, many years. He came regularly one evening in each week +to make his confession and to have a little chat with me. As the summer +progressed I wondered more and more at this strange new acquaintance of +mine; this rough looking tramp with the manners of a gentleman and the +speech, except for a few lapses in the vernacular of the road, of a man +of considerable education. The oddest thing of all was the feeling I had +that somewhere, at some time, Jim and I had met before. Little tricks of +voice and expression would seem strangely familiar.</p> + +<p>"The summer gradually faded into autumn, and one evening in late +September when I stood at the gate to say good-night to my tramp, he +remarked sadly:</p> + +<p>"'This is good-by as well as good-night, Father.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">35</a></span> I have given up my +work here and am off early in the morning.'</p> + +<p>"'Not the road again!' I cried, and the next second would have given +anything to recall the thoughtless words. A pained look crossed Jim's +face, but he answered quietly:</p> + +<p>"'No, Father, not the road. Never again shall I return to that life. I +have saved my wages this summer and am going back into the world to +begin life all over again. This time, with God's help, I shall not make +such a muddle of it as I did before.'</p> + +<p>"The next day he was gone, and many a night as I sat over my study-fire +reading or trying to work up my sermon for Sunday, my thoughts would +stray from the subject in hand and wander out into the world in search +of my friend the tramp. I would listen to the wintry blasts whistling +down my chimney and wonder where Jim was, and wonder still more at his +complete silence. Surely he might let me know if all were well with him. +Had he persevered? Or had he, perhaps, lapsed into his former ways, and +was he, even now, tramping the highways and byways?</p> + +<p>"Winter passed and spring came; still no news of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">36</a></span> Jim. Another summer, +another fall, another winter. Silence, absolute silence on the part of +my tramp. Then, one evening in May, exactly two years from the day when +I first met him, Jim stood before me once again. I recognized him by the +missing right hand and the scar on the temple. Aside from those two +points and the old merry twinkle in his eye he bore absolutely no +resemblance to my tramp of two years ago. The face was smooth shaven, +the bloat, caused by years of drinking, had all disappeared, and he +looked at least ten years younger than my former friend. His ragged +tramp's garb had been replaced by neat garments such as a fairly +prosperous business man might wear. His whole appearance seemed to +indicate that Jim had done well in the world to which he had returned. +Sitting in the garden, he told me all about it.</p> + +<p>"Yes, he had done well. It had been hard at first, oh! very hard. There +had been a time when, his savings all gone and no employment in sight, +he had faced actual starvation. But the darkest hour comes before dawn, +and that had been Jim's darkest hour. From then on things began to mend. +He had obtained a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">37</a></span> good situation and was happy in it. He had not +written because for long, for so very long, he had no news but bad news +to send. There was nothing but ill-luck and misfortune to report, and he +waited from day to day hoping things would brighten. Then, when the +unexpected stroke of good luck came, he decided to wait yet a little +longer until he could bring me the good news in person.</p> + +<p>"All the time he was talking I watched his face carefully. That +puzzling, baffling resemblance to some one whom I had known was stronger +than ever since the beard which concealed so much of his face had been +removed. I became more and more convinced that we had met before, but +when and where? I racked my memory, but the name, the personality I +wanted, eluded my grasp. Something of my thoughts must have shown in my +face, for when Jim finished his narrative he threw back his head, +laughing merrily at my very evident perplexity.</p> + +<p>"'It is really too bad to keep you guessing any longer, Father,' he +said. 'Let me help you to remember when and where we met before. Listen +and I will tell you a little story.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">38</a></span></p> + +<p>"'It is Commencement day at a certain large college in a certain city +which we need not name. The graduating class have met together for the +last time in their own particular class-room. The saintly, white-haired +priest who has watched their progress step by step from the day they +first entered college stands before them. He speaks words to them which +brings tears to those young eyes, accustomed, as a rule, to looking only +on the merry side of life. He speaks words of true affection, of gentle +admonition and fatherly advice. He gives to each youth a tiny silver +medal of our Blessed Mother, and exacts from each one a promise that he +will faithfully carry that little medal until the day of his death.'</p> + +<p>"As Jim spoke he took from an inner pocket a small medal of our Lady and +laid it on the palm of his hand. I drew forth my rosary, and there, +beside the crucifix, hung a medal the counterpart of Jim's. He smiled as +he continued:</p> + +<p>"'I see you remember now, Father, but listen just a little longer for my +story is not finished. From that class-room those lads went forth into +the busy world of men and of affairs. They went their separate ways,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">39</a></span> +each one to fill that position in life to which he felt himself called, +most of them fired by ambition and confident of success.</p> + +<p>"'One of those young men left the college that night with his heart as +buoyant and hopeful as any of his companions. Almost from the first, +however, things seemed to go wrong with him. He was an orphan, father +and mother having died a few years before. Perhaps if either parent had +been at hand to warn him of the dangers into which he was drifting, his +life might have been different. Perhaps, even if some one had warned +him, the warning would have passed unheeded. He tried law for a time and +did not like it; tried business and gave that up; drifted from one thing +to another, always drifting lower, lower, until at last he found himself +an outcast and a wanderer. For some years he lived the life of a +vagrant. If at times a longing to return to better ways, a longing for +all that might have been, stirred faintly within him, the feeling was +quickly drowned by recourse to the one thing to which he remained +faithful, the enemy that had brought about his ruin, drink.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">40</a></span></p> + +<p>"'During his wanderings he picked up odd jobs here and there, and one +day he is taken on by the boss of the stone-crusher over there in those +quarries of yours. They were badly in need of some one to stoke the +engine, and even a rough looking tramp was welcome. That same day there +comes to the place a certain priest who is searching for one of the +stray sheep from his own fold. The tramp recognizes the priest at once, +and the sight of that familiar face brings back the old, happy days of +his innocent boyhood. The priest commences to speak; he pleads, he +reasons with the boss of the stone-crusher. In spirit the tramp is once +more back in the college chapel listening to the saintly old man who had +been his guide and confidant in youth, and who had long since passed to +his reward. The vague, discontented longing for better things rises up +in full strength. After all, why not? The look on the priest's face as +he turns away decides him. That look of bitter disappointment, of real +grief, on the face of his old college friend is more than the tramp can +stand. He speaks, the priest turns to him, and—well, the rest of the +story you know for yourself, Father. That is, the rest as far as any +mortal can relate it.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">41</a></span> The end is not yet, but I trust that end will be +one which will satisfy even you.'"</p> + +<p>Silence reigned for several moments, the fragrant silence of a warm May +night. And then:</p> + +<p>"I am sure it will, I am sure it will," mused Father Anthony, smiling +confidently. "I have no fear as to what the end will be for Jim, my +one-armed tramp."</p> + +<p>"But the other man, Father, the boss of the stone-crusher? What has +become of him?"</p> + +<p>"Oh! that little game of hide and seek is still going on, but I have not +lost hope even yet. God's mills grind slowly and we must abide His own +good time, His own good time."</p> + +<hr class="major" /> +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em;'> +<a name="HE_HATH_PUT_DOWN_THE_MIGHTY." id="HE_HATH_PUT_DOWN_THE_MIGHTY."></a> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">42</a></span> +<h2>"HE HATH PUT DOWN THE MIGHTY."</h2> +</div> + +<p>"<i>Magnificat anima mea Dominum.</i>" The exquisite voice rose and fell +daintily on the incense-laden air.</p> + +<p>"<i>Et exultavit spiritus meus in Deo salutari meo,</i>" responded the chorus +in triumphant harmony.</p> + +<p>It was a Sunday evening in early June and the hour for Vesper service at +Saint Zita's convent. Reverend Mother mounted the staircase leading to +the chapel, then paused, with her hand upon the door, to listen as the +wonderful soprano again took up the refrain:</p> + +<p>"<i>Quia respexit humilitatem ancillae suae.</i>"</p> + +<p>"Poor child, poor child," whispered Reverend Mother, opening the door +and gliding noiselessly to her stall, where she knelt with bowed head +and prayed as she had never prayed before; prayed in fear and trembling +for the future of the girl whose voice had earned for her the title of +"the nightingale of Saint Zita's."</p> + +<p>Reverend Mother had always dreaded the day when she must part with this +dearly loved child who had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">43</a></span> been entrusted to her care some ten years +before. A gentleman had come to Saint Zita's bringing with him his +little daughter of six. A man of grave, even stern aspect, there was yet +a look in his eyes which filled the nun's heart with a great pity; it +was the look of one who had suffered deeply and in silence. He was a man +of few words and his errand was quickly explained. He was obliged to be +absent from home the greater part of the time and could not attend to +the education of his little girl as he would like to do. His wife was +not of our faith and was also too busily occupied to look after the +child. He did not mention that her occupation was that of society +butterfly, who sacrificed homelife, husband and child in the pursuit of +pleasure. Would Reverend Mother kindly undertake the charge of his +little Nita's education, spiritual as well as intellectual? Would she be +to the child what father and mother ought to be and could not?</p> + +<p>Reverend Mother had gladly undertaken the task, and since then Nita had +never been separated from her even for a day. During the vacations, when +other pupils scattered far and wide to their various homes, Nita had +remained at the convent, roaming at<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">44</a></span> will through the deserted +class-room and beautiful grounds. She was the pet and darling of the +entire community. In the long summer afternoons when the nuns carried +their sewing out to the orchard behind the house, or to the pine grove +on the hill, where one could obtain such a lovely view of the river, +Nita would flit about amongst them like a veritable woodland fairy. Her +snatches of song and merry laughter made sylvan echoes ring and brought +smiles to the faces of the simple women who watched her with loving +sympathetic glances.</p> + +<p>Many a time, especially of late, had Reverend Mother looked at her with +anxious foreboding in her eyes. What would the future hold for this +child of hers, endowed as she was with singular beauty and a wonderful +voice? She was a docile child, sunny and sweet-tempered, and that very +pliancy of nature was what caused the nun many a moment of uneasiness. +What would become of her once she had left the shelter of her convent +home and was exposed to the influence of the light-hearted, merry, +soulless mother from whom she had inherited her beauty; the mother whose +only god was pleasure, whose one ambition was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">45</a></span> to be the best dressed, +the most popular, the most envied woman in her set. The only hope lay in +keeping Nita at the convent as long as possible, or at least until her +character had developed sufficiently to enable her to enter her mother's +world and hold her own against it. Still, Reverend Mother dreaded the +day when she must part with her child, and now that the parting had come +so unexpectedly, so much sooner than she had anticipated, it was doubly +hard to bear.</p> + +<p>The nun knelt in the chapel that June evening and prayed with all her +heart, not only for the future of the girl whose voice filled the air +with such exquisite melody, but also for help to break to that girl as +gently as possible the sad news awaiting her. Word had just arrived that +her father lay dangerously ill and Nita must hasten to his bedside if +she wished to see him once more in this world. The carriage was waiting +and Nita must go at once.</p> + +<p>The Benediction over and the lights extinguished, all save the tiny +radiance of the Sanctuary lamp, with a final appealing glance towards +the Tabernacle door, Reverend Mother left the chapel, descended to her<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">46</a></span> +office, where she was accustomed to interview the pupils each in turn, +and summoned Nita to her presence.</p> + +<p>A little later she stood at the foot of the convent steps and watched +the carriage drive away with a weeping, forlorn little figure huddled in +one corner, while the good lay-sister who accompanied her vainly essayed +words of cheer and consolation. She watched with tear-dimmed eyes as the +carriage rolled rapidly down the avenue and out through the gate, then +entered the house and repaired at once to her refuge in all trials and +afflictions that might beset her way, the convent chapel. There, with +her eyes on the little golden door behind which the dearest and best of +Comforters is always waiting for the sorrowful, the sin-laden, the +weary-hearted, to come to Him, she found consolation and peace. Her +child was in the Lord's hands and surely in those hands she would be +safe.</p> + +<p>Many times have the June roses blossomed and fallen since the night on +which Reverend Mother stood in the convent doorway and watched the +departure of the carriage which was bearing her child away from her out +into the world of suffering and sin. Once more, the June sunshine is +flooding the land and the air is<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">47</a></span> heavy with the odor of June blossoms. +In a small town in the south of France, a young woman, gowned in deepest +mourning, sits by her own casement and gazes gloomily, despairingly, out +into the gathering twilight. On a table at her side is a small pile of +money which she has counted over and over again in the vain hope that +she may have made a mistake and that, perhaps, after all, the amount is +not quite so small as she has made it out to be. That little pile of +money represents her entire worldly wealth, and when it is gone what is +to become of her? Work? She glances at the soft, delicate hands resting +idly in her lap. Their whiteness is dazzling as compared with the black +of her gown, and she smiles rather bitterly. What work could hands like +those perform? They are beautiful certainly, but useless, absolutely +useless, just as she herself is useless. There is not one thing by which +she can earn her daily bread, and earn it she must or starve. To what a +pass has she come; she, who at one time had wealth at her command and +the world at her feet.</p> + +<p>As she sits there, broken in spirit, broken in health, a middle-aged +woman in appearance, while in years not<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">48</a></span> much beyond her first youth, +she recalls those triumphs of her past. Her success had been marvelous +though short-lived. Her mind wanders back to the days when she was the +pet and idol of musical Europe. The mere announcement that she was to +sing would pack the largest opera house to the very doors. Ah! those +days of triumph, when she had passed from one success to another, when +the mighty ones of the earth were pleased to do her honor, when the +incense of praise and flattery was burned day and night upon the shrine +of her greatness. Her mother was with her then, the beautiful, fairylike +little mother for whom her love had been almost worship. Her voice had +been with her, too, that voice at which two continents had marveled. +Both are gone now, the beautiful mother, the wonderful voice; gone, gone +forever, and she is alone in the world, alone and poor and friendless.</p> + +<p>She recalls the first and only time when she appeared in public in +America, her native land. She did not want to sing that night, for her +mother, who had been slightly ailing for some time, seemed very much +worse. She had decided not to appear at all, but had finally yielded to +the mother's entreaties and driven to the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">49</a></span> opera house. What an ovation +she had received that night! She could see it all again: the lights, the +flowers, the music, the vast audience simply frantic with delight at her +performance. At the close she had been recalled again and again, and +those enthusiastic plaudits still rang in her ears. How little she had +dreamed as she smiled and bowed her thanks, and how little those who +watched her had dreamed that never again was that wonderful voice to be +heard by mortal ears, that voice which had stirred millions of hearts +and made its owner one of the foremost singers of her day.</p> + +<p>She had driven home from that scene of triumph to find that her mother's +condition had become alarmingly worse in the few hours of her absence, +and before morning she had stood beside a deathbed the recollection of +which makes her shudder even now. The poor, pretty butterfly, her short +summer over, fought frantically but vainly against the annihilation +which was coming upon her. The memory of her early training at Saint +Zita's, the memory too of that other death-scene she had witnessed when +her father had passed away so calmly, so peacefully, with his eyes<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">50</a></span> upon +the crucifix and the words of God's minister ringing in his ears, came +to the girl and she had begged to be allowed to send for a priest. Her +mother had never professed any belief, but it seemed terrible to Nita to +have her die without even a prayer to help her in that last awful +moment. Entreaties were of no avail. The idea of a priest, of religion, +of even a final prayer, was laughed to scorn. Besides, she was not +dying. She was young yet and was going to have many more years of +sunshine and pleasure before sinking into the oblivion of the cold, dark +grave. No, no, let them not speak of death, that fearsome, awful +spectre. She was going to live. Take it away, take it away, that +dreadful thing standing there beside her, laying its icy hand upon her +forehead. Its touch was turning her to stone. She was cold, and it was +growing so dark she could see nothing. Why did they not bring lights; +why did they not take away the dreadful thing beside her bed?</p> + +<p>The final struggle was fearful to behold, and even now Nita is haunted +day and night by the scene. Even now, there are times when she springs +from her sleep with a cry of terror, thinking she is again assisting at<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">51</a></span> +the departure of that poor soul who fought so frantically against the +power of death.</p> + +<p>With her mother, a large part of their income died also, but she still +had sufficient money to supply her wants. Her voice, too, was a fortune +in itself; managers all over the country were eager and anxious to sign +a contract on any terms she chose to dictate. The shock of her mother's +death so unnerved her that she decided to spend a year in rest and +travel before returning to the stage. She had come abroad again, but had +scarcely reached London when she was attacked by a severe throat +trouble. The most eminent physicians were consulted, various treatments +tried, but the disease would not yield. The south of France was +recommended, and hither she had come in a last vain effort to save the +voice which had charmed all Europe. At first she was incredulous. Then, +she hoped against hope that time would prove them wrong and that the +lost voice would return some day even better and richer than it was +before. Now, all her hopes are gone, all her delusions swept away. She +knows she will never sing again, and here in her hand she holds the +cable message which forms the last in this series of dire<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">52</a></span> misfortunes +which have come upon her within the last two years. It is the message +which tells her that her investments have failed and that she is +penniless.</p> + +<p>She sits by her window in the June twilight, the numbness of despair +taking possession of her. On the table lies all the money she owns in +the world. It is sufficient to cover the few bills she owes, the salary +of the woman who has traveled with her as maid and companion, and pay +her passage back to her native land. But what then? America once +reached, where can she go, to whom can she turn? The distant relatives, +the friends who crowded around her in her days of success, anxiously +seeking a smile, a word, a token of her favor, how will they receive her +if she goes to them a pauper, a dependent upon their charity? There is +no one to whom she can turn, no place to which she can go, and as the +twilight deepens a heavier blackness settles upon the soul of the girl.</p> + +<p>Presently the sound of music breaks in on the evening stillness, the +sound of an organ responding to the touch of skilled fingers and blended +with it the tones of women's voices. The nuns in a neighboring convent +are chanting the evening office. The sound recalls<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">53</a></span> the chapel at Saint +Zita's, the orchard, the nuns, dear kind Reverend Mother. What peaceful, +happy hours those were? Has she ever known real happiness since she +quitted the quiet convent home of her childhood? Even in the days of her +greatest triumphs, was there not always something she could not attain, +the little bit more which was always wanting? But at Saint Zita's, how +different, oh! how different! Happiness such as the world could not +dream of ruled within its walls. She wonders what they are doing now, +the dear nuns and Reverend Mother. They, too, are probably in the chapel +reciting the office; some of them thinking of her perhaps. What would +they say if they knew how false she has proven to all their teachings, +how careless she has grown in the practice of that religion which is +dearer to them than life itself?</p> + +<p>A sentence in the last letter she received from Reverend Mother comes +now to her mind. The letter reached her years before and has never been +answered. The words are these:</p> + +<p>"Dear child, you are successful and happy now, with the world at your +feet, but if the day ever comes when all these things fall away from you +and you stand in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">54</a></span> need of a true friend or of any assistance we can +render, remember Saint Zita's is still your home and your old mother's +heart is sick with longing for a sight of her child. Worldly joys must +vanish, worldly hopes decay, but Saint Zita's and Reverend Mother will +be here waiting for you."</p> + +<p>How she longs for the peace and quiet of the old home and the comforting +touch of Reverend Mother's kind arms about her! What is it that the nuns +are singing! The "Magnificat." She listens in silence for a few moments, +then, a strange smile curving her lips, she recites in unison with the +choir:</p> + +<p>"<i>Deposuit potentes de sede.</i> Yea, Lord, Thou hast indeed put down the +mighty."</p> + +<p>It is not until after the voices are stilled, long after the world is +wrapped in slumber, that the girl turns from her open window and gathers +together the small store of money on the table beside her, repeating to +herself the while, slowly, half absently:</p> + +<p>"I wonder; I wonder."</p> + +<hr class='minor' /> + +<p>Another year has rolled around and again the June<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">55</a></span> roses in the garden +at Saint Zita's fill the summer air with their heavy fragrance. The +convent door opens and Reverend Mother steps out into the portico +accompanied by a caller, one of the "old girls" come back to pay a +fleeting visit to the home of her childhood. The nun has changed but +little with the passing of the years, but those who love her best note +with anxious eyes the slight stoop of the shoulders and feebleness of +gait.</p> + +<p>The visitor glances idly at a lay-sister who is busily engaged sweeping +the long flight of stone steps leading from the portico to the driveway +below. Her glance passes over the insignificant figure of the +lay-sister, and, looking across to the pine grove on the hill, she +speaks to Reverend Mother.</p> + +<p>"Do you know, Mother, every time I stand here and look at those trees I +am reminded of Nita, 'the nightingale of Saint Zita's,' as we used to +call her. That grove was ever her favorite resort and even the odor of +pines makes me think of her. I wish I knew what had become of her. I +witnessed her performance the only time she sang here in America, and +truly, it was wonderful. Then she disappeared completely from the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">56</a></span> face +of the earth, as completely as if the ground had opened and swallowed +her. Rumors came of her travels in England and the south of France and +after that no news of her could be obtained. Occasionally, my dear +Mother," and the visitor smiled knowingly; "occasionally I have fancied +that you knew her whereabouts and could tell us of her."</p> + +<p>"You are right, dear child, I could tell you, but I may not."</p> + +<p>"At least, Mother, tell me this: She is well and happy?"</p> + +<p>"She is well, indeed, and I think I may safely say happier than she has +ever been before."</p> + +<p>"Thank you, Mother," and the visitor descends the steps and is gone.</p> + +<p>"Sister Gabrielle," calls Reverend Mother gently.</p> + +<p>The lay-sister approaches, her broom still in her hand.</p> + +<p>"You heard our conversation, Sister?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, my Mother."</p> + +<p>"I spoke truly, did I not, dearest child?" and the old eyes peer +anxiously into the depths of the younger and smiling eyes raised to meet +her gaze.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">57</a></span></p> + +<p>"You spoke truly, my Mother. Never before have I known what real peace +and real happiness were. Never, did I dream that life on earth could be +as mine is, so happy that it seems to me a little foretaste of the joy +the angels must know in heaven. <i>Deposuit potentes de sede, et exaltavit +humiles.</i>"</p> + +<hr class="major" /> +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em;'> +<a name="A_MEMORABLE_CHRISTMAS_MORNING." id="A_MEMORABLE_CHRISTMAS_MORNING."></a> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">58</a></span> +<h2>A MEMORABLE CHRISTMAS MORNING.</h2> +</div> + +<p>On the outskirts of one of our large mill towns, at the very end of a +narrow street lined on each side by a row of dwelling houses of the +poorer class, stood a tiny cottage. It was a humble, unpretentious abode +of only four rooms, but it was home to the weary girl struggling up the +hillside. The tired eyes brightened and lagging steps quickened +involuntarily as she turned the corner and saw the welcoming light +streaming from the kitchen window.</p> + +<p>It was very late on the eve of Christmas day and the street was deserted +save for the solitary figure hastening towards that beacon light of +home. Darkness and silence reigned in most of the houses she passed, and +she sighed as she said to herself:</p> + +<p>"Poor mother! Still up and still at work. I wish she would not work so +hard; there is no need for it now."</p> + +<p>Reaching the kitchen window, she stood for a moment<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">59</a></span> to take note of the +little scene within. By the table her mother sat sewing, her head bent +over her work and fingers flying as she plied the needle in and out. As +the girl watched, the mother looked up at the clock on the shelf above +the stove, shook her head sadly, and hastily brushing away the tears +which spring to her eyes, resumed her sewing.</p> + +<p>"Poor mother!" again sighed the girl. "Worrying about Tim, as usual, I +suppose." Then opening the kitchen door, she stepped into the welcome +warmth and light of home.</p> + +<p>"Well, little mother," she cried cheerily; "here I am at last, and I +suppose you thought I was never coming. You see, dear, we had to work +very late to-night to finish a large order. Then there was confession +and I was delayed there quite a while. I was almost the last to be heard +and it was considerably after ten by the time I left the church. +Everyone in town seemed to be going to confession to-night."</p> + +<p>"Not everyone," said her mother sadly. "There is <i>one</i> who has not been +in spite of his promise to us and to the Father."</p> + +<p>The girl glanced quickly at the table on which plates<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">60</a></span> for two were +laid, then at the supper keeping hot upon the stove, and exclaimed +rather bitterly:</p> + +<p>"So Tim is away again, as usual, is he? And he promised faithfully to +come home early to-night and go to confession for Christmas. But then, +he promised the same last Easter and every First Friday since, and has +broken his word every time. Mother, how long is it now since Tim has +been to Mass or to confession?"</p> + +<p>"I do not like to think, child; it's a pretty long time. I can't +understand what has come over him. He used to be such a good boy, such a +help and comfort to me, and now he is slowly breaking my heart. I've had +trials enough, trials enough, as you know, but I never complained. I +never murmured till now. I was always ready to say: 'God's will be +done.' But this, this is different. Long ago, when you and Tim were +children, and the twins upstairs were but a few weeks old, and your +father met with that accident that crippled him for life, I only said: +'God's will be done.' All through the years he lingered in sickness and +suffering and I had to work day and night, day and night to support you +all, I still said only: 'God's will be<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">61</a></span> done.' All through that long, +hard fight to keep starvation from the door, when I saw my little +children crying at times with cold and hunger, and watched my husband +slowly dying and was unable to give him any of those little comforts and +luxuries which the sick require, my only words were: 'His holy will be +done.' But in this, the worst of all the trials that have come to me, +when I see my boy drifting away from us all, turning his back on God and +his religion and wandering away night after night with careless, jovial +companions, intent only on the pursuits of pleasure and folly; God help +me, I simply cannot bow my head and say: 'God's will be done'"; and +tears streamed unheeded from the mother's eyes.</p> + +<p>The girl stepped quickly to her mother's side and drew the gray head +gently to her shoulder, whispering comfortingly: "There, there, little +mother, don't cry so. You are fretting yourself to death over Tim, and +surely, surely, things will come right in the end. Tim is not a bad boy, +mother dear, only a little wild just now. Remember how good he used to +be, how kind, how helpful, in that hard time you were just speaking +about. Remember how good he was when father died,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">62</a></span> and how young he was +when he first went to work to help you support us all. Tim's a good boy +at heart, mother, and he's bound to come back before long."</p> + +<p>"Yes, dearie, that's what the Father says," returned her mother, slowly +drying her eyes and rising to lay the girl's supper upon the table.</p> + +<p>"He says not to worry but just pray, pray, pray, and Tim will surely +come back before long. But there, dear, sit down and eat your supper; +then we'll fill the children's stockings for I can guess what is in all +those parcels you brought home. Poor little things, it would not be +Christmas for them unless they hung their stockings. Thank God, I've +always managed to find something to put into them if it was only an +orange or an apple and a little candy. Indeed, that's about all it was +when you and Tim were younger, but life is so much easier now that you +are helping me."</p> + +<p>"And it is going to be easier still, mother dear, and you will be the +happiest little woman in the world one of these days. This wild spell of +Tim's is bound to pass and then he will settle down and be his own old +self again. There, dear," the girl continued, a few moments later; "my +supper is finished and now I'll<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">63</a></span> clear away these dishes and fill the +children's stockings. Just see all the pretty things I've brought for +them. Won't their little eyes dance when they see them! Then, mother +dear, before we go to sleep, you and I will say the rosary for Tim. It +is too late for him to go to confession to-night, but wherever he is, +and God alone knows where he may be, he needs our prayers and he will +have them. As the good Father said, we will pray, pray, pray. If we only +pray hard enough and trust hard enough, things are bound to come right +in the end."</p> + +<p>The afternoon and evening had been unusually busy ones for Father +Xavier. Hour after hour he had sat in the confessional listening to the +tales of sin and sorrow that were poured into his ears. Hour after hour +he had spent bestowing the priestly absolution on the repentant sinner, +giving fatherly advice and consolation to the sorrowful, sending all +those troubled souls away lighter and happier for his ministrations. +Hour after hour he had waited, hoping against hope, for the sound of the +one voice above all others which he most desired to hear.</p> + +<p>In a town like that which formed Father Xavier's<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">64</a></span> parish, the pastor is +indeed the father of his flock. Every man, woman and child is known to +him personally, and he takes a direct interest in each one's welfare. As +Father Xavier sat that Christmas eve and listened to the confessions of +his people, his heart grew sad and hope gradually died away as he waited +in vain for the voice of one whom he was striving to bring back to God +and to his duty.</p> + +<p>The crowd of penitents melted away one by one, the few last stragglers +had been heard, and still the priest waited in his confessional. The boy +might possibly come even yet, his boy whom he had loved with a special +affection ever since he was a tiny little chap first learning his +prayers in the baby class of the Sunday-school. Why was it he had not +been able to hold the boy? Why had he not been able to prevent his +wandering away with bad companions, this absolute neglect of all +religious duties on the part of his boy? Why could he not succeed in +bringing him back again even though the boy had wandered far afield?</p> + +<p>Father Xavier had hoped much from this Christmas eve, for Tim had +promised faithfully to make his confession and to start anew in the path +from which his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">65</a></span> feet had strayed. Tim had promised it as his Christmas +gift to the Father. Yes, Tim had promised, but Tim had broken his +promise.</p> + +<p>With a sigh of utter weariness, weariness of body, weariness of mind, +Father Xavier rose and left the confessional. He glanced over the +church; it was empty. He glanced towards the altar and his eyes rested +on the sanctuary lamp which appeared to be burning with unwonted +brightness.</p> + +<p>The hour was late, much later than he was accustomed to keep the church +open, still he lingered, unwilling to give up a last forlorn hope that +his boy might yet keep his promise. With eyes fixed on the Tabernacle +door, the priest knelt and commenced to recite the rosary, pleading, +pleading for his boy. The joyful mysteries were finished and no one +came; the sorrowful, still no one; finally, the glorious mysteries, and +still the priest was alone.</p> + +<p>With one last appeal for the welfare of that wandering soul, Father +Xavier rose from his knees and walked to the door of the church to close +it for the night. He passed out on the steps and stood for a moment +listening to a band of roisterers that were coming up the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">66</a></span> street +disturbing the peaceful quiet of the night with their noisy songs and +laughter. Where was his boy at that moment? He might possibly be with +this very band of half-drunken revellers who were even now passing by +and would soon be swallowed up in the darkness of the street. If not +with this band, he was probably wandering somewhere with another just +like it. Where was his boy at that moment? The priest turned, re-entered +the church, and locking the door, passed up the aisle extinguishing the +lights as he went along. He stood before the altar and once more looked +at the sanctuary lamp. It was certainly burning with unusual brightness +to-night. It set weird, fantastic shadows dancing along the walls and +peopled the dim recesses of the church with goblin shapes. It seemed +beckoning to him, calling to him, drawing him gradually to the steps of +the altar, where he sank upon his knees to pray once more for his +wandering boy.</p> + +<p>For yet an hour the priest lingered before the Tabernacle. Then, utterly +worn out in mind and body, he passed through the sacristy, locked the +door, and mounted the steps of his own house to seek a few hours<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">67</a></span> of +rest before commencing the arduous duties of Christmas day.</p> + +<p>The church and rectory were situated on a hill and the priest stood in +his doorway and looked down upon the town below. It was now after +midnight, but many lights were still burning and the faint sound of +distant merry-making reached the priest's ears. Was his boy down there +among the revellers?</p> + +<p>Beyond the town lay the river, frozen, dark and still; and beyond that +again shone the lights of the neighboring city. Was his boy over there +beyond that dark, silent river? Was he over there in the city in some +one of those dens of iniquity which had lured so many young men to their +ruin?</p> + +<p>Well, wherever the boy was he must be left now to the care of God and +his angel for Father Xavier had done all he could that night; and the +priest went in and closed the door.</p> + +<p>At that same moment, in a little cottage at the other end of the town, a +sleepless mother rose from her knees beside the kitchen table and passed +slowly up the stairs to her own room. The children and the eldest girl +were long since asleep, but the mother could not<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">68</a></span> rest for thinking of +her wayward boy. Where was he to-night; where at this very moment? And +he had promised, promised faithfully to turn over a new leaf with this +Christmas eve. Christmas eve was here, nay, it was come and gone for +midnight had sounded and it was now Christmas morning. Still, this night +must be for her as all those other nights when she had lain awake hour +after hour listening in silent anguish for the footstep that did not +come. She had hoped much from that promise of his to Father Xavier and +to her, and her disappointment was proportionately bitter.</p> + +<p>The mother walked to the window and looked out upon the silent, frosty +night. Low down upon the horizon myriads of stars were twinkling +merrily, but high up in the heavens the moon shone with a brilliant +radiance that totally eclipsed all lesser lights. The night was very +still, very beautiful, but the silence and the beauty failed to bring +peace to the mother's heart. She looked up into the heavens. How +placidly cold the moon looked back at her, the same moon that was +probably shedding its beams upon her boy at that moment and could tell +her where he was if it could but speak. Why, oh why, could those beams +not speak<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">69</a></span> and tell her what they saw; why could they not bring her some +message from the absent one! She had never felt like this before, she +had never felt so restless, so uneasy. It was impossible to think of +sleep; she would pray still longer. Perhaps the boy needed her prayers; +perhaps he was in danger, danger of body, danger of soul, and needed her +help. Her rosary in her fingers, she knelt by the window praying, +praying, while the moonbeams danced and played around the kneeling +figure. Perhaps it was just as well they could not speak and tell her +what they saw out there upon the river. Perhaps they were trying to tell +her and could not; trying to tell her of the three men, one of whom was +scarce more than a boy, struggling out there in the icy water, +struggling for life as the current sought to drag them down beneath the +frozen surface. Their fingers clutched desperately at the ragged edges +of the ice that had broken through with them and cracked and crumbled +away at their touch.</p> + +<p>Now but two figures were visible to the watching moonbeams; one had been +dragged down into the black waters, down to his death in the freezing +depths below.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">70</a></span></p> + +<p>For a moment a cloud covered the moon's face obscuring its view of +things terrestrial. When it passed and that scene upon the river was +once more visible, only one figure remained still struggling bravely; +still clutching at the slippery, crackling ice; still fighting, not for +life alone, but for his soul's salvation. What thoughts must have passed +through his mind in those dreadful, despairing moments! Thoughts of sins +committed, of graces neglected; thoughts of all that might have been and +of all that was. Who can know of the sorrow and remorse that filled his +heart, of the wild cry for help and pardon that went up from the river +that night?</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, the moon shone calmly, steadily, on the boy still fighting +for his life, on the mother praying at her chamber window, and on good +Father Xavier sleeping the sleep of the exhausted.</p> + +<p>Somewhat later, but still before the dawn, he was summoned from that +sleep to answer a sick call from the hospital just across the river, to +which he was chaplain. Three young men coming home from the city shortly +after midnight had attempted to cross the frozen river, though warned of +the danger of doing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">71</a></span> so. The ice had broken through, two were drowned, +one saved, and the doctors thought he would live though unconscious at +present.</p> + +<p>No, the names of the young men were not known as yet. The sisters at the +hospital sent for the priest because the boy brought there wore a +scapular and they knew he must be a Catholic. Aside from that nothing +was known about him.</p> + +<p>Father Xavier's heart stood still. Something told him that his boy had +been one of those three. Two drowned, one saved! Which, oh, which was +the one saved?</p> + +<p>The hospital reached, it was with rapidly beating heart he followed the +nurse through the ward and stood beside the bed at the farther end. The +night light burned low and the features of the boy upon the bed were +scarcely visible. Stooping low, a fervent "Thank God" broke from the +priest's lips as he recognized in the silent figure, the boy for whom +his heart had been yearning. His boy had been the one that was saved. +Yes, saved from death, saved from worse than death, saved to carry out +the resolutions he had made while struggling in the icy river that +Christmas morning.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em;'> +<a name="NANCYS_TALE" id="NANCYS_TALE"></a> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">72</a></span> +<h2>NANCY'S TALE.</h2> +</div> + +<p>"Dear, dear! but God's ways are wonderful, there's no denyin' that. Many +a time we poor mortals think if we only had the handlin' of things, the +world would be a pleasanter place for some of us, but I reckon the Lord +knows His own business best. He usually manages to bring things out +right in the end, so He does."</p> + +<p>Nancy sat before the kitchen stove, rocking to and fro, and gazing +abstractedly before her. Her mood was a reminiscent one and I knew if I +gave her time enough she would launch forth into one of the interesting +narratives of which she possessed a goodly store. To have interrupted +her train of thought by even a whisper would have been fatal; silence +and patience must be my watch-words. Presently she turned to me with the +query:</p> + +<p>"'Member Mona, the old apple-woman you met here about a year ago?"</p> + +<p>Remember the apple-woman? Indeed I did; once<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">73</a></span> having met Mona it was +impossible to forget her. Besides, she was, one might say, one of the +landmarks of the town, the frail, shadowy little woman who sold her +apples and peanuts and candy from her stand on the street-corner. +Nancy's words reminded me that I had not seen Mona lately at her usual +place of business.</p> + +<p>"Well," resumed Nancy, "Mona's gone, gone forever. Poor Mona! It's the +hard life she's had, and I'm after thinkin' she's not sorry that it's +over and she's found peace an' happiness at last. Want to know her +story? Well, I'll tell it to you, for it's me that can, havin' known her +since we was wee scraps of babies playin' on the floor together back +there in the old country. Yes, indeed, we were babies together, we grew +up together, an' we come out here to America on the same ship. Dear, +dear, how long ago that was, an' it don't seem much more than yesterday.</p> + +<p>"Well, as I was sayin', times was mighty hard in Ireland that year, +specially in the little town where me an' Mona was born an' reared. +Crops failed, work was slack; finally, famine an' pestilence took +possession of the land. Ah! child, child, you cannot dream<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">74</a></span> what them +words mean, famine an' pestilence. To see the rich growin' poor, the +poor starvin' an' dyin' on every hand; the little children cryin' with +cold an' hunger, an' the fathers an' mothers with ne'er a scrap of food +to give 'em. That was the state of things in Ireland the year we left +it.</p> + +<p>"The plague had carried off my father an' mother, my brothers was all +married an' moved away, an' my only sister was at service in London, so +when Mona begged me to come to America with her an' Michael an' the +little ones, I just jumped at the chance. Michael was a good fellow, +sober an' industrious, but there was no work to be had at home and he +had heard such wonders of the land across the sea. There, a man that was +a man had no trouble in findin' work an' making a comfortable livin' for +himself an' family. He wanted to leave Mona with his sister in Dublin, +who offered to care for her an' the children until he'd made a home for +'em in the country he was goin' to. But no, Mona wouldn't hear to that. +She'd promised at God's altar to take him for better or worse an' to +cling to him till death. Because the worse had come, she wasn't goin' to +desert him an' let him go out alone<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">75</a></span> to the cold land of the stranger to +fight his battle all by himself. She'd go with him an' stand by him and +help an' comfort him in his struggles. She knew she could help him. +She'd been taught by the nuns an' could do all sorts of fine sewin'. In +America, as in Dublin, there must be rich ladies who would pay well for +a bit of fine embroidery or hand-made lace. No, no, Mona wouldn't be +left behind; he must take her an' the little ones, no matter what was +before them. It was settled at last that we was all to go together, an' +so, one bright mornin' we stood on the deck of the ship that was +carryin' us far away from home an' all we loved, far away to the strange +land across the sea. With the tears runnin' down our faces, we waved +farewell to the shores of Ireland, an' Mona, though she didn't know it, +was wavin' farewell to happiness in this world. Poor girl, it's little +she knew from that day on but grief an' trouble an' sufferin'.</p> + +<p>"Well, child, as I was sayin', it was the fine, bright mornin' that we +left Ireland, but the good weather held for only a few days after. Then, +there blew up such a storm as I never see before an' hope never to see +again. It was fearful, fearful. I couldn't describe<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">76</a></span> it to you if I +tried. We just lay in our berths, every one of us, our backs agin the +wall, our knees braced agin the board in front, an' we holdin' on for +dear life expectin' every moment to be dashed out on to the floor an' +have all our bones broken. We was too frightened to say a word, but we +prayed, oh, my! how we did pray, every mother's son of us. For nigh onto +three days that poor boat struggled on bravely agin the ragin' storm, +but the ship wasn't built that could live in that sea, an' the end was +bound to come sooner or later. Come, it did, at last. An officer stood +on the stairs orderin' us all up onto the deck; the ship had sprung a +leak, the water was pourin' in faster than they could pump it out, an' +we must take to the boats at once.</p> + +<p>"I never can remember rightly what happened then. It seems now such a +confusin' jumble of men, women and childer, all screamin' an' rushin' +for the stairs, and all the time the wind was a howlin' an' the vessel +was groanin' an' pitchin' so you had to cling to whatever was nearest to +keep on your feet at all. I don't know how we got there, but the next +thing I remember was standin' on the deck an' hangin' on to something<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">77</a></span> +to keep from bein' washed overboard by the great waves that broke over +the ship an' flooded her from stem to stern. Mona stood near me with the +baby on her arm an' holdin' tight to the hand of little Gerald who hid +his face in her skirt an' sobbed in terror. Michael was beside her, one +arm holdin' her close while with the other he hung onto the railin' just +as I was doin'. Pretty soon, the boats was lowered an' everyone made a +rush for 'em. There was a shout of:</p> + +<p>"'Stand back, there, stand back! Women an' children first; only the +women an' children.'</p> + +<p>"The ship's officers an' sailors beat back the men an' commenced puttin' +the women into the boats as fast as they could. One of 'em caught Mona +by the arm an' tried to hurry her away. She struggled with him an' +begged to be left with Michael. The sailor swore at her an' then I heard +Michael's voice, calm an' steady, above the din of the storm:</p> + +<p>"'Go at once, asthore,' say he; 'for the sake of the childer, go at +once. Sure, dearie,' says he, 'we're in the Lord's hands anyway! can't +ye trust Him on the water just the same as on the land?'</p> + +<p>"The sailor lifted Mona an' the baby in his arm<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">78</a></span> (it's the wee bit of a +thing she was always) an' passed her on to another to be lowered into +the boat. Michael caught up little Gerald an' cried out to me: 'Take the +boy with you, Nancy; take him quick, girl.' But before I could lay my +hand on the child I was seized and put into the boat beside Mona. The +poor girl screamed and held out her arms for the little lad, but the +boat was shoved off an' the last thing I can remember, as a mountain of +water rolled up between us an' the ship, was seein' Michael still +clingin' to the rail an' holdin' little Gerald on his arm. Then Mona +fainted agin my shoulder and I had my hands full tendin' her an' the +baby.</p> + +<p>"It was nearly dusk when we took to the boat, an' pretty soon it was so +dark you could scarce see your hand before you. I'll never forget the +horrors of that night, indeed then I won't, tossin' on top of waves as +big as mountains an' the next minute goin' down, down, down, till I +thought sure we'd strike bottom before ever we come up again. But even +the longest night must wear away, an' when day broke we seen a big +vessel comin' towards us an' in the course of an hour or so we was all +transferred to her decks. She<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">79</a></span> cruised around for a time, hopin' to pick +up some of the other boats, but couldn't find none of 'em. There was no +tellin' how far away from the wreck an' the boats we'd drifted in the +night. The vessel that picked us up was bound for America an' so we +continued our voyage to this country.</p> + +<p>"I've often heard people complain of the coldness an' hardness of the +world; by 'the world,' always meanin' the folks that live in it, I +suppose. To my way of thinkin' there's a deal more kindness in the world +than there is selfishness an' badness, an' the people on that steamer +proved me right in one case anyway. They made up a purse among 'em an' +give a share to each of us that had been picked out of the sea, as you +might say. So, when we landed, we each had a little money to start in +with. I soon found work in a mill, an' my poor Mona managed to keep +herself an' the baby by doin' fine sewin'. For a long time we kep' house +together, me an' Mona, then I married an' moved away to another town. My +own troubles come on me thick an' fast after that an' what with one +thing an' another, an' movin' here an' there, it was years before I set +eyes on her again. Then we met quite by<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">80</a></span> accident an' I found she was +livin' not far from here with an old woman who peddled shoestrings an' +pencils on the street. Mona herself kep' a stand on a corner where she +sold apples an' peanuts an' such stuff.</p> + +<p>"That night she come to see me here an' we talked over old times an' all +that had happened since last we met. She'd done well at her sewin', she +said, and brought up the baby in tolerable comfort. Then, just as the +child was growin' into a woman that could be of help to her mother an' +pay her back for her years of workin' an' strugglin', she was took down +with consumption. All the little poor Mona had managed to save went in +carin' for her sick daughter an' buryin' her when she died. By that +time, Mona's health was pretty well broke up, her eyes was not as good +as they used to be, an' she had to give up the sewin'. She fell in with +the old woman who peddled shoestrings, and, by her advice, started in +with her apple-stand. They'd been together ever since an' managed to +earn a livin' between 'em. We talked an' we talked that night, an' when +Mona was goin' she turned to me an' says:</p> + +<p>"'Nancy,' says she, 'I can't tell you how thankful<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">81</a></span> I am to have seen +you again. An' I can't tell you how much good you've done me. Nancy,' +says she, 'I've been a wicked woman, a wicked, rebellious woman,' says +she. 'I've said dreadful things in my heart an' felt hard an' bitter at +times against Almighty God for all the trials an' sufferin' He sent me. +When I look at you, I'm ashamed of myself. I've lost a husband, so have +you; I lost a daughter, you lost two; my son sleeps at the bottom of the +sea, but your son—.Nancy, Nancy, when I go home to-night, I'll get down +on my knees an' thank God that my boy is sleepin' at the bottom of the +sea instead of wanderin' the earth a shame an' a disgrace to me.'</p> + +<p>"You see, child, that was before my Danny come back to me to be +reconciled to His God. It was while he was still wanderin' I didn't know +where, an' goin' from one piece of villainy to the next.</p> + +<p>"Poor Mona, I don't believe she was half as bad as she made herself out +to be, an' certainly from that day to this I've never heard a complaint +or a murmur cross her lips. She's been sick, too, most all the time, an' +there's been many a day when she'd ought to be home in bed but off she'd +go an' stand on her corner<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">82</a></span> an' peddle her apples because the old woman +that lived with her was sicker than she an' they wouldn't have no money, +come rent day, unless Mona went out an' earned it for 'em. Talk about +the heroes that done such wonderful things that folks has to write whole +books about 'em! I tell you what, child, there's many a hero hid away in +the dirty little side-streets and alley-ways of every big city; only +folks don't know about 'em. To my mind, Mona was one of them heroes; so +sweet an' patient, pretty well on in years herself, an' all crippled +with the rheumatism, but goin' out day after day to sell her apples; a +slavin' an' a killin' herself for a woman a little older an' a little +sicker than she was. An' all this because the old woman had been kind to +her in her hour of greatest need.</p> + +<p>"Well, after findin' her again, I seen Mona every day; she used to come +here in the evenin' an' we'd sit an' talk of them that was gone. She was +with me when my Danny died, an' she thanked God with me for havin' +brought him back to me in the end. Then, one night, Mona didn't come, +but they brought me a message sayin' she was in the hospital, dyin' from +an<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">83</a></span> accident, an' wanted to see me right away. I didn't let the grass +grow under my feet you may be sure, an' before long I stood beside the +bed where she was lyin', her poor, pale face all drawn with sufferin'. +I've called her a hero for the life she'd led, an' her end was sure +enough a hero's end. That afternoon a child had started to run across +the street at the corner where Mona's apple-stand was. He didn't see the +horse an' team that come tearin' up the street, an' the driver was too +busy lashin' the horse to see the child. In spite of her rheumatism, +Mona dashed in front of the team, and with a quick shove, sent the child +flyin' out of harm's away. He rolled over an' over on the street, but +beyond a scratch or two wasn't hurt. But Mona fell an' the team passed +over her ankles crushin' both of 'em badly. Her age an' the shock, +together with her injury, made 'em sure she couldn't live long. The +chaplain had been sent for, they told me, an' would come at any moment +now.</p> + +<p>"She was sleepin' when I reached her, so I sat down beside the bed an' +waited. The priest come an' stood lookin' down at her, an' the kindness +an' pity on his face was wonderful to see. He looked at me an' I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">84</a></span> fair +jumped out of my chair with the shock his eyes sent through me.</p> + +<p>"'Glory be to God!' I says, blessin' myself, for I was all a tremble +with the fright of it. 'Sure it's Michael Conners himself come back from +the dead.'</p> + +<p>"That very minute Mona's eyes opened slowly an' fixed themselves on the +priest's face. A smile that brought the tears to my eyes, it was that +beautiful, crossed her face an' she held out her thin, white hand to +him, whisperin', 'Michael.' Then she closed her eyes again an' was off +unconscious once more.</p> + +<p>"The priest looked first at her, then at me, an' his face was all +puzzled an' amazed like.</p> + +<p>"'How do you know that my name is Michael Conners?' says he.</p> + +<p>"'How do you know it yourself, Father?' says I, for I had my suspicions +by that time.</p> + +<p>"'Because of this,' says he, showin' me a strangely carved little black +wooden crucifix attached to his beads. 'This was on my neck when I was +saved from the wreck in which my father an' mother perished.'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">85</a></span></p> + +<p>"'Well,' says I, 'you're wrong. 'Tain't Michael, but Gerald, is your +name, an' praise be the Lord but this'll be the happy day for my poor +Mona when she finds out the truth. That crucifix with the name of +Michael Conners on it was given to your father on his marriage day by +the priest that married him. Here's the mate to it that he give your +mother on the same day,' an' I picked up Mona's rosary lyin' on the bed +an' showed him the cross on it. They was as like as two peas, only on +the back of hers was carved the name of Mona Conners.</p> + +<p>"Well, we had to break the news to her gently, an' it's the happy woman +she was for the next few days in spite of all the pain she suffered. +She'd just lie there holdin' Gerald's hand an' gazin' at him an' makin' +him tell over an' over again of how he'd been saved from the wreck. He +was only a wee lad of three at the time, but he could still remember of +his father standin' there on the deck of the sinkin' ship an' holdin' +him in his arms. He could still hear the words his father spoke to him +an' feel the father's hand slippin' the rosary over his head an' +claspin' the little fingers around the cross as it lay on his breast.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">86</a></span> +Michael had passed him to a sailor an' he was lowered into one of the +boats, where a kind-hearted woman took compassion on his loneliness an' +cared for him. They'd been picked up by a sailin' vessel bound for +France, an' the woman who first cared for him, took him with her from +France to America an' finally adopted him. She brought him up, educated +him, an' at last he became a priest of God.</p> + +<p>"He was with his mother to the very end, an' it was his hand that give +her the last blessin' of the Church an' his voice recited the prayers +that send the departin' soul safe on its journey to the throne of God. +It's the happy woman my Mona was in them last few days upon earth, an' +it's the happy woman she is this day, all her troubles over, all her +sufferin's gone, an' she in Paradise for ever an' ever."</p> + +<p>During Nancy's recital, the shadows of twilight had gathered and +deepened, and now her little kitchen was wrapped in darkness. Still, she +sat for several moments buried in thought which I cared not to +interrupt. Then, with a sigh, she rose to light the lamp and I noticed +that tears filled her eyes though the brave lips were smiling.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">87</a></span></p> + +<p>"Yes, yes," she repeated. "God's ways are wonderful, they are that. Even +if we don't understand things in this world, we're sure to in the next, +for the Lord knows His own business best every time."</p> + +<hr class="major" /> +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em;'> +<a name="PATSY." id="PATSY."></a> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">88</a></span> +<h2>PATSY.</h2> +</div> + +<p>Patsy was wide awake in a second. What was it those men were talking +about; what was it they were planning to do? That name, and "the brown +house on the hill"! By a strong effort, he kept his eyes closed and +breathed regularly and deeply as though still sleeping. He must not let +them suspect that he was listening, but he must catch every word they +said, every word. How he hated them, this band of rascals that had +gotten his David into their clutches and were slowly but surely making +him as bad as they! His David bad? No, no! David was kind and good and +gentle to him always. David was not bad, he would not listen to their +dreadful scheme. He would refuse to help them; surely he would. His +David a thief? It was impossible. But that dreadful plan they were +discussing! "The brown house on the hill"; "to-morrow night"; and David +was promising to go with them.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">89</a></span></p> + +<p>Patsy shivered beneath the bedclothes and bitter tears gathered in his +eyes and trickled down the pale, sunken cheeks. The men were leaving and +David was renewing his promise to accompany the expedition to the brown +house on the hill to-morrow night. In fact, he was to act as guide to +the man appointed to commit the deed, for who, so well as David, could +show them the way to the library in which was the safe that they were +going to rob?</p> + +<p>They had gone now and Patsy felt that David was standing beside the bed +and looking down at him. He opened his eyes and two more tears escaped, +which he hastily brushed away. Immediately David was on his knees, the +little cripple's hand clasped tenderly in his.</p> + +<p>"What's the trouble, kid?" he questioned anxiously. "Is it the pain +that's bad to-night?"</p> + +<p>"'Tain't the pain, Davy, 'tain't the pain at all," sobbed the child.</p> + +<p>"What is it then, youngster? Come now, tell your own Davy what's +troubling you, there's a good boy."</p> + +<p>"David, how long is it since mother was taken away from us? It seems so +long. I was thinkin' of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">90</a></span> mother, Davy, and wishing she was here with us +this night."</p> + +<p>"You poor kid, poor little crippled kid," muttered David, patting the +small, thin hand. "It's natural, I suppose, for you to pine for your +mother, but ain't Davy been almost like a mother to you, Patsy? He's +tried hard, that he has, to be father and mother and big brother all in +one." And the man smiled somewhat wistfully.</p> + +<p>"You've been all that and more too, Davy. 'Twasn't on my account I was +wishin' for mother, 'twas on yours. If she was here, she'd know how to +keep you from going with them men to-morrow night. She'd know how to +keep you to home, and I don't know what to say or to do to stop you from +going."</p> + +<p>David's face darkened slightly and there was a note of sternness in his +voice as he said:</p> + +<p>"So you was listening, was you, and heard what we was talkin' about?"</p> + +<p>"I didn't listen a purpose, David; at least, not at first. I happened to +wake and heard 'em speak of the brown house on the hill. Then I wanted +to hear everything and I listened a purpose after that. Oh, Davy!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">91</a></span> +Davy!" the child cried imploringly, sitting up in the bed and clasping +his hands in petition; "don't do it, Davy; don't be a thief to please +those wicked men; don't go robbing the brown house on the hill."</p> + +<p>A fearful fit of coughing racked the little form and David held him +gently in his arms until the paroxysm had passed. Then, laying the boy +back upon the pillows, he said quietly:</p> + +<p>"You mustn't get excited, Patsy, it's bad for you. We'll not talk no +more to-night. In the morning I'll tell you the story of the house on +the hill and you'll see I'm not tacklin' this job to please anyone but +myself. Go to sleep now, kid, for I'll not say another word to-night, +not another word."</p> + +<p>When David spoke in that tone of voice Patsy knew there was nothing for +him to do but to obey. Turning his face to the wall, he closed his eyes, +but sleep did not visit him that night. He lay listening for the stroke +of the town clock as it sounded, one after another, the slowly dragging +hours; he lay listening to David's regular breathing and wondered how a +man could sleep so calmly with such a deed in prospect; he lay anxiously +turning over in his mind various schemes<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">92</a></span> by which he could frustrate +the plan in case he failed in persuading David to abandon it altogether. +Several times fits of coughing shook him nearly to pieces, and at those +times the pain in his poor little chest was well-nigh unbearable. He +smothered the cough as well as he could beneath the bedclothes for fear +of disturbing David. As for the pain—well, pain and Patsy had been +companions so long now that he had grown quite accustomed to it.</p> + +<p>The next day was cold and dismal, with a leaden sky threatening snow, +and a bitter wind blowing that searched the very marrow of one's bones. +The few neighbors who chanced to glance out of their windows at an early +hour in the afternoon were surprised to see Patsy making his way along +the street, slowly and painfully, with the aid of his crutches. They had +never known him to be abroad on a day like this; indeed, it was many a +day since he had attempted going upon the street at all. Poor little +Patsy, his crutches were once a familiar sight going up and down the +pavements on pleasant days in the summer time, but they had thought +never to see him leave his room again. Did David know? Some one should +stop the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">93</a></span> child; he was too weak to wander out alone like that. But +then, it was no affair of theirs; David could probably be trusted to +look after the boy.</p> + +<p>As no one was willing to make it his business to interfere, Patsy went +on his way unmolested. A strange look of determination battled with the +pain on the sickly, childish face as he made his way bravely against the +biting wind that sought to drive him back. He had learned the mystery of +the house on the hill; he knew now why David hated so bitterly that +house and all connected with it; he knew why David was willing and eager +to help the men in the plan they were to carry out that night. David had +told him all about it, and for the first time in his life he had felt +afraid of this dearly loved brother of his. It had been a revelation to +Pasty. Surely, this bitter, unforgiving, revengeful man could not be the +same who had been father, mother and big brother to the little cripple +for whom he had cared so tenderly since their mother had been taken from +them.</p> + +<p>It had sounded like a fairy tale to Patsy; he could scarcely believe his +own ears. Just to think of it; that brown house on the hill had once +been their mother's<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">94</a></span> home, and the man who lived there, the man whom +David hated with undying hatred, was their mother's brother and their +uncle. On the day she married, she had left her home forever, her +brother vowing that never as long as he lived would he set eyes upon her +face again; to him she would be as though dead. Once, when father lay +dying (Patsy could not remember it, but David had told him of it), +mother had written to their uncle imploring a little help in their +misery. It was not for herself she had asked but for the dying husband +and sickly baby. Her letter had been returned to her with these harsh +words written on the back: "Some mistake here. No woman has the right to +call me brother. My only sister died years ago." David had kept the +letter ever since; he had been old enough at the time to understand. He +had vowed then to have revenge some day and he kept the letter to remind +him of the vow should he ever be in danger of forgetting it.</p> + +<p>Patsy knew now why his brother so hated the house on the hill, and why +David had been so cross on that day last summer when he, Patsy, had come +home and told of the young lady who had been so kind to him,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">95</a></span> the lady +who lived in the house on the hill. As a rule, every one was good to +Patsy. Even the children on the street, who quarrelled among themselves, +striking, reviling, pelting one another with stones, had, nothing but +kind words and smiles for Patsy. But that day last summer he had +wandered farther from home than usual and a crowd of rough boys had +stopped and commenced tormenting him, laughing at him, calling him +names, jeering at his deformity, and even pulling his hair and pinching +his ears. The child had tried to push past them, but they closed in on +him and it might have fared ill with Patsy but for the timely arrival on +the scene of the young lady from the house on the hill.</p> + +<p>She quickly scattered the band of hoodlums and then walked with Patsy +until he was well on his way home and safe from further attack. She had +been kind to him, and made him promise to come and see her. That was how +he knew her name and where she lived. He had wanted to see her again and +had thought of her so often but David would not let him go.</p> + +<p>Many a night, when the pain kept him from sleeping,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">96</a></span> he would while away +the long hours by thinking of the gentle, beautiful girl, and he never +said his prayers at night and morning, as mother had taught him, that he +did not add a petition for his "lovely lady." And to think that she was +his own cousin, his uncle's daughter; she lived in the house on the hill +and it was her house that David and those men were planning to rob. For +her sake as well as David's the deed must be prevented; her father must +not be robbed; David must not become a thief. Patsy had determined that +last night when he first heard them mention the scheme. If no one else +would stop them, he would, though he could not imagine how he was going +to do it. He had thought and thought until his head ached so that he +could hardly see, but no plan suggested itself to his mind. He prayed, +too, long and earnestly, for the priest at the Sunday-school told them +God would always answer little boys' prayers if what they asked for was +good for them. And was it not a good thing for which he was pleading? +Simply that he might find a way to keep his lady from being robbed and +save David from becoming a thief?</p> + +<p>At last, the idea he wanted had come to him; he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">97</a></span> knew just what he must +do to secure his end. There was danger in the plan, to himself, but he +must risk that. It mattered little what happened to him if he could only +save his David, his dear, kind big brother, who would never have thought +of doing wrong had it not been for those wicked men who had led him +astray. Patsy feared those men mightily. He knew their anger would be +terrible should they discover how their plan had been frustrated. They +might even kill him if they found him out, but he hoped they need not +know. He would confess to David alone at supper time that evening; no +matter how angry, David would not hurt his little brother. Of that Patsy +was certain. Anyway, whatever the risk, he must take it to save David +and to save the lady.</p> + +<p>The early winter twilight was closing in when Patsy reached his home +again and dragged himself up the stairs to the one room which he and +David occupied. He was almost exhausted and his breath came in short, +sharp gasps which cut him like knives. He would have liked to crawl into +his bed, close his eyes and never open them again, he was so tired. But +he must not give in yet; his task was but half accomplished.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">98</a></span> David must +be told of what he had done, and at that thought a spasm of fear +contracted his heart. Shivering, he drew a chair near the stove and +waited with closed eyes and pain-drawn face for the sound of David's +foot upon the stairs.</p> + +<p>Twilight passed and darkness filled the little room, still David did not +come. Patsy lighted the lamp upon the table, wondering anxiously why his +brother was so late. He put more coals upon the fire, which was burning +low, and made the tea for David's supper. He set out the loaf of bread, +the cold meat, the cheese, upon the table, then resumed his chair and +his eager listening for footsteps that were so long in coming. It seemed +to Patsy he had waited for hours and hours, and suddenly his heart +stopped beating and his eyes distended in terror as a thought occurred +to him. Suppose David did not come at all! What, what would happen then? +But there, that was David's step and all would be well now. The child +looked up eagerly as his brother entered the room, then, nearly cried +aloud in his bitter disappointment. David was not alone. One of the gang +was with him, and this was a contingency for which Patsy had made no +allowance.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">99</a></span> What was he to do now? How could he tell his brother, how +warn him, in the presence of that dreadful man?</p> + +<p>For the first time in his life David was so preoccupied that he paid no +heed to the little cripple who had now withdrawn to the darkest corner +of the room and crouched there in abject terror. The two men made a +hasty meal and then sat by the table talking in tones so low that Patsy +heard scarcely a word of what was said. Anyway, he cared nothing for +their plans now; he had spoiled everything for them. But how was he to +tell David, how was he to tell David?</p> + +<p>By and by, a third man joined them and there was more whispering with +heads close together. At last, the three arose and made preparations for +going out. They moved towards the door and were astonished to find +themselves confronted by a small, crippled figure, that stood swaying on +his crutches, directly in their way. A bright red spot burned on either +cheek, the eyes were brilliant with fever, and the child was panting for +breath. But he said very quietly, his eyes fixed steadily on his +brother's face:</p> + +<p>"You mustn't go out to-night, David."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">100</a></span></p> + +<p>The men gasped and looked at one another in amazement.</p> + +<p>"You mustn't go out to-night, David," the child repeated. "You mustn't +none of you go to the house on the hill to-night."</p> + +<p>"We mustn't go out, mustn't we," exclaimed one of the men roughly. +"Who's to stop us going, I'd like to know? Stand aside, kid, before harm +comes to you."</p> + +<p>"Who's to stop you? I am. I have stopped you."</p> + +<p>A laugh of derision greeted this statement.</p> + +<p>"Yes," Patsy repeated; "I've stopped you. I peached on you; I warned 'em +you was comin'."</p> + +<p>David's face was terrible to see.</p> + +<p>"What's that you're saying, Patsy? You what?"</p> + +<p>"I warned 'em this afternoon. I went to the house on the hill and told +'em you was comin'. You mustn't go, David, you mustn't go. The police'll +be there waitin' for you, 'cos I told 'em you was comin'. I didn't want +you to be a thief, David; I done it for your sake. Oh, David, David!"</p> + +<p>David's face was livid and his clenched fist was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">101</a></span> raised to strike, but +Patsy and his crutches lay in a little huddled heap at David's feet.</p> + +<p>When the child opened his eyes again, the men were gone and he and his +brother were alone. He looked into the face bending above him and gave a +sigh of relief. All the anger was gone, only anxious solicitude rested +there. Patsy tried to speak, but his voice was so weak and low that +David had difficulty in understanding what he said. He leaned over to +catch the faintly whispered words:</p> + +<p>"You ain't mad at me now, are you, Davy? I'm so glad. I'd hate to go +away thinkin' you was mad at me. I had to do it, Davy, I had to tell; +there wasn't no other way to keep you from being a thief. I'm sorry to +leave you alone, Davy, but I guess mother wants me in Heaven. You know +the doctor said I'd be going soon anyway. Mother said she'd be waitin' +for you and me and I guess she wants me now. I'm sorry to leave you, but +I'm afeared I must go. It'll be lonesome for you when I'm gone. You'll +have no one to light the lamp and make the tea for you in the evenings. +You'll come home here at night and it'll be all dark and lonely with no +Patsy to meet you.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">102</a></span> But remember, David, I'll be lookin' at you from +Heaven. Mother and I'll be waitin' for you there and I'm thinkin' even +Heaven won't be just right till you've come to us. Promise me you'll +come to us some day; promise you'll never go with them wicked men no +more. Let 'em alone or they'll make you as bad as they be, and then you +won't never see mother and me. Promise you'll let 'em alone, Davy; +promise you'll be good and come to us in Heaven some day."</p> + +<p>"I promise, kid, I promise," whispered David brokenly. "With God's help +I'll turn over a new leaf and I'll come to you some day."</p> + +<p>A smile brightened the pale, pinched face, a smile of absolute content +and trustful affection.</p> + +<p>"God bless you, my Davy, God bless you," murmured the faint voice +haltingly. "Good-by—until we meet—in Heaven."</p> + +<hr class="major" /> +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em;'> +<a name="THREE_EVENINGS_IN_A_LIFE." id="THREE_EVENINGS_IN_A_LIFE."></a> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">103</a></span> +<h2>THREE EVENINGS IN A LIFE.</h2> +</div> + +<p>I.</p> + +<p>One by one the city clocks chimed the hour of midnight. One by one Jane +counted the strokes and sighed despairingly as she glanced at the window +in which the light still burned so brightly. The air was bitter cold, a +fine snow was falling, and she had been trudging up and down, up and +down, for ages it seemed to her. Richard was growing so heavy and her +arms ached so she could scarcely hold him. Still, there was nothing for +it but to tramp up and down, up and down the narrow street, the baby in +her arms, until mother should give the welcome signal. When that lamp in +the window opposite was put out and the house in darkness, she would +know that it was safe for her to creep up the stairs and into the bed in +the kitchen which she shared with the baby brother now sleeping in her +arms.</p> + +<p>Seating herself upon a doorstep she was passing,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">104</a></span> Jane shifted the baby +to a more comfortable position and leaned her head against the rough +woodwork of the tenement house. How tired, she was, how very tired! Her +head ached, her back ached, she ached all over. Day after day, she +worked in the factory from early morning until nightfall. Night after +night, she walked the street with Richard in her arms, not daring to +enter the house until father was safely sleeping. Of course it did not +happen every night. Just once in a while father would come home sober +and then there was no fear of harm to the baby or herself. Many a night, +too, he did not come home at all, but on those occasions she and mother +scarce dared to close an eye. They knew not at what moment he might +return, possibly in even an uglier mood than usual. Mother was never +afraid for herself. She could usually manage him, although there had +been times when bad cuts and bruises bore testimony to the treatment to +which she had been subjected. For Jane and little Richard, their only +chance lay in keeping out of the way, so Jane would tramp the street, +Richard in her arms, despite aches and pains and weariness.</p> + +<p>The child on the doorstep anxiously watched the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">105</a></span> window across the way. +Would the light never go out? Father must be unusually bad to-night, and +she was so tired. The day had been a hard one at the factory and every +bone in her body ached. Well, there was one comfort; to-morrow would be +Sunday and she could stay at home all day. To-morrow? To-day, rather, +for midnight had already passed. She would have one long day to rest and +help mother. She felt now as if she could sleep the whole day through. +She would like to sleep for a week at least, and even then she would not +be rested quite enough. There were moments of unusual fatigue and +depression in which she could almost wish that she might fall asleep and +sleep forever as the other little ones had done. Three of them there +were, delicate, sickly little creatures, who had struggled for a time +against the ills of human existence and then given up the unequal +conflict. At times, she could almost find it in her heart to envy them +were it not for mother and Richard, especially Richard.</p> + +<p>There, at last! The light was gone, the window in darkness, and it was +safe for her to return to the tenement across the way.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">106</a></span></p> + +<p>II.</p> + +<p>The same street, the same tenement house, but grown even uglier and +dingier with the passing of the years. In a small room on the second +floor, Jane sits beside the bed on which her mother tosses in the +delirium of fever. Her heart is slowly breaking as she listens to the +moaning, insistent cry which issues from those parched lips. All through +the days and nights of anxious watching, that cry has been ringing in +her ears, the call for "Richard, Richard, Richard."</p> + +<p>That her mother is dying she knows full well, and how she longs for one +loving glance, for one word of affection, to carry with her in the +lonely years to come. But no look of recognition comes to the sightless +eyes and no word escapes the lips save that never ceasing cry of +"Richard, Richard, Richard." A white-capped nurse flits softly about, +but Jane pays no heed to her. The doctor enters and hold whispered +consultation with the nurse. Jane does not even glance at him. She is +tired of hearing him say the same old thing time after time: "While +there is life, there is hope." She knows there is no hope, though +everything possible<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">107</a></span> has been done to save the precious life now ebbing +so swiftly. Thank God, they are no longer poor as when she was a child. +Her salary is a splendid one and she has been able to have the best +advice, the best care possible, for her dying mother. No, they are no +longer poor, but of what avail is money now? It cannot bring back the +days that are gone, the happy days before Richard went away. And they +were happy, then, so happy.</p> + +<p>After her father's death, which had occurred while she was still a mere +child, she and mother had devoted themselves to the task of caring for +little Richard. They toiled; they starved, they saved—all for Richard. +They prayed and planned and hoped—for Richard. He must go to school, he +must go to college, he must become a power in the world. For themselves, +poor food, poor clothes, the old tenement were good enough, for every +cent they saved meant so much the more for Richard when he should have +come to man's estate. And Richard? Oh! he had been well content to take +all they offered him. He went to school, he went to college; only, +somehow, the reports of his doings there were anything but encouraging. +They<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">108</a></span> seemed to be merely a series of pranks and mischief, but the +devoted mother was very ready to make allowances. The boy was young, he +would grow steadier as he grew older. They must have patience with him +for a few years yet. At times Jane doubted the wisdom of their course, +and when the demands, not only upon their patience but upon their purse, +became greater and greater, Jane had counseled removing him from college +and setting him to work. Not so the mother. Her cry was ever: "Patience, +patience, and all will yet be well." So they bore with him a while +longer to their never ceasing sorrow.</p> + +<p>His escapades grew wilder, the reprimands of the faculty more severe. At +last came the final prank, which had resulted in his disgrace and +expulsion. Even then, she and mother was ready to forgive and had +written him to come home. No answer from Richard had ever been received. +Instead, came the news that the boy had disappeared, run away; the last +seen of him was boarding a train for the West. All efforts at tracing +him had proved futile, and to this day they knew not where he was.</p> + +<p>Mother had never smiled again but had drooped and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">109</a></span> faded day by day. +Time and again Jane had urged moving to more congenial surroundings, to +a flat or cottage in the suburbs, to fresh air and sunshine. But no, +mother would not have it so; Richard might come back some day and how +could he find them if they moved away from the old home in the tenement +house?</p> + +<p>Even now, when she is dying, her last thought is not for the girl beside +her, the girl who has toiled so patiently, watched so faithfully, +sacrificed all so generously, for mother and for Richard. Even in +delirium, her thoughts are only for the absent one; her words, that +insistent, heartrending cry for "Richard, Richard, Richard." Jane bows +her head in anguish but whispers low: "Thy will be done."</p> + +<p>III.</p> + +<p>Long since, the factory whistle has sounded the signal for release from +the day's toil. The workers in the factory, a small army of men and +women, boys and girls, poured forth from the doorways of the huge +buildings, swarmed up the street, laughing and chattering, and dispersed +to their several homes. The buzz and jarring of the machinery have +ceased and silence<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">110</a></span> fills the place. Even the offices are deserted, with +the exception of one from which issues the steady click, click, of a +typewriter.</p> + +<p>Jane Horton, private secretary and confidential clerk to the millionaire +president of the company, is a very busy as well as a very important +individual. The sound of that whistle means release for the workers in +the rooms above, the toilers at the machines where she herself labored +so many years ago; it means release for stenographers, bookkeepers, +clerks, in the general office without; but for her, there yet remain +many things to be attended to before she can take advantage of the half +holiday and seek the seclusion of her small suburban home. Important +letters must be written, private letters which cannot be entrusted to +the care of an ordinary stenographer. For some time longer Jane's +typewriter clicks unceasingly, and it is nearly dusk before her task is +finished and she is free to lock her office door and leave the building +for the night.</p> + +<p>She walks rapidly along the darkening streets, sorry that she is so +late. She fears Marie will have been watching for her all the afternoon +and worrying perhaps, little Marie, the lame factory girl whom she has<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">111</a></span> +befriended, the girl with eyes so strangely like to Richard's. The +resemblance is startling at times, though Richard's eyes were ever +merry, ever dancing with fun and mischief, while Marie's are grave and +sweet and sad. Still, the likeness is there, and probably that is the +reason that Jane has been so anxious to help this girl, scarce more than +a child, who had appealed to her for aid. Marie was by no means the +first to seek her assistance in time of need, for Miss Horton's name +stands for all that is kind and gracious and helpful in every department +of the factory. The woman who has succeeded, who has worked her way up, +step by step, to a position of trust and confidence, does not forget the +time when she stood, as Marie does now, with her foot upon the lowest +round of the ladder. She never forgets the days when she worked as they +work, and is ever ready to extend a helping hand to those who need it. +To her, then, Marie had come, as had so many others before her, in her +hour of trial and distress. Hastening along the street, Jane smiles as +she recalls the day Marie had first tapped upon her office door and, +entering timidly, waited for permission to speak. Jane had been +unusually busy<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">112</a></span> and frowned impatiently at the interruption. The eyes, +so like to Richard's, had quelled her anger and she listened to the +girl's story.</p> + +<p>It was Jackie was the trouble this time, Jackie who came next to her and +who helped in the support of the family. He'd just broken his leg and +was in the hospital and there was no telling when he would be out again. +The twins were sick, too, and there were Nellie and Minnie and the +little baby, and mother not strong enough to work even if she had time +to leave the children. Father? Well, that's just where Miss Horton's +help was needed. Father had worked here in the factory, out in the +shipping-room, but they'd discharged him several weeks ago. Yes, father +had been discharged before, many times before, and had been taken back +again. This time they would not let him come back though he had begged +and pleaded and promised faithfully never to touch the drink again. No, +no, father did not get drunk very often, only once in a while, and he +was never cross or ugly. He was the kindest and best of fathers only he +drank a little just once in a while. Wouldn't Miss Horton please; +please, say a word for father and get them to take him<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">113</a></span> back? Miss +Horton hesitated for a moment, looked into the eyes so like Richard's, +then promised that she would.</p> + +<p>She certainly kept her promise and said, not one word, but many, in her +efforts to have Marie's father reinstated in his former position. The +man was a stranger to her, she had never seen him, never even heard his +name before, but for Marie's sake she pleaded his cause most earnestly. +The same reply met her every turn:</p> + +<p>"Not a better man in the place when he was sober, the very best worker +we've got. But just when we're busiest and need him most, off he goes +and gets drunk. Not so very often, oh! no, but always when he's needed +most. We've forgiven him time again, but he's had his last chance. We'll +not take him back."</p> + +<p>Jane had even appealed to the president himself, but the appeal was +useless. He never interfered in such matters, left them entirely to the +department heads.</p> + +<p>The eyes like Richard's filled with tears as Marie was told of the utter +failure of all appeals. The pale face grew paler day by day and the thin +figure drooped wearily. Jane had, more than once, offered pecuniary<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">114</a></span> +help, which had been gently but firmly refused. They'd manage somehow, +Marie thought, until Jackie was well again and able to help, though it +was hard to feed so many on just one girl's pay. If they would only take +father back, that was all the help she needed; just for them to take +father back. He'd not touched a drop now for six months and vowed he +never would again. He'd taken the pledge and was making the First +Fridays. He'd not missed one since he began five months ago, and oh! if +they'd only give him one more chance. That's what father said himself, +that's all he wanted, just one more chance to make good. He meant it +this time, too, Marie was quite sure of that. If they'd only give him +that one chance he'd make the most of it.</p> + +<p>Jane Horton had promised to make one more attempt and she is now +carrying to Marie the good news that her efforts have been crowned with +success.</p> + +<p>Following the directions given her, she passes from the broad, +well-lighted streets to smaller, darker ones. Finally she turns down a +narrow, crooked alley and enters a tumble-down house at the farther end. +Bad as was the tenement home of her early childhood, this<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">115</a></span> place is far +worse, and a wave of pity fills Jane's heart as she thinks of that +delicate, patient child growing up in surroundings like these. Marie +herself opens the door in response to Jane's knock, her eyes anxiously +asking the question her lips dare not utter.</p> + +<p>"Good news, little one, good news," cried Jane joyously, advancing into +the room and taking in at a glance the terrible poverty of the place, +the shabbiness of the woman laying the table for supper, and of the +barefooted, ragged children who stare at her in open-mouthed +astonishment. "Where is your father, Marie? Take me to him at once for I +bring him what he asked for—one more chance to make good."</p> + +<p>In answer to Marie's call, the door leading into an adjoining room opens +and a man steps forth. The light of the lamp shines full upon his face, +and for one breathless moment they face each other in silence, the woman +who has succeeded in life, the man who has failed, and to whom she +brings one last chance of redeeming his failure.</p> + +<p>Despite the change of name and the greater changes wrought by the hand +of time, she knows him at once. It is Richard, her brother.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em;'> +<a name="THE_ELEVENTH_HOUR." id="THE_ELEVENTH_HOUR."></a> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">116</a></span> +<h2>THE ELEVENTH HOUR.</h2> +</div> + +<p>It was an ordinary tenement house of the poorest class, exactly like its +neighbors, which lined both sides of the dingy street. The door was +always open, more than half the time hanging by one hinge, the stairways +were dark and crooked, the rooms small and dirty. In a back kitchen on +the topmost floor, a man sat, or rather huddled, in a chair drawn close +to the stove. His eyes were closed and his head drooped wearily against +the back of the chair. That last spell of coughing had been unusually +severe and had left him weak and breathless. A plague on the cough, +anyway. Why was it he could not get rid of it? The doctor from the +dispensary, the district nurse, even Maggie, had assured him that with +the coming of summer this cold of his would be better. Summer was here, +though you would not think so to-day with this raw east wind and +drizzling rain, and instead of being better he was worse, decidedly +worse. Could it be<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">117</a></span> that they were all wrong and Nancy alone was in the +right? Nancy, who, of all that approached him, was the only one who +dared to tell him the truth. The truth? No, it was a lie, a lie; he was +not dying, he was going to be well and strong again as soon as he could +shake this cold that had settled upon him. Nancy was a meddlesome old +woman. He had told her so not more than an hour ago and had sent her off +about her business. He had been harsh to her and rude, and after all she +was old and had probably meant to do him a kindness. But, then, he was +not sorry; she'd not come bothering him any more now with her dismal +croakings of death and eternity. Death? He defied it. Eternity? Time +enough to think of that.</p> + +<p>He opened his eyes and they rested upon the chair which Nancy had +occupied one hour ago, which she had occupied so frequently during the +past few months. She had been almost a daily visitor since he and Maggie +had been living in these wretched lodgings in "Nancy's Alley," as it was +called. Evidently, the old woman seemed to think the entire street was +her personal property and that she was responsible for the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">118</a></span> welfare of +all the dwellers thereon. Well, he guessed he had taught her not to come +meddling in his affairs. He hoped he had anyway. Dying? The idea of such +a thing; how dared she tell him he was dying when everyone else fed him +with the hope that he would be better to-morrow, next week, next month. +Ah! yes, but to-morrow never came; or rather, when it did come, it was +no longer to-morrow with its promise of renewed health. It was to-day, +with the same disappointment, the same pains, the same racking cough, +which he had endured on so many other to-days that had come and gone +before it.</p> + +<p>Watching the chair she had so lately occupied, he could see once more +the figure of Nancy, her bright eyes and cheery smile, and hear the +nimble tongue which chattered so merrily or soothed so gently according +to the needs of her listener. He could see the little, stooped figure in +its ragged gown, the work-worn hands, the smooth, grey hair. He would +miss her visits; yes, indeed, he would miss them sorely. But what right +had she to go talking to him of death? Still, she was old, she had been +kind to him, and he had driven her away in anger. He had called her a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">119</a></span> +meddlesome busybody who went about poking and prying into other people's +affairs and had ordered her to leave the house and never enter it again.</p> + +<p>"Pokin' an' pryin' is it?" she had answered quietly as she made her way +towards the door. He remembered now how difficult it had been for her to +walk even on the level floor; what a task it must have been for her to +climb those three long flights of stairs as she had been doing every day +for these months past. "Pokin' an' pryin' is it? Maybe so, maybe so. But +Nancy didn't mean it that way, no, lad, indeed she didn't. Nancy was +thinkin' of her own boy lyin' at rest out yonder with the green grass +growin' over him, her own boy that went the same way you're a goin' now. +He'd be about the same age as you, too, an' there's the look on your +face that I seen on his so often, the desperate, despairin' look that it +breaks my heart to see. I figured that if you was my boy, I'd be glad +for some one to tell you the truth an' try to bring you back to God +before it's too late. I'd figured, too, that most likely you had a +mother somewheres. She may be still on the earth prayin' for you an' +longin' for you, same as I prayed an' longed for my Danny<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">120</a></span> for so many +years. She may be in heaven lookin' down on us now, but wherever she is +she'll be glad to know that I tried to bring you back. It's for her sake +that I'm doing this, for the sake of your poor mother wherever she may +be."</p> + +<p>His mother! What memories that name conjured up! His mother who had +kissed and blessed him as she closed her eyes forever so many, many +years ago. He was still looking at the chair which Nancy had occupied +but he saw it not. He was a boy once more standing by his mother's +bedside, her soft, white hand in his, and was promising her—ah! how +many promises he had made holding that dear hand for the last time, and +how readily he had broken those promises every one!</p> + +<p>His mind wandered on and he saw himself a boy at school, a youth at +college, a grown man filling a position of trust in a large business +concern. In those days, wherever he might turn, there was one figure +standing out before all others, one friend, tried and true. When boys at +school this friend had saved his life; when young men at college, it was +to this friend's continued help he owed any little success he may have<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">121</a></span> +attained. After leaving college, his position was secured through the +kindly offices of this same friend whose desk was next his own in the +office in which they were employed.</p> + +<p>His gaze still rested on the vacant chair but he saw only a pretty +little suburban cottage with flower garden and smooth green lawn and +box-bordered gravel paths. Once upon a time that cottage was his, and +the sweet-faced girl, who trod those paths so daintily, tripping to the +gate to meet him on his return in the evening, was his wife. Upstairs in +the nursery their children slept, two fair little girls with their +mother's pretty eyes and dainty ways. All that had been his, once upon a +time.</p> + +<p>He still watched that vacant chair but he saw only the day they +discovered the loss of that money which had disappeared so mysteriously +from the firm's safe. Suspicion rested upon that one true friend of his, +the friend to whom he owed all he was, all he had. There was not +sufficient evidence to prove that he was the thief, but in the minds of +his employers there was no doubt as to his guilt. The supposed +delinquent was dismissed and the cloud of suspicion rested upon him<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">122</a></span> +wherever he went thereafter. Only two people had known the truth, the +man now sitting by the stove in the tenement house kitchen and the +friend who had suffered in silence rather than betray him. They had +never met again, and not long after the robbery, the man now sitting by +the stove had heard of his friend's death; the physicians said it was +typhoid, but he knew better. Disappointment, anxiety, heartbreak, were +the real causes of his friend's early taking off.</p> + +<p>He still gazed at the empty chair but he saw only the series of +misfortunes that had befallen him since the day his friend died. He had +launched into business on his own account; the result was dire disaster. +His home was burned in the dead of night; they barely escaped with their +lives. Everything was gone; there was no insurance and ruin and despair +confronted them. His children died suddenly of a malignant fever and the +heartbroken mother had followed them to the grave within a few weeks. He +was alone, all alone, and from that day to this had gone steadily +downward until now he found himself in this dirty tenement depending for +his daily bread upon the faded, ragged little woman who was now his +wife.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">123</a></span> Poor Maggie, how she irritated him at times and yet she had been +a good faithful wife to him. But for her, they would not have even this +miserable apology for a home. Yes, even Maggie, with her watery eyes and +thin, unkempt hair, Maggie, who scrubbed floors for a living and could +not write so much as her own name nor read the simplest child's primer; +even Maggie was far too good for the worn-out drunkard and gambler whom +she tended so faithfully.</p> + +<p>A light tap upon the door, but the man by the stove was too much +occupied with those phantoms of the past to pay heed to it. The door +opened quietly and a priest stepped into the room. The man's gaze +shifted from the vacant chair to the black-robed figure standing by the +door and looking at him in puzzled amazement. Phantoms of the past? Yes, +indeed, and here was one more come to torment him and to mock at him. +The two watched each other in silence for a moment. Then, the man +crouching in his chair by the fire found voice at last:</p> + +<p>"What brings you here, you, of all men? Have you come to taunt me, to +upbraid me, to delight your<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">124</a></span> eyes with the sight of my misery? Have you +come to laugh at me in my downfall?"</p> + +<p>"Nay, friend," returned the priest gently, "none of those things has +brought me to you to-day. I come only on a mission of mercy, to bring +you peace and pardon."</p> + +<p>"But how did you find me; who sent you to me?" demanded the man by the +fire.</p> + +<p>"A little old woman, Nancy by name, told me there was one here sadly in +need of the ministrations of a priest. I did not dream that I should +find <i>you</i>."</p> + +<p>"You know me then; you remember me?"</p> + +<p>"I remember you perfectly and recognized you at once, though you have +changed almost beyond recognition."</p> + +<p>"You say you know me, but you do not, you do not. You may know <i>who</i> I +am, but you don't know <i>what</i> I am. You don't know that I'm a thief. +Yes, a thief, for it was I who took that money he was accused of +stealing. Do you know that?"</p> + +<p>"I know it," answered the priest calmly, "and still I say I bring you +peace and pardon."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps you know, too, that I am a murderer, for<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">125</a></span> it was grief, +heartbreak, which weakened him so that when disease attacked him he had +not sufficient strength to combat the fever. Do you now that, you who +talk to me so easily of peace and pardon?"</p> + +<p>"I know that, too, and it is in his name that I offer you forgiveness +for your sins."</p> + +<p>"You know all then? He told you?"</p> + +<p>"He told me in the delirium of fever. He never knew he told; he died +thinking he carried the secret with him to the grave. He was faithful +even unto death."</p> + +<p>"Faithful even unto death. And you, his brother, come to me now and, +knowing all, dare to hold out to me the hope of forgiveness and of +peace?" and the man stared incredulously into the kind, pitying eyes +bent upon him.</p> + +<p>"I, his brother, offer you now forgiveness of all your sins and peace +which surpasseth all understanding."</p> + +<p>The sick man was seized with a violent fit of coughing and when it had +passed, he lay back in his chair exhausted, with closed eyes and white, +pain-drawn face. The priest, wishing to give him a moment to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">126</a></span> rest and +recover his breath, walked to the window and looked out. In the field +below more than a score of ragged men, women and children were +scratching and digging among piles of ashes, eagerly searching for and +gathering up the half-burned cinders; searching, too, in the forlorn +hope of finding something of greater value that might have been thrown +away by accident. The rain beat noisily on the window pane and the +priest shivered as he looked at those scantily-clad little children, not +one of whom could boast of shoes and stockings, and at the white heads +and bent figures of old women on whose unprotected shoulders the rain +fell so pitilessly. What mattered the inclemency of the weather to them? +Winter would be here by and by; they must gather in all the fuel +possible before it was upon them with its snow and sleet and icy blasts. +In fact, even when winter came, many of these same little children and +old women, even grown men who either could not find other work to do or +did not care to seek it, many of these same people would be seen day +after day scratching and digging in this same field of ashes.</p> + +<p>The priest turned from the window with a sigh of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">127</a></span> pity for the miserable +creatures below. His glance strayed over the untidy kitchen which bore +all the marks of the most extreme poverty and he gave another sigh of +pity for the man who had been brought so low in the last days of his +life, the man whom he had known in the time of his success and +prosperity.</p> + +<p>He approached the chair beside the stove and the tired eyes opened +slowly and looked at him. Unaccustomed tears filled those eyes and the +hard voice softened marvelously.</p> + +<p>"Nancy was right," that changed voice was saying. "I am dying. Father, +you say you bring me forgiveness in his name, forgiveness for the great +wrong I did him. In his name, I will accept the gift. Father, I will +confess my sins to you and beg God's pardon for them."</p> + +<p>Two hours later, when poor, tired Maggie, with aching arms and aching +back, returned from her day's work, she was surprised at the gentleness +with which he greeted her. Never had he been so kind before: she was +more accustomed to harsh words and even curses than kindness from him. +She set about preparing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">128</a></span> their evening meal and he actually ate what she +put before him without even once finding fault with the food or with +her. She could not understand it and felt vaguely alarmed.</p> + +<p>Again the door opened and a face peered in anxiously. It would look as +if the owner of the face was fully prepared to slam the door and take to +her heels at a second's notice. The man in the chair by the stove smiled +faintly and called:</p> + +<p>"Come in, Nancy; it's all right."</p> + +<p>The little stooped figure sidled into the room but stood with her hand +upon the door ready for flight at any moment. She could not trust her +eyes and ears, she knew they must be deceiving her.</p> + +<p>"Come in, Nancy," the man repeated. "Come in and sit down there in the +chair you occupied this afternoon when you dared to tell me the truth +that all others feared to tell. You're a brave little woman, Nancy, and, +thanks to you, all is well with me at last. As he said, he brought me +forgiveness for my sins and peace which surpasseth all understanding. +Thanks to you, Nancy, thanks to you."</p> + +<p>"Thanks to me is it, lad? Not a bit of it, not a bit<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">129</a></span> of it. Thanks be +to God!" ejaculated Nancy fervently.</p> + +<p>"Thanks be to God!" whispered Maggie, as a tear rolled down her worn and +faded cheek and splashed into the pan of water in which she was washing +the supper dishes. "Thanks be to God for bringin' him back even at the +eleventh hour!"</p> + +<hr class="major" /> +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em;'> +<a name="THE_STORY_OF_JULIE_BENOIT." id="THE_STORY_OF_JULIE_BENOIT."></a> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">130</a></span> +<h2>THE STORY OF JULIE BENOIT.</h2> +</div> + +<p>Julie leaned against the door of the room from which she had just been +summoned. Her black eyes flashed defiance into the eyes of the woman +watching her in sorrowful silence.</p> + +<p>"Why you come here?" she cried. "Why you not leave me alone? I not want +to see you nor anyone. You no right to come here; you not my forewoman +now. You dismiss me in disgrace a week ago, you and that superintendent +in your factory over there. What you come for; to punish me some more?"</p> + +<p>"My poor child," returned the other gently, "you must not hate me so. +Believe me, I love you, Julie, and I've come here as your friend."</p> + +<p>"You a friend to me; me, Julie Benoit who is sent away from the factory +because I steal all that money! No, no, I know better than that, you no +friend to me, you despise me. All the girls point their finger at me, +for I steal that money. But I give it all back, do I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">131</a></span> not? And the +superintendent he say it is my first offense and he will not send me to +prison. Oh yes! he is very kind. Julie have give back the money, Julie +is forgiven, but she is a thief and cannot work with honest people. She +must go, and without a reference. No one could recommend a thief. Well, +Julie does go, so why you not let her alone?"</p> + +<p>"Julie, Julie, listen to me," cried the forewoman almost in despair. +"Believe it or not as you please, I have come here to-day to help you if +I can. I have come because there was something in your face, a look in +your eyes, that day you left us that has haunted me ever since. I have +come because I feared you were in trouble and were too proud to tell us +so. Julie, for twenty years I have been forewoman of my department over +there in the factory. Many, many girls have worked with me, new ones +coming, old ones going all the time. Some have left for one reason, some +for another, but never before has one gone from me in anger or disgrace. +All my girls have loved me, Julie, and I loved them. Why was it I never +could win you, win your trust and confidence. Was I not<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">132</a></span> kind to you, +child? I tried to be for I wanted your love and trust."</p> + +<p>The flashing eyes and angry face of the girl softened a little as the +woman continued:</p> + +<p>"I know you are not a bad girl, Julie. I know that you never before +stole anything. I have been thinking of you all this week and worrying +about you, for it must have been some great trouble which induced you to +take that money. Why did you take it, child? Won't you please tell me?"</p> + +<p>"You ask me why I take it? Well, I will tell you. Do you know what is in +that room just behind this very door I lean against? It is my mother. +She will never move again, never speak to me again; she is dead. Yes, +she died last night but I not tell no one. If I tell, they will take her +away and bury her I not know where. I have no money to bury her myself. +Pretty soon I will have to tell, then they bury her in a pauper's grave +with other people poor like us. I not know where they put her; I never +can go and kneel at her grave and whisper to her that I have not +forgotten.</p> + +<p>"You want to know why I steal that money? Well,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">133</a></span> a week ago poor mother +she is so very sick. They tell me she cannot live many days; but I think +if only I have money I can save her yet. I can have doctors to see her, +big doctors who will go to sick people only for very much money. I can +buy her food and medicine and perhaps send her away to some place where +the sun will shine for her, where she can breathe God's pure air. Why +even strong people can scarce live in a place like this where the +sunshine never come, where it is cold and damp all the time. How can the +poor little mother hope to grow well again in such a place, without good +food, often without a fire, the air not fit for anyone to breathe. I +think of it all the time. I lie awake at night and think of it, it is +before me all day at my work. Money, money, if only I have a little +money, I can save my mother yet. Then the chance come, the money is +there before me. I look at it, I take it. That is all.</p> + +<p>"You ask me why I steal that money. I steal it for her, my mother; to +save her life. Yes, and for her, too, the blind grandmother, and for +them," and she pointed to a very old woman sitting close to the stove +and holding in her arms a whimpering child of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">134</a></span> four. At her side +crouched two more children, somewhat older, huddled together in a ragged +shawl. They wore neither shoes nor stockings and the small feet were +blue with cold.</p> + +<p>"Oh, you poor child," exclaimed the forewoman, her eyes filling with +tears. "Why did you not tell me a week ago instead of taking that money, +for one wrong can never right another; why did you not tell me? We might +not have been able to save your mother, but we could have helped you. +Even after you took the money, if you had told me all, something might +have been done for you. I wish you had told me, Julie, I wish you had +told me."</p> + +<p>The shocked grief of the woman's face and voice had their effect upon +the girl, and it was in a much more gentle tone that she continued:</p> + +<p>"You can see for yourself how it is with us now, but we are not always +like this. If you care to listen and will sit down, I tell you all about +it.</p> + +<p>"No, indeed, we are not always like this. I can remember when father is +alive how happy we all are. He is a mason, good and steady, and he work +for us all the time. We live in a pretty little flat, it is bright<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">135</a></span> and +clean and mother keep it so and make everything look nice for us. She +sing and she laugh and she look so pretty in those days. I go to school +and Marie also, dear Marie who died one year ago. Antoine, too, he go to +school with Marie and me. Lorraine there, she too little; she stay at +home with mother and with grandmother.</p> + +<p>"Well, we are all so happy until one day father is brought home to us. +He is dead, killed at his work by a falling derrick. That same day poor +little Baptiste, him there on grandmother's lap, he come into this cruel +world. Mother is sick, so very sick for a long time after. It is weeks +and weeks before she can walk around again. By the time she does, the +little money she had saved is all gone; there is not a cent in the house +and the landlord puts us out into the street.</p> + +<p>"I am only twelve at the time but I go to work in a factory—not your +factory, but one away off the other side of the river. I have to walk +long, long distance in the cold, dark morning, and walk back again at +night, but I am happy for I earn money to help at home. Mother she go to +work too, in a great steam laundry where she stand all day at a big +machine.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">136</a></span> She very thin and pale, and so tired at night she can hardly +walk home. But she, too, is content; for she have work to do and work +means money to buy food for the little ones and for the blind +grandmother.</p> + +<p>"We get along pretty well for almost three years. Then, just a year ago, +the factory I work for shuts down. Times are hard, there is no more work +for us, we must go. We do go. We try first one place, then another, to +find work. It is the same story everywhere, times are hard and there is +no work for us.</p> + +<p>"Then mother gets that dreadful cold. The laundry where she works is +always so very hot. She come out at night into the cold air; her coat is +thin for she cannot buy a warm one and she get a dreadful chill one +night as she comes home. She cough all the time after that. It shake her +nearly all to pieces; but she still go to her work till one day she fall +beside her machine. They bring her home and we put her into bed and she +never leave it again.</p> + +<p>"What to do then we know not. One, two, three days pass; at last there +is a day when grandmother and I eat nothing. We give the last scraps of +bread to the children and spend the last two pennies on milk for<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">137</a></span> +mother. There is nothing left for us. We not sleep that night; we sit by +the empty stove and we think all night. Grandmother is praying all the +time; she is, oh so good, that grandmother. She pray and she pray, and +she tell me God is kind and good, He will show us a way. Me, I am not +good like that. I say to her God cannot be kind and merciful, or he +would not treat us so. What have we done that He punish us like that? +She say to me:</p> + +<p>"'Hush, child, hush; you very bad, very wicked. God is good and kind and +loving. He not try us any more than we can bear; He send us help soon if +we trust in Him.'</p> + +<p>"Next morning is cold, very cold; we have no fire and no food. I have +been everywhere to look for work and find nothing. But I put on my hat +to go out and try once more. Grandmother ask me what I do. I tell her I +go again to look for work. She say: 'No, child, you stay here with your +mother to-day; it is my turn now.'</p> + +<p>"She is old; she is blind and I fear to have her go out alone, but she +is firm and will go. She take her stick and she go out. She come back +later with bread<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">138</a></span> for the children and a little money to buy coal. I not +ask her where she get it; I know. She beg it on the street. Every day +she go out like that, and when she bring back food and money she not say +one word and I not ask her where she get it; I know.</p> + +<p>"She keeps us from starving for a few weeks and then, at last, I find +work in your factory. For a time, I am almost happy again, for now +grandmother need beg no more; my pay will keep us in food and fire. Even +mother seems better for a little while, and I think perhaps she will get +well and we will all be happy once again. But mother is soon very, very +sick, and I see her dying day by day and can do nothing to help her.</p> + +<p>"Then, that day last week, a party of ladies come to visit the factory. +The wife of the superintendent is with them. She very handsome, very +rich; she beautifully dressed. She stop near my table to take off her +coat, the room is warm and the fur coat heavy. She lay her purse down on +my table while she remove the garment; one of the ladies call to her and +she go away, leaving the purse behind her on my table.</p> + +<p>"Mother is very sick that morning; she not sleep<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">139</a></span> all night, but cough, +cough, cough. There is the purse before me. No one is looking; I pick it +up and open it. It is filled with money, the money that may save my +mother's life. That lady will never miss it. I slip the purse inside my +dress and go on with my work. I can hardly keep from screaming with joy +I am so happy to think I have the money which is going to save my +mother's life. The ladies go away and I feel that I am safe; she has +forget about her purse. I want to rush away at once, but I must stay at +my work so no one will suspect.</p> + +<p>"Presently the superintendent he come in and he talk to you and you look +very grave. Then he say one of the ladies have left her purse on a table +in this room. Will the girls be kind enough to stop work and search for +it? He will give five dollars reward to the one who finds it. We all +search but no purse is found, and he go away again. Pretty soon he come +back and the lady with him. She look around for a few moments, then she +walk straight over to my table. The superintendent ask is she sure, +quite sure. She say she is perfectly sure. She lay her purse on that +table in order to remove her coat, then forget to take it up<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">140</a></span> again when +she go away; and she look very hard at me.</p> + +<p>"The superintendent ask me if I have seen the purse and I say no. I +suppose he know by my face that I am lying for he tell you to take me to +the dressing-room and search. Then I know there is no hope for me; if +you search you find the purse, so I take it out and hand it to him. He +talk to me about my wickedness but I not answer him. He discharge me, +but I not say one word. You talk to me, but I not speak to you either, I +am too heartbroken, too despairing. My mother she will die now, she will +surely die; and grandmother she will have to go out begging once again.</p> + +<p>"I come home and I tell them I am discharged. I not tell them why, for +they very good and stealing is a sin. They be so shocked and sorry. I +sit beside my mother, despair in my heart, and I watch her dying, dying, +dying.</p> + +<p>"Her pain is all over now; she leave me last night and she never come +back again. I watch with her in there when you come. I watch with her +some more when you go; then I must tell that she is gone, that she is +dead, and they come and take her away," and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">141</a></span> she threw herself on the +floor by the door of her mother's room in a perfect agony of grief.</p> + +<p>In a moment the kind-hearted woman was on her knees beside the +heartbroken girl, whom she gathered into her motherly arms, murmuring +words of comfort all the while. Gradually the dreadful sobbing subsided, +and after a time the girl was once more standing before that door she +guarded so jealously. Seeing that she was her own calm self again, the +forewoman said gently:</p> + +<p>"My poor child, again I say that I wish you had told me a week ago. So +much suffering would have been saved. However, this is no time for vain +regrets, it is the time for action. I must leave you at once, Julie, but +I will be back, and will, I hope, bring you good news. In the meantime +do you say nothing to anyone about your mother. You will believe that I +will help you? You will do as I say?"</p> + +<p>"You very good," replied Julie simply, laying her hand in that of the +forewoman; "when you want me, you find me there," and she pointed to the +door behind which her mother's silent form was resting.</p> + +<p>Two days later, the forewoman, seated at her desk,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">142</a></span> was apparently +absorbed in the newspaper she was reading while leisurely disposing of +her noonday lunch. In reality she was covertly watching an excited group +of girls on the other side of the room who were discussing some matter +of evident importance. Without doubt, something was wrong. The forewoman +rather surmised what the trouble was and smiled behind the shelter of +her newspaper. She knew these girls and was quite sure that the +difficulty, whatever it was, would be brought to her for settlement. As +she had said to Julie, she loved her girls, and they in turn loved and +trusted her.</p> + +<p>In this instance she had not long to wait. Presently the girls cast +aside napkins and lunch boxes and moved toward the corner of the room +where their forewoman was waiting. She watched their approach in smiling +silence. Slightly in advance of the others came a small, impetuous +figure, a painfully thin, cross-eyed girl of fifteen, whose abundant +crop of freckles had earned for her the sobriquet of "Speckles." She had +answered to that name for so long now that she had almost forgotten she +ever owned any other. She was impulsive, good-hearted, and a general +favorite in spite<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">143</a></span> of her rather sharp little tongue. Rushing up to the +forewoman's desk, she said excitedly:</p> + +<p>"Miss Merton, it can't be true, what Louise has just been telling us, +that you are going to let that horrid Julie Benoit come back again. You +surely wouldn't take her back, would you, Miss Merton?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, it is perfectly true," replied the forewoman calmly. "Julie will +return to us next Monday, and I hope all my girls will do everything +they can to make her feel that we are glad to have her back."</p> + +<p>"But we're not glad. We don't want her back," cried one girl.</p> + +<p>"Why it's impossible after what she did," added another.</p> + +<p>"I, for one, wouldn't work in the same room with a girl like that," said +a third, with a toss of her head. "I wouldn't dare leave any of my +belongings out of my sight for a single instant."</p> + +<p>"That's just the trouble," chimed several all at once. "We wouldn't feel +safe for a moment knowing there was a thief amongst us."</p> + +<p>During this outburst the forewoman sat quietly<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">144</a></span> watching the indignant +faces before her. Then she said very gravely:</p> + +<p>"Girls, I think we all misjudged Julie, and really almost owe her an +apology. I have asked her pardon, and though I do not expect you to do +the same, I do ask you to receive her back with kindness."</p> + +<p>"Misjudged her! Apology!" gasped Speckles. "She took that money, didn't +she?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"And a person who takes money that belongs to someone else is a thief, +isn't she?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, certainly."</p> + +<p>"Well then, I say a thief is a thief, and I don't see where any +misjudging comes in," and Speckles looked defiantly from one to another.</p> + +<p>A tall blonde whose thoughtful blue eyes had been studying the +forewoman's face, laid her hand on the excited girl's arm, remarking +gently:</p> + +<p>"Let's not judge too hastily, Speckles dear. I think Miss Merton has +something to tell us. For my part I used to pity Julie, she seemed so +weak and sickly and so terribly alone. She was with us but she was not +one of us."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">145</a></span></p> + +<p>"Pity your grandmother," cried Speckles the irrepressible. "If she was +alone all the time, it was her own fault. She was a stuck-up old thing +and wouldn't make friends with any of us. If you'd speak to her she'd +only stare at you with those fierce black eyes of hers and answer yes or +no just as short and snappy as you please."</p> + +<p>"I doubt if we tried very hard, any of us, to win her friendship, the +poor little thing. And she did seem so forlorn and lonely at times," +answered the blonde. "But there, girls, let's all keep quiet if we can +for I know Miss Merton has something to tell us."</p> + +<p>"You are right, Louise, I have a little story to tell you, the story of +Julie Benoit," and she told them Julie's story as she had heard it from +Julie herself. In conclusion, she added: "When I left that poor child +beside her dead mother, I went at once to the superintendent and told +him the whole story. You girls know how kind he is; many of you have had +personal experience of his charity. He called in his wife and together +they planned to bury Julie's mother as a Catholic should be buried, they +to stand all the expense. They have also undertaken to see that the +younger<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">146</a></span> children are sent to school and the grandmother properly cared +for, and Julie is to return to her place here on Monday.</p> + +<p>"I wish you could have seen her face when I went back to those two +dreadful rooms in the alley where she lives and told her what the +superintendent and his wife had said. She stared at me, amazed, +incredulous; then said slowly in an awed whisper:</p> + +<p>"'They do all that for me, Julie Benoit the thief! You tell the lady it +is I who steal her money but she forgive and have my mother buried like +a Christian. She have her taken into church where the priest will bless +her and pray over her. She have her buried where I can go and kneel +beside her grave and tell her that I love her still and that I forget +her never, no never. The lady do all that for me who steal her money. +But she is good, she is kind to forgive me.'</p> + +<p>"After a moment's thought, she added: 'You think God will forgive me +too? I very bad, very wicked; I say all those dreadful things about Him, +but He will forgive me, is it not so? Grandmother say He good and kind. +You think He will forgive me if I ask Him?'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">147</a></span></p> + +<p>"It was a very different Julie that I left that night; oh! very +different from the girl who met me with such fierceness earlier in the +evening. Just as I was leaving, she said to me very humbly: 'The girls +at the factory, you think they will forgive me also? I very rude to +them; I say I hate them all. You think they will forgive me?'</p> + +<p>"So now, my girls, your welcome to Julie on Monday morning will be the +best answer to that question."</p> + +<p>"Will we forgive her, the poor girl!" cried Speckles impulsively. "You +bet we will. If there's any one here who won't be kind to that poor +little Julie, she'll just have to reckon with me. I think it is we who +should ask her to forgive us, for I must admit we were all rather +hateful to her. Oh, I say, girls! I've just got an idea," she continued. +"Here, Louise, just hand me one of those empty boxes from that shelf +over your head. There you are. Now then, this is a hat and I pass it +around to each one of you, so. I say to each one of you: 'Did you notice +that poor Julie has been wearing a thin summer coat all this bitter +winter weather? It used to make me shiver just to look at her. Did any +of you notice that her shoes<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">148</a></span> were all broken through and even in rain +or snow storms she never had any rubbers to wear over them?' Suppose +each one of us chip in a few pennies, we can all spare a little, and +have Miss Merton give it to her to buy shoes or something for herself. +I'll start with fifty cents."</p> + +<p>The box was passed from one to another, each contributing what she +could, and each contribution meaning more or less of a sacrifice to the +donor. In this way a goodly sum was collected and laid on Miss Merton's +table.</p> + +<p>"There, girls," said the triumphant Speckles. "That will show Julie +whether we have forgiven her or not. And now, do you hear that musical +whistle calling us back to our places? We'd better hustle for the +machines will start up in a minute or two. Machines are like time and +the tide, they wait for no man. Nor woman, either, not even for Julie +Benoit," and with a laugh, Speckles was off like the wind.</p> + +<p>As the girls departed, each to her own machine or work-table, Miss +Merton looked after them, a tear in her eye and a smile upon her lips.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">149</a></span></p> + +<p>"God bless my girls," she said to herself. "Their hearts are in the +right place, every one of them. I need have no fear of the welcome they +will give my poor little Julie Benoit."</p> + +<hr class="major" /> +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em;'> +<a name="PETER." id="PETER."></a> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">150</a></span> +<h2>PETER.</h2> +</div> + +<p>Peter was thinking. Not that it was an unusual event for Peter to think. +Quite the contrary! To Peter himself it seemed that life was one +continuous round of thinking and planning and worrying. It certainly was +for him, especially since the advent of the baby, that wonderful baby +sister of his. Somehow things had not mattered so much before, when +there was no one to be considered but himself. Now it was different, +with his baby to be thought of and cared for. Peter was worried and +anxious. He felt that a great responsibility rested upon his shoulders. +They were young shoulders, too, far too young to be burdened with the +cares and troubles of life.</p> + +<p>The winter wind came tearing down the street, stinging his face and +piercing through his thin garments. Shivering, he turned up the collar +of his worn and ragged coat and thrust his hands deep into the pockets. +Then he hastened on with eyes on the ground<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">151</a></span> and bent down head, for +Peter was thinking. A mighty problem confronted him, a problem which +must be solved at once.</p> + +<p>He turned into the dirty, narrow alley in which he lived, opened the +door of a tenement house, and, running quickly up a flight of stairs, +entered Mrs. Dempsey's kitchen. The savory odor of frying ham greeted +his nostrils and reminded him that he had had nothing to eat since +morning. Well, never mind that, he would have supper soon now, he and +baby together.</p> + +<p>"Bless me, Peter, is that you home so early?" cried cheery Mrs. Dempsey +turning around from the stove, frying-pan in one hand, a large fork in +the other. "You must have had good luck to-night to be back so early."</p> + +<p>Peter caught up in his arms the pretty child who toddled across the +floor and threw herself upon him with a shriek of delight. With a +gravity befitting his great responsibility, he seated himself upon a +nearby chair, holding the baby close to him and smoothing back the +tangled yellow curls.</p> + +<p>"Yes, Mrs. Dempsey, I had real good luck to-night. Was all sold out long +afore the other fellers, then<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">152</a></span> hustled right home to baby. I hope she +wasn't no bother to ye, Mrs. Dempsey."</p> + +<p>"Bother is it? The darlin', an' she as quiet as a little lamb. It's an +angel she is entirely an' ye'd think so yerself if ye could have seen +the nice supper of bread and milk she ate along with my own young ones."</p> + +<p>"Does angels eat bread and milk, Mrs. Dempsey?" Peter asked the question +in all sincerity. He had often wondered about angels and he really +wanted to know.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I guess they does," replied the good woman absently, too busy with +her cooking to pay much heed to what Peter was saying. "Goin', Peter? +Wish ye could stay and have a bite yerself, but I suppose if that +precious father of your'n come home and his supper warn't ready he'd +make it pretty hot for you, poor child. Well, good-night, Peter. Bring +the baby back in the morning."</p> + +<p>"By the way, Peter," she called after him just as he was closing the +door. "To-morrow's Christmas day ye know. Don't forget to drop into the +church on yer way home and hear Mass, like a good boy."</p> + +<p>Peter's ideas on the subject of religion were very<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">153</a></span> vague. Mrs. Dempsey +had told him he must always attend Mass on Sunday and reminded him of +the fact every Saturday night when he would come to claim the baby. +Perhaps Christmas was another sort of Sunday, thought Peter. To him +Christmas had always meant a time when other boys and girls talked of +nothing but Christmas trees and turkey and wonderful presents they had +received. No one had ever given Peter anything. He wondered if Mrs. +Dempsey would. He had not known Mrs. Dempsey last Christmas; she came to +the alley only a few months ago. Life had been somewhat easier for Peter +since her coming for she helped so much in caring for baby while he was +out. He wished Mrs. Dempsey would give baby something for Christmas. He +had hoped to do so himself, but somehow he never could find a cent for +anything except the absolute necessities of life. Sometimes he could do +no more than provide bread and milk for the baby and go hungry himself. +That was when father would beat him and take away the few pennies he was +saving to buy food for the little sister and himself.</p> + +<p>With baby held carefully in his arms, Peter descended the two flights of +stairs to his home in the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">154</a></span> cellar. As he pushed open the door of the +room which served as kitchen and living room in the daytime and as +sleeping apartment for himself and baby at night, the damp chill of the +place struck him as it never had done before. Groping his way to the +table he lighted the candle upon it. Then, after wrapping baby in his +mother's old shawl and depositing her upon their bed in the corner, he +proceeded to make a fire in the cracked and rusty stove. Peter was only +eleven, but the children of the slums are little men and women almost +from their cradles, and Peter was really the man of the family. He it +was who cared for the baby and prepared their frugal meals; he it was +who cried his papers upon the street in the cold darkness of the winter +mornings, who ran errands all day for the grocer on the next corner and +again in the evening sallied forth with his papers under his arm in +order to procure food to keep the life in their bodies. If father ever +earned any money but little of it was contributed to the family support.</p> + +<p>As Peter wrestled with the fire, which positively refused to kindle, he +was still revolving in his mind the problem which troubled him. He had +been thinking<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">155</a></span> of it all day, and the only thing he could decide was +that something must be done at once, but what that something was to be +he could not imagine. Things had been going from bad to worse lately, +and after last night he would never know an easy moment while baby was +under the same roof with father and mother. For himself he did not care. +He had grown accustomed to the beatings, to the drunken quarrels and +fearful language; in fact, he had never known anything different. But +last night father had tried to hurt baby. He might try again and perhaps +next time no Peter would be at hand to save her. They were unusually bad +last night, both father and mother; the child was frightened and had +begun to whimper. Angered still further by the sound, the man had seized +a stove-lifter and flung it straight at baby's head. But Peter had +already sprung between and the missile struck him full on the forehead, +causing a wicked-looking bruise. He had lain stunned for a time, then +crept into bed with baby and listened in terror as the quarrel between +his father and mother progressed from words to blows. He had not minded +these things before, but what would he do if father should ever<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">156</a></span> beat +baby as he, Peter, had been beaten so many times? And Peter felt the +time was coming when father would surely do it. Last night was but the +beginning.</p> + +<p>A noise from the next room told him that mother must be waking from the +drunken sleep in which she had lain for several hours. At any moment she +might open that door and enter the kitchen, and her temper was always +terrible when she would first awaken from those long sleeps which +followed a carousal. In a few moments, too, father would come home. The +fire refused to burn; so supper would not be ready, and with mother in a +temper and no supper at hand, something would surely happen.</p> + +<p>Peter looked at the sleeping baby and shuddered. For her sake he dared +not face another night like last night. Yet, what could he do? A volley +of imprecations from the next room decided him: he must take baby away +from here and at once. Yes, he would take her away, but where, where +could he go? Where in all the great city could he find a shelter for his +baby on this cold winter night? If he did take her away it might be only +to have her freeze to death on the street.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">157</a></span> Well, they must go, anyway. +No matter what happened to them later they must leave here at once.</p> + +<p>Rearranging the shawl so that part of it covered the golden head, he +stooped and gathered the baby into his arms. Then it all came to him in +a sudden flash of inspiration and he almost laughed aloud in his joy as +he hurried from the room and out into the street. He knew exactly where +to go and wondered why he had not thought of it before. How foolish he +had been not to think of it at once!</p> + +<p>One day last summer he had stood outside a tall iron railing and watched +a crowd of happy children at play in the grounds which the railing +enclosed. He could see it all now, the yard, the romping children and +the great brick building on the other side of that railing through which +he watched enviously. They were having such a good time, he did wish he +might go in and join in the fun. But he could not spare the time, he had +wasted too much already, and the grocer would scold him for being so +long on the errand which had brought him into the neighborhood of the +yard and the children. As he turned reluctantly away, two ladies<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">158</a></span> passed +and he heard one say in answer to a question from her companion:</p> + +<p>"That building? Why, that is St. Teresa's Orphanage, a home for poor +children who have no parents or else have bad ones who neglect or ill +treat them. The good sisters gather in all such needy children whom they +can find, care for them, educate them and teach them a trade so that +they may——"</p> + +<p>The rest Peter had not heard, but those few words, spoken by the passing +lady on that day last summer, had suddenly recurred to his mind. "St. +Teresa's Orphanage, a home for children with bad parents who neglect or +ill treat them." That was their case exactly, baby's and his. To St. +Teresa's, then, they must go in search of a home. He was quite sure he +could find it again. It was ever so far away, over on the other side of +the city, but he remembered the way perfectly, and would have no +difficulty in reaching the orphanage.</p> + +<p>For some time Peter trudged bravely along the city streets. It was quite +dark now and lights streamed from the windows of shops and houses as he +passed. Throngs of people hurried by anxious to escape from the cold +night to the firesides of home. All these<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">159</a></span> people carried +mysterious-looking parcels; "Christmas presents for some happy little +boy or girl," thought Peter. Twice he stopped to shift the baby from one +shoulder to the other. He never knew before that she was so heavy; his +half frozen little arms almost refused to carry their burden any longer. +He was terribly tired, and he wondered why the lights were dancing so. +They were turning round and round and made him so dizzy he could scarce +see where he was going. He did not think, that day last summer, that the +way was quite so long as this. Surely, he must have been walking for +hours and hours. Oh! why was baby so heavy and why would those lights +persist in dancing so?</p> + +<p>He wondered if they could be lost and what would happen to them if they +were. He was almost certain he had taken the right turnings every time, +but he might have made a mistake. At that last corner he was not quite +sure whether he should turn to the left or the right. If they were lost, +what would become of them?</p> + +<p>The lights were acting very strangely to-night; they had stopped dancing +now but were all turning black, and what was this funny feeling that was +creeping over<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">160</a></span> him? He sat down hurriedly on some steps he was passing +and leaned his head against the railing for support. He felt baby +slipping from his arms onto the step beside him but was powerless to +hold her. Once more that funny feeling was creeping over him and he +wondered if he could be dying. Mr. Dempsey's Tim had died. Peter had +gone upstairs to see him. They had put him into a funny-looking white +box that was nearly covered with flowers, and he looked so strange lying +there all white and still among the blossoms. The next day the white +box, the flowers and poor little Tim were carried away. The neighbors +said Tim was dead; Mrs. Dempsey said he had gone to heaven. Peter +wondered if he died would anyone put him in a white box and cover him +with flowers; if he died, would he go to heaven and see Tim there?</p> + +<p>Peter had often been very anxious as to what heaven was like. He had +asked Mrs. Dempsey. Her answer had not been quite satisfactory, but then +she could not know exactly since she had never been there. And the +angels, what were they like? Again Mrs. Dempsey had been referred to and +again the reply was most disappointing. Beautiful beings with wings? +Why,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">161</a></span> birds had wings and some of them were very beautiful. As for +singing before the throne of God; well, Peter could not even guess what +the throne of God meant.</p> + +<p>He guessed he must be dying; he felt dead already, all except his head. +That would go soon and then he would see the angels he had wondered so +much about. But if he died, what would become of baby? Who would look +after his precious baby? That dreadful thought caused him to open his +eyes suddenly. With a great effort he raised his head and the sight of +the iron railing against which he was leaning made his heart bound with +a sudden thrill of hope and put new life into the exhausted little +frame. It was the railing through which he had watched the children on +that day last summer, and the steps on which he sat were the steps of +St. Teresa's Orphanage. He had taken the right turning after all and had +reached his destination without knowing it.</p> + +<p>With difficulty. Peter got upon his feet, lifted the baby and essayed to +drag himself up that long flight of steps. Panting, exhausted, he +reached the top and laid his burden down at the threshold of that door +which always opened so gladly to receive such waifs as<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">162</a></span> he. In the +darkness Peter felt around for the bell. Surely, there must be a bell +somewhere. He must find it quickly for that dreadful feeling was +creeping over him and he knew in another moment he would fall. Where was +it; oh! why could he not find it? At last the despairing fingers touched +the button of an electric bell; they pressed it hard, and a loud peal +rang through the hall inside. Then Peter sank down to the ground beside +the baby and even his head went this time.</p> + +<p>A moment later (or so it seemed to Peter) he opened his eyes and saw +bending over him the most beautiful face he had ever beheld. He knew now +that he was in heaven was looking on the face of an angel. It was just +what he should think an angel's face ought to be, so sweet and kind and +gentle, the soft eyes filled with heavenly love and pity. And there were +the wings, too, all white and shining, but Mrs. Dempsey had neglected to +mention that angels' wings grew out of their heads. Somehow, Peter had +supposed their wings grew from their shoulders; he was sure Mrs. Dempsey +had said so. He would like to send her a message and tell her how +mistaken she had been. He wondered if he could.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">163</a></span></p> + +<p>He felt a gentle hand slip beneath his shoulders and raise him a little +and the angel commenced to feed him with something warm and sweet upon a +spoon. It tasted better than anything he had ever eaten before.</p> + +<p>Suddenly he thought of baby. What had happened to her? Was she in heaven +too? He tried to ask the angel, but found he could not utter a word; he +was too weak and tired. The kind eyes watching him interpreted rightly +the anxious look that crossed his face; they were well accustomed to +divining the unspoken troubles of worried little minds. The angel spoke +and to Peter the voice sounded like heavenly music:</p> + +<p>"You must not try to talk, dear. Just finish this gruel like a good boy +and then go to sleep again. Your baby sister is quite safe, and is +sleeping sweetly in her crib over in the little one's dormitory. You +shall see her in the morning if you are good now and do as I tell you."</p> + +<p>As he finished the gruel his eyes closed wearily for a moment, and when +he opened them again there were two angels leaning over him. The second +was not nearly so lovely as the first, but her face, too, bore that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">164</a></span> +same look of heavenly sweetness which Peter felt instinctively none but +angels' faces could wear. It was the look which older people than Peter +have often marveled at; the look one sees upon the faces of those who +have died to the world and to themselves and given their entire being to +God in a life of charity and self-sacrifice.</p> + +<p>The second angel laid her fingers on his wrist and seemed to be counting +something as she kept her eyes on a small silver watch she held in her +hand. Then she poured a spoonful of bright-colored liquid from a bottle, +and, lifting his head, bade him swallow the medicine. Unquestioningly he +obeyed, and as his head was laid back upon the pillow he felt himself +slipping away into the land of oblivion. Just as consciousness was +leaving him, he heard a voice, seemingly far away, saying:</p> + +<p>"He will do very nicely now, Sister Agnes. It was simply a case of +starvation and complete exhaustion."</p> + +<p>Vaguely he wondered what she meant.</p> + +<hr class="major" /> +<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em;'> +<a name="GODS_WAY." id="GODS_WAY."></a> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">165</a></span> +<h2>GOD'S WAY.</h2> +</div> + +<p>"We have reached the summit at last, Cecile? The hill seemed unusually +steep to-night and the way unusually long."</p> + +<p>"Yes, mother, we have reached the top at last and here is the rustic +bench on which we usually sit and watch the sun go down behind those +blue and misty hills in the distance."</p> + +<p>"Ah! those hills, Cecile. How I have always loved them. To me this has +ever seemed the fairest spot on earth, and the view from this hill just +at sunset the most beautiful I have ever seen. It is ten long years +since my eyes have beheld it, but in my mind I still see it all so +clearly. Tell me it is all there, Cecile, just as it was on that evening +so many, many years ago when I first looked upon its beauties. Your dear +father had just brought me, a happy bride, here to his northern home. We +walked up the hill together to watch the sun set and I thought then I +had never seen a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">166</a></span> lovelier view: the green fields of waving corn, and +the apple orchards all in blossom, sloping down gradually to the river; +the river itself tumbling and tossing madly over the waterfall far up +there to the left, then swirling and eddying on for a space, only to +grow calm once more quietly, steadily, resume its placid journey to the +ocean. Beyond the river, those wonderful forests, dark, mysterious and +silent. They rise and rise, higher, ever higher, and terminate at last +in the blue and misty hills of which you were just speaking. I love it +all, Cecile, and I could not bear to think that any part of it had +changed with the advancing years. Tell me it is just the same; tell me +it is all there as it was so long ago."</p> + +<p>"Yes, mother dear," answered the younger woman, "it is all there just as +it has ever been; the fields and the river, the forests and the hills +beyond."</p> + +<p>Cecile neglected to mention that the fields were now mere barren stubble +and that the river was visible only here and there as it peeped through +between the many buildings lining its banks; immense buildings of +factory and mill, smaller structures, cottages and tenement<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">167</a></span> houses +occupied by the workers in factory and mill. She supposed the forests +were still there but the day had been very sultry with scarce a breath +of air stirring and a heavy pall of smoke from the huge chimneys hung +over the valley, hiding everything which lay beyond. Only the tops of +the distant hills rose in triumph above it.</p> + +<p>"I am glad to think it is all unchanged," said the mother with a sigh of +content. "I know it is foolish to feel as I do about it, but it would be +a real grief to me to think that my beautiful valley had been sacrificed +to the need or the greed of advancing civilization."</p> + +<p>"God has been very good to me, Cecile, and I thank Him with all my heart +for the blessings He has sent me to compensate for that one dreadful +calamity, your dear father's sudden death ten years ago and my long +illness and subsequent blindness. As I sat to-day in my little garden +listening to the twittering of the birds, and inhaling the fragrance of +my flowers, I was thinking how peaceful and happy my life is and how +grateful I should be. You know, dear, just occasionally I long to be +able to see again, to see the birds and the flowers,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">168</a></span> to see the +beautiful world around me. That is very wrong and wicked I know, and I +chase the rebellious wish away by thinking of my many blessings, +especially of you and my Philippe. You have both been my comfort and +consolation. By the way, dear, no letter has come from Philippe to-day?"</p> + +<p>"No, mother, not yet."</p> + +<p>"It is strange that we have not heard from him. This is the first time +he has not written to me for my birthday."</p> + +<p>"But he did not forget you, mother. Are you not wearing his beautiful +gift to you which arrived this morning?"</p> + +<p>"No, he did not forget," replied the older woman, as her fingers strayed +lovingly over the lace scarf resting so lightly on her snow-white hair. +"My Philippe never forgets and that is why I worried just a little this +morning when his usual birthday letter did not come. Then, this +afternoon, a sudden idea occurred to me which made me very happy. Shall +I tell you what it was, Cecile? I am quite sure I have discovered the +reason why Philippe did not write me for my birthday."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">169</a></span></p> + +<p>It was well the blind eyes could not see the look of startled fear which +flashed across Cecile's face.</p> + +<p>"You have discovered why he did not write?" she exclaimed, and her voice +trembled slightly.</p> + +<p>The mother laughed happily. "Yes, I am quite sure I have discovered the +reason. I have a feeling, and I know it is a true feeling, that before +my birthday is quite over Philippe will be here with us. He is coming, +Cecile; he is not far away at this very moment, and before the evening +is over he will be with us."</p> + +<p>Tears filled Cecile's eyes but she rose quietly and said, trying to +speak lightly:</p> + +<p>"The night mist is rising from the river, mother dear. Had we not better +turn our faces toward the east and home?"</p> + +<p>"You are right, child, it will be as well for us to go home a little +early to-night. I am feeling unaccountably weary though very, very +happy. It will be best for me to go home and rest a little before the +evening train arrives bringing my Philippe back to me."</p> + +<p>Cecile said nothing, but very gently, very tenderly guided the blind +mother's steps as they wended their way homeward in the sweet summer +twilight.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">170</a></span></p> + +<p>Half an hour later Cecile paced restlessly up and down the broad veranda +of her home. She had left her mother sleeping on the couch in her pretty +sitting-room upstairs and could now face the problems and difficulties +which confronted her. In her mind she reviewed the years that had come +and gone since that sad night when her dying father had whispered almost +with his last breath:</p> + +<p>"Your mother, Cecile; I trust her to you. Take care of her for me when I +am no longer here to watch over her myself. Promise me you will shield +her from every worry, that you will stand between her and all troubles +as I have always done."</p> + +<p>The girl had promised and right faithfully had she kept her word, but at +what a cost to herself! She was thinking now of her promise and of how +she had kept it. She was thinking, too, of her mother's serious illness +which had followed that night, an illness from which she had recovered, +it is true, but which left her blind for life. What a terrible calamity +her mother's blindness had appeared to be at that time, and yet, there +came a day, that dreadful day two years ago, when she had thanked God on +her knees for the affliction<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">171</a></span> which enabled her to conceal the trouble +which had come upon them.</p> + +<p>Once more she lived through that day two years ago, the day when those +awful letters had come, one from Philippe, one from the lawyers. She had +read them at first without comprehending their meaning. Then as the +truth began to dawn upon her, she cried to herself that it could not be +true, it could not be. There was some terrible mistake somewhere. But +there it was before her in black and white; Philippe's own confession, +the lawyers' letter confirming all the facts. They were ruined, +penniless, and Philippe had done this thing; Philippe, her tall handsome +brother, the pride and darling of their mother's heart. But worse than +poverty, worse than ruin faced them. Philippe was a disgraced man, +sentenced to jail for fifteen years.</p> + +<p>It was an old, old story; she had heard of such cases before but paid +little heed to them. Now it was Philippe, her brother, and oh! how +different it all seemed. It was simply the story of an ambitious young +man, making his way in the world, winning name and fame among the ablest +financiers of the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">172</a></span> Western city in which he had elected to live his +life. It was simply the story of one who had much and who wanted more, +who strained every nerve to win in the great game he was playing, the +game of money-getting. It was the story of one who risked all in one +grand final coup, who risked all and lost all. And what was risked and +lost was not his alone; everything belonging to his mother and sister +had gone too. Worse still, he had made use of money which was not +theirs, funds of the bank of which he was treasurer. Of course, he had +only borrowed them, he had been so sure of success, and he intended +replacing the money in a few days. He had reasoned as so many men before +him had reasoned, as men will continue to reason as long as this world +shall be.</p> + +<p>Such had been the trial which faced Cecile that day two years ago. Her +one thought had been that mother must never know; her heart had always +been weak and the shock would kill her, simply kill her. Words her +mother had once spoken to her returned to her mind as she had finished +reading those letters. The remark had been caused by some little act of +thoughtfulness on Philippe's part, some little gift he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">173</a></span> had sent her, +for Philippe had always been careful to remember all the little +household feast days with beautiful and often costly gifts.</p> + +<p>"Cecile," her mother had said, "you have both been good children to me, +you and Philippe, good and kind and thoughtful. I think it would break +my heart if my children should ever forget me, ever cease to love me. I +can imagine but one thing worse, to have them forget their God, to know +that they had committed any grievous wrong. I have sometimes heard of +mothers whose sons have been led astray into ways of wickedness and +proved a disgrace to themselves and to their families, and I have said +to myself: 'Poor woman, how can she bear it, how can she go on living +knowing what her boy has become? It would kill me, I know it would. +Thank God, my Philippe is a good boy, brave and upright like his father; +I shall never have cause to worry about him.'"</p> + +<p>Those words kept ringing through Cecile's brain as she had read the +letters over, and over again, and she had determined then and there, at +all costs, her mother should never know. But how was she going to +conceal the fact of their poverty, of their absolute ruin?<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">174</a></span></p> + +<p>They had always lived in comfort and where was she to find the money to +supply their daily needs? Since her father's death and her mother's +affliction, they had lived in the utmost seclusion. The few friends of +her earlier life had drifted away one by one and there was no one to +whom she could turn for help or advice in her hour of need. She must +manage alone somehow, she and faithful black Mandy to whom her mother +was still the "li'l Missy" of long years ago, the "l'il Missy" of the +happy days on the southern plantation.</p> + +<p>For two years they had succeeded, but by what sacrifices to themselves +no one would ever know. Many a time they had been reduced almost to the +verge of starvation in order to provide for the blind mother the little +delicacies to which she had been accustomed. Gradually, articles of +furniture disappeared from their accustomed places; costly pieces of +bric-a-brac, rare old china, everything of value which Cecile thought +her mother would not be likely to miss. Cecile's own apartment had been +reduced to four walls, a bare floor, one chair and the bed upon which +she slept. The mother's rooms and Philippe's alone remained untouched.</p> + +<p>Then Cecile found employment in the office of one<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">175</a></span> of those new +factories which had recently been erected over there beyond the town. +This step had been the cause of the first disagreement between her +mother and herself.</p> + +<p>"Why, Cecile, what do you mean?" the poor mother had gasped in her utter +bewilderment when informed of her daughter's intention. "Surely, I +misunderstood what you just said. Bookkeeper in the office of a +<i>factory</i>! Earn your own living! What <i>are</i> you talking about! What +strange jest is this, my dear? For you certainly cannot be in earnest."</p> + +<p>"Indeed I am not jesting, mother dear, but am very much in earnest. I +really want to earn money of my own, and shall be so much happier if I +have a regular occupation. And you want me to be happy, do you not?"</p> + +<p>"I cannot understand you at all, Cecile. I really cannot. In my youth, +we of the south considered it a disgrace for a young lady to even dream +of earning her living. Your father left us plenty of money. I do not +know just how it was invested, for I never cared to trouble my head +about money matters. I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">176</a></span> preferred to leave all that to you and the +lawyers. Still, I know my income is quite sufficient for our wants. Even +if we should lose our money, there is Philippe to provide for us. He +would agree with me, I know. He would never, never allow his sister to +work for a living."</p> + +<p>Of course Cecile had persisted in her resolution, and it grieved her to +feel that her mother had never become reconciled to what she considered +a mere whim.</p> + +<p>Letters from Philippe came at occasional intervals, letters which were +carefully edited before she read them aloud to her mother. Gifts from +Philippe came too, just as they had always done, but now each gift meant +some added sacrifice for poor Cecile. Her very last bit of jewelry, a +gift from her father on the Christmas before he died, had been sold to +purchase the lace scarf which had come that morning in Philippe's name.</p> + +<p>Of all this Cecile was thinking as she paced the veranda that summer +night. It had all been very hard to bear but it was as nothing compared +with that last blow which had fallen two nights ago.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">177</a></span></p> + +<p>She had been to the town for necessary supplies and was returning rather +late in the evening. The road was lonely, deserted, and she could not +suppress the cry of fright which rose to her lips as a man sprang from a +little thicket which she was passing and stood directly before her, +barring her path. Her second cry was one, not of fear, but of startled +recognition. The man was Philippe, no longer her handsome Philippe, but +a ragged, wild-eyed, desperate man. His story was told in a few words. +He had grown restive under the confinement of prison life, then frantic, +simply frantic, and had made up his mind to escape. How, he did not +know, but he schemed and planned and watched his chance and finally +succeeded in getting away. He had managed to make his way to her, and +now she must give him money to enable him to get out of the country.</p> + +<p>Money? Where was she to find money to give him?</p> + +<p>"But you must, Cecile; you must give me every cent you can lay hands +on," he had cried savagely. "They are after me, I tell you, and if I am +taken back it will be to answer to a charge of murder. Of course, I +didn't mean it, you understand. One of the guards<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">178</a></span> was in my way, +and—well, there's one guard less in the world, that's all."</p> + +<p>He had come to the house late that night and she had given him food, +some of his own clothes which still hung in his room and which the +mother had never allowed anyone to touch, and all the money she "could +lay hands on." It was not much but it was every cent she had. She had +heard nothing from him since, and the suspense of the last two days had +been agonizing, the alternate hopes and fears, the wondering, wondering +where he was, what was happening to him at that very moment.</p> + +<p>The click of the garden gate and a footstep upon the gravel walk caused +her to turn hastily and descend the veranda steps. At first, she thought +it was Philippe come back to her, but a second glance showed that the +figure approaching through the dusk was that of good Father Anselm, her +parish priest. He was a young man, only recently appointed to the town, +but he knew her story and had frequently helped her with kindly advice +and sympathy. Her heart stood still as she watched his approach. +Something in his manner, something in his face seen dimly through the +gathering<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">179</a></span> darkness, told her that he was the bearer of evil tidings.</p> + +<p>"What is it, Father?" she asked tremulously. "Is it that they have taken +him?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, my child, they have taken him. They are bringing him here."</p> + +<p>"Bringing him here! But why, why should they bring him here?" A sudden +dreadful thought flashed through her mind. "Father, you have not told me +all; there is something else."</p> + +<p>"My poor child, there <i>is</i> something else to tell you."</p> + +<p>"You need not tell it, Father, I know. They have taken him, but +not—alive. My poor Philippe is gone, dead. Tell me how it happened, +Father, will you please?"</p> + +<p>The girl's unnatural calm was more pitiful than any outburst of grief +could have been, and an immeasurable compassion spoke in the priest's +voice as he told the story of Philippe's death.</p> + +<p>"He was hiding in the deserted hut in Planter's Wood (you know the spot, +Cecile) and they discovered his place of concealment. They had been +following after him for days but he thought he would be safe<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">180</a></span> there and +could come out at night and procure food from you. There was a short, +sharp struggle in which he received a mortal wound. Doctors were sent +for; I, too, was summoned. Thank God, he was conscious up to the very +last and I arrived in time to reconcile him with the Master whose love +he had outraged, whose commands he had broken. His end was very quiet +and peaceful, he simply closed his eyes and fell asleep as a little baby +might.</p> + +<p>"But we must not stand here talking, my child. We have a duty to +perform, you and I, and we must be brave and perform that duty at once, +difficult though it may be. Where is your mother, Cecile? She will have +to be told before—before they arrive. I came on ahead for that very +purpose."</p> + +<p>"We cannot tell her, Father, we cannot. It will kill her."</p> + +<p>"We <i>must</i> tell her; it will be impossible to hide it. Take me to her +and we will tell her together. God will be with us and will help us, my +child."</p> + +<p>"Oh! if God would only spare her, if He would only spare her! If He +would only open a way so we need not tell her!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">181</a></span></p> + +<p>Her brain was in a whirl as she mounted the stairs; she was stunned, +broken. Of one thing only was she perfectly conscious. Philippe was +coming and his mother must be awakened. That mother's last words as she +had closed her eyes were:</p> + +<p>"I am strangely weary, Cecile, weary and very drowsy. I think I shall +sleep a little, but be sure and wake me when Philippe comes."</p> + +<p>Wake her when Philippe comes! Yes, for Philippe <i>is</i> coming and his +mother must be wakened.</p> + +<p>They stood beside the couch and looked down upon the sleeping woman. How +quietly she rested there, how still she was and peaceful! But how <i>very</i> +still she was, and what was that scarcely palpable shadow resting on the +sweet, calm face? Was it only a shade cast by the lamp which Cecile had +brought in and placed upon a table behind them, or was it——?</p> + +<p>With a cry of alarm, the girl fell on her knees and caught frantically +at her mother's hand. It lay in hers absolutely passive and cold, so +cold. The priest raised the lamp till the light shone full upon the face +of the sleeper. Sleeping she was indeed, the last long sleep<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">182</a></span> from which +not they, not Philippe, not anyone could waken her.</p> + +<p>Father Anselm laid his hand on the head of the stricken girl and said +gently:</p> + +<p>"A moment ago, my child, you prayed that God might spare her. He had +granted your prayer even before it was uttered. We need not tell her now +for she has learned it all from One who could tell it far more gently, +far more mercifully than we could."</p> + +<p>The sound of shuffling steps, as of men who carried a heavy burden, came +up to them from the gravel walk below.</p> + +<p>"Requiescant in pace," whispered the priest.</p> + +<p>Cecile knelt as if turned to stone. Mechanically, she listened to the +voice of the priest reciting the De Profundis; she listened to the call +of the crickets shrilling through the summer night without; she listened +to the heart-breaking sobs of faithful black Mandy crouching on the +floor by the side of her "li'l Missy;" she listened to those shuffling +footsteps as they entered the house, slowly mounted the staircase and +paused at the door of what had once been Philippe's room.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">183</a></span></p> + +<p>Yet again the priest's voice recited:</p> + +<p>"Requiescant in pace."</p> + +<p>And this time, Cecile, laying her cheek upon the dear cold hand she held +in hers, responded brokenly:</p> + +<p>"Amen."</p> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Alchemist's Secret, by Isabel Cecilia Williams + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ALCHEMIST'S SECRET *** + +***** This file should be named 19224-h.htm or 19224-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/9/2/2/19224/ + +Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +http://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" +or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +http://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official +page at http://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit http://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. +To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + http://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + + +</pre> + +</body> +</html> diff --git a/19224.txt b/19224.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..bb366af --- /dev/null +++ b/19224.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3814 @@ +Project Gutenberg's The Alchemist's Secret, by Isabel Cecilia Williams + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Alchemist's Secret + +Author: Isabel Cecilia Williams + +Release Date: September 9, 2006 [EBook #19224] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ALCHEMIST'S SECRET *** + + + + +Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + +THE ALCHEMIST'S SECRET +BY +ISABEL CECILIA WILLIAMS + +P. J. KENEDY & SONS +44 BARCLAY STREET, NEW YORK + +----------------------------------------------------------------------- + +COPYRIGHT, 1910, +BY +P. J. KENEDY & SONS. + +----------------------------------------------------------------------- + +CONTENTS + PAGE + +THE PASSING OF TONY 11 +THE TRAMP 27 +"HE HATH PUT DOWN THE MIGHTY" 42 +A MEMORABLE CHRISTMAS MORNING 58 +NANCY'S TALE 72 +PATSY 88 +THREE EVENINGS IN A LIFE 103 +THE ELEVENTH HOUR 116 +THE STORY OF JULIE BENOIT 130 +PETER 150 +GOD'S WAY 165 + +----------------------------------------------------------------------- + + + + +THE PASSING OF TONY. + + +"Last mail in, Mis' Bascomb?" + +"Last mail's in, Tony." + +"Be there anything for me to-night?" + +Widow Bascomb knew perfectly well there was not, but she reached for a +small pile of letters in a pigeonhole on her right and glanced over them +rapidly. Her sour visage and rasping voice softened perceptibly as she +smiled on the little old man before her. + +"Sorry, Tony, there's nothing for you to-night." + +"Thank you, Mis' Bascomb, p'raps it'll come to-morrow," and Tony turned +away with a sigh and moved towards the door. + +A group of men were gathered around the stove, smoking and exchanging +the gossip of the town. These greeted him kindly as he passed and he +returned the greetings half absently. Before opening the door, the old +man stopped to give his woolen muffler one more turn around his neck. + +"Purty cold snap, this," he remarked to the company in general. "Looks +as if we'd have snow 'fore mornin' and a white Christmas after all. +Good-night, Mis' Bascomb; good-night boys. A merry Christmas to you +all!" and Tony stepped out into the frosty air of the December evening. + +He sighed again as he turned up over the hill to the left and started +for home. It had been a long, cold walk down to the village, and it +would be equally long and even colder on the way back, for a sharp wind +was blowing directly in his face. It was a bad night for an old man like +Tony to be abroad and he was almost sorry that he had ventured out. But +there was his promise to Martha; it would never do to break that. Martha +had always been of a more hopeful turn of mind than he, anyway. While +she was still alive she had imparted to him the same spirit of trust and +hopefulness which shone in her steady gray eyes, but since God had taken +Martha and left him all alone in the world of care and trouble, life had +been hard indeed. + +He had promised Martha never to omit the daily visit to the post-office +to inquire for the letter which, thus far, had failed to arrive. Martha +had been so sure that Sallie would write to them some day; Sallie, +their handsome, wilful daughter, who had passed out of their lives +nearly fifteen years before. He never blamed Sallie for wanting to leave +them; what could a tiny village like this offer to one as clever, as +pretty, as ambitious as Sallie had been? The neighbors had said many +unkind things of Sallie but he heeded them not. They had called her +vain, idle and silly; they said the folks at the big house had spoiled +her and put notions into her head. They told him he did a foolish thing +when he allowed her to go as maid to the lady of the big house over on +the shores of the lake, and to go down to the city with the family when +they moved home in the autumn. To tell the truth, poor Tony had little +voice in the matter. Sallie, as usual, had taken affairs into her own +hands and decided for herself. + +Nearly fifteen years! It was a long, long time; and never a word from +the truant since the day she had left the village. Martha had waited, at +first impatiently, then anxiously, and finally with a pathetic +hopefulness that was more than half assumed. It was she who had insisted +that Tony must go to the office every day, and during those long years, +every evening, rain or shine, the same little scene was enacted in the +village post-office. Every evening he had the same story of failure to +report. + +"No letter to-night, mother." + +"Never mind, father; it'll sure come to-morrow," and Martha would sigh +and clasp her hands in her lap. + +Presently, by the movement of her lips he would know she was praying for +the absent one. He would lay aside his pipe, fetch his beads, and +together they would say the Rosary, begging the blessed Mother of God to +keep special watch over their child. She was the only one they had left, +four little white stones marking the resting-place of the four little +angels who had been permitted to remain with them for only such a very +short space of time. + +Martha was sleeping now beside her babies and he was alone in the world; +for who could tell what had become of Sallie? She, too, might be at rest +in God's Acre. Sometimes he felt that she must be, or surely, surely, +some word would have come from her. She must have known how anxiously +they would watch for news of her, and certainly she would not be so +heartless as to keep silence all this long time. + +Perhaps she had written and the letter failed to reach them. Well, +whatever the trouble was, Tony had long since given up all hope of +hearing from her, but, because of his promise to Martha, he still made +his nightly visit to the post-office in the village. Had it not been for +that promise he would certainly not take that long walk day after day, +in summer heat and winter storms, for hope had long since died in Tony's +heart. At least, so he told himself, but somehow the walk home always +seemed twice as long as the walk down, after hearing those depressing +words "No letter to-night, Tony." + +Of late, the daily visit to the village had been almost more than the +old man's failing strength had been able to support. How often he wished +he had not been obliged to sell Lassie. She was the last of his horses +to go; the last, in fact, of all his possessions. There was nothing left +to him now but the old house, and that was in such a state of +dilapidation as to be really unfit for habitation. In the old days, his +dogs and his horses were better housed than he was now; in the old days, +when his farm was one of the most prosperous in that section of the +country. It was lonely indeed since Martha went away, but he was glad +she had not lived to see him brought to this pass. He was glad he had +been able to surround her with comforts up to the very end, though to do +so he had been obliged to sell timber-land, horses, cows, everything he +owned, one after another. + +But Martha never knew; patient, suffering Martha, confined to her room +by illness for many years before God had sent her release from pain. +Thank God, Martha never knew; she had trouble enough without worrying +over their poverty. Her room was always bright, always cheerful; her +favorite flowers blossomed in the window, a fire of logs burned cosily +upon the hearth. The neighbors were kind in helping him to care for her, +in bringing her little delicacies to tempt an invalid's appetite; fresh +eggs, chickens, new lettuce, which Martha supposed had come from their +own farm. + +It would never do to let her know that all their land was gone, all save +that upon which the house stood and Martha's flower garden which +stretched from her windows to the road. How he had worked in that +garden, cultivating the flowers she loved to see growing there. +Sometimes he would lift her from the bed and place her in the large +chair by the window, where she could watch him at his work; where she +could watch, too, the road that led from the village. Often, he would +glance up from his spading to meet her brave, cheery smile that +sweetened all his labor; oftener still, it would be to find her eyes +fixed upon that long, dusty line that wound over hill and valley, in and +out through orchards and corn fields, the road that led to the village +and thence to the city beyond. He knew her mind had gone out into the +wide, busy world, of which an occasional echo would reach them, gone out +in a vain effort to guess at the whereabouts of the girl who had passed +down that country road so many years ago never to return. To the very +end, Martha had never ceased hoping, never ceased praying for the return +of the wanderer, or at least for some word of assurance that all was +well with her. + +By the time Tony reached the dismantled farmhouse the snow was falling +thickly, silently, on all around. + +"Twill be a bad storm," thought Tony. "God pity any who are abroad this +night." + +Pushing open the kitchen door he entered quickly, divesting himself of +cap, muffler, and ragged overcoat, and hanging them near the stove to +dry. He lighted the lamp and threw some wood upon the fire which had +burned low. Then, turning, he spied for the first time, a basket upon +the table. A pleased smile overspread his face. So they had not +forgotten, after all! How he and Martha had always watched for that +Christmas basket from Cousin John's folks over at the market town! It +was not so much the value of the gift, for John was not over-plentifully +blessed with the goods of this world and had a large family dependent +upon him. It was more the fact of being remembered kindly, the knowledge +that there was still some one who thought of them occasionally. + +He commenced unpacking the basket and arranging the contents upon the +table: home-baked bread, pies, cakes; a package of tea, another of +tobacco; oranges, nuts, candy; warm mittens and socks that John's wife +had knit for him. She was a good woman, John's wife, kind-hearted and +thoughtful; she must have guessed how badly he needed socks and mittens +now that Martha was no longer there to make them for him. He started for +the cupboard, a pie in one hand, a loaf of bread in the other, then +stopped in the middle of the room and eyed them meditatively. What was +it Martha used to say? + +"Never, never let Christmas pass without doing something for some one. +No matter how poor one may be, Tony, they're always others poorer still. +If it be no more'n a loaf of bread, give something to the poor at +Christmas time in the name of the little Babe that had none but the +shepherds to do a hand's turn for Him." + +Each year he and Martha had found some one to whom they gave in the +Christ-Child's name, for the sake of the girl who was never absent from +their thoughts by day or by night. Even last year, as poor as he was, he +had met with one more needy still and sent him on his way rejoicing--a +poor lad, out of work, out of money, tramping from city to city in +search of employment. They had taken him in for Sallie's sake, given him +food and shelter, and when the boy left the farm a silver dollar, nearly +the last of Tony's small store, was pressed into his hand. The dollar +had been returned, for at the next town the object of Tony's charity had +found steady work. That was last year. This Christmas he was not doing +a thing for any one; he had forgotten completely, probably because +Martha was not there to remind him. + +He placed the bread and the pie back upon the table and stood looking at +them long and earnestly. He knew of one who needed them far more than he +did, a poor widow over in "the hollow," whose five small children, +sickly, starved little creatures, were more than half the time crying +with cold and hunger. He opened the package of tobacco, filled his pipe +and sat down in his chair by the stove to smoke and think. + +How those poor children would enjoy the bread and pies and cakes which +John's wife had sent him! Poor little things, they seldom, if ever, +tasted fare like that. He really did not need them; he managed to get +along pretty well and the neighbors were all good to him; especially +since Martha died. He would really be glad to give those children +something, but he was so tired, so tired, and it was quite a walk over +to the hollow. + +Then, the storm! How the wind shrieked and tore around the house, and +how steadily the snow beat against the window panes! It was warm and +comfortable there by the fire, but outside----. And he was unusually +tired to-night; that walk to the village had been almost too much for +him. Besides, he must be up in time for first Mass in the morning; he +had never missed first Mass and Holy Communion on Christmas since the +day he and Martha were married. Year after year, they had knelt side by +side at God's altar; for many years Sallie had knelt there with him; now +he was all alone but he meant to continue the custom for Martha's +sake. + +How the storm did rage, to be sure; but those poor children, those poor +little children! Perhaps somewhere in the wide world his Sallie was in +need of help and comfort this night and those who might give it to her +were too tired or too lazy. He guessed that was the trouble, he was +growing lazy in his old age. Well, he would do this for Sallie; it would +be one more little sacrifice added to the many which he and Martha had +offered for their wandering child, that God might keep guard over her +wherever she might be. Yes, he would do it for Sallie's sake and to +please Martha. From Heaven she was watching him and would know that to +please her and for the sake of their child he was going to brave the +storm once more and carry a little Christmas happiness to those poor +children over in the hollow. The walk over and back again would not hurt +him; he was growing old and lazy, that was all. + +But first he must light the lamp. Dear, dear, he was growing forgetful +as well as lazy. He had nearly forgotten to light Sallie's lamp. What +would Martha say to that? Every night as soon as dusk had fallen, Martha +had insisted upon placing a lamp in the window of what had once been +Sallie's room. If the child came back unexpectedly, she would see the +light shining from her window and know they were waiting and watching +for her. The room itself was as she had left it years ago, her clothes +still hanging in the closet, her slippers laid ready for the tired feet +to slip into them, the fire on the hearth all prepared against the day +of her home-coming, and by night the lamp in the window shining a +welcome that could be seen afar down the road that led from the village. +He must light Sallie's lamp, then off once more into the storm and +darkness to carry a bit of Christmas cheer to the little home in the +hollow. + +Nearly an hour later, a thoroughly worn-out but very happy old man sat +by the stove in the farmhouse kitchen. He was too tired even to light +his pipe; he simply sat there and tried to rest. It had been a hard +fight against the storm, but how pleased those poor little children +were! Well, he had done it for Sallie, just one more little sacrifice +for Sallie who was somewhere out there in the cold, weary world, far +from the home of her childhood, far from the ones who loved her best. + +Sallie gone? Sallie far away in the storm and darkness? Why no, of +course not. Sallie was only a little child sleeping quietly in her own +little room. See, the door was ajar and a ray of light from the lamp in +Sallie's room was streaming across the kitchen floor. He must go in and +extinguish the light before it awakened the sleeping child. Why had +Martha left the lamp burning? Surely she must know it would disturb the +child. Well, as soon as he was rested he would go and put it out. + +How tired, how tired he did feel! He'd worked pretty hard to-day, and +the sun had been hot, so hot. Well, never mind, the hay was all cut now, +a few more days like this and his barn would be filled with the finest +hay in the country. A few more years like this one and he would be the +richest farmer hereabouts. For himself, he did not care, and Martha had +simple tastes like his own. But there was Sallie. She was only a wee tot +now but she would be a woman some day. They must give Sallie all the +advantages they had missed; they must lay by money against the time when +Sallie would be a grown up woman and want things like other girls of her +age. + +What ailed him, anyway, that a day's work in the hay field should make +him feel like this, so tired, so very tired? + +He felt a little better now; he would rest a few moments more, then be +off home to supper and to Martha and Sallie. But who was that calling to +him? Why, Martha, to be sure, standing there by the five-barred gate. +She had come to meet him with their baby in her arms. That was strange; +it was not Sallie, it was their first-born, the boy with his mother's +eyes who had blessed their home for only a few short months and then +been laid to rest in the churchyard on the hill. The other little tots +were with her, three of them, clinging closely to her skirts. They were +all smiling and holding out their hands to him in invitation. But +Sallie, where was Sallie? Once more Martha called his name. At the sound +of her voice all the wonder, all the worriment, fled from Tony's heart. + +"Coming, Mother, coming," he called happily, and the smile upon Martha's +face was reflected on his own. + +Christmas morning dawned bright and clear; the storm had passed in the +night. Something else had passed, too--the soul of an aged farmer. It +was not until the next day they found him, still sitting in the lounging +chair by the stove in which only a small heap of charred ashes remained. +They looked upon that serenely smiling face, then from one to another, +and sadly shook their heads. One of their number stepped forward and +with trembling fingers placed in the stiff, cold hand of old Tony, the +letter for which he had watched through long and weary years, the letter +that had come too late. + +Too late? Nay, not so. Those standing by could not see, as Tony saw, the +woman who lay dying in the great hospital down in the city. They could +not see, as Tony saw, the last rites of the Church administered, the +Sisters of Charity bending near praying, praying for that soul about to +depart upon its last long journey. They could not hear, as Tony heard, +the pale lips speaking their final words: + +"You wrote the letter, Sister?" + +"I wrote the letter, dear. It must have reached them by now." + +"You told them I was dying? You asked them to forgive?" + +"I told them all and I'm sure they have forgiven already." + +"Dear father and mother! God bless them both! God have mercy upon me!" + +They could not know, but Tony knew. Perhaps that explained the smile on +Tony's face, the smile they could not comprehend. + + + + +THE TRAMP. + + +"A pretty tough looking character, that! But I suppose you see a great +many just such specimens in this quaint little town of yours." + +Father Antony's back was turned to the speaker and for several moments +he remained standing at the top of the veranda steps, following with his +eyes the slouching figure that had just passed through the gate and was +tramping slowly along the county road. Then, with a sigh he returned to +his seat and, running his fingers through his hair, remarked half +absently: + +"Poor fellow, he looked almost exhausted. I tried to persuade him to +remain here a little longer and rest for a spell. What a life theirs is! +Some of them, of course, really enjoy it, but others----. Ah, me! those +poor others. And somehow that tramp who has just left us seems to me to +belong to the latter class rather than to the former. But pardon me, +Father, what was it you were just saying? I was so interested in my +tramp that I failed to catch your words." + +"I merely remarked," returned the younger priest, smiling, "that you +must see a great many of these nomadic individuals in this quaint little +town of yours. I have been here but a week and that is the sixth +villainous looking rascal who has presented himself and demanded +something to eat." + +"Yes, a large number of tramps pass through here in the course of a +year, for we are on the direct road between the two largest cities of +the State. Many of them are, as you say, villainous looking, but I do +not think they are half as bad as they look. In fact, in some cases, I +have found them to be pretty good fellows once you had passed the rough +exterior and reached the real man underneath." + +"You must have had some very interesting experiences with these tramps +of yours; have you not, Father?" asked the younger man curiously. "I +wish you would tell me some of them." + +Father Anthony shifted his chair so as to command a better view of the +road. He watched in meditative silence until the tramp had become a mere +blot upon the whiteness of the dusty road and had finally disappeared +over the brow of a distant hill. Then he spoke in tones of reminiscence: + +"It was on just such a May evening as this, clear and beautiful only +much cooler, that I sat in this very chair and watched the road as I am +doing now. But on that evening I watched anxiously, divided between +hopes and fears, for the figure that was so long in coming; I was +watching for Jim, the tramp. Jim had promised faithfully, but with some +men promises are made only to be broken. I began to fear that Jim was +one of these. Still I prayed fervently and continued to hope, though the +twilight deepened and brought no sign of my vagrant. + +"My meeting with Jim had come about in this way. For some time I had +been playing a game of hide and seek with a certain backsliding member +of my congregation. The hiding was all on his side, the seeking on mine. +Try as I would I could not seem to obtain an interview with him. He was +never at home when I called; so I decided that my only chance of coming +to close quarters with the enemy was to surprise him at his work. That +afternoon I had gone to the quarries and found my man superintending +the gang in charge of the stone-crusher. He certainly was surprised and +not very pleased to see me, and all I could obtain from him after more +than an hour of argument and pleading was a promise that 'he would think +about it.' The 'it' referred to the making of his Easter duty, the time +for which had nearly expired. Bitterly disappointed, and with a feeling +of utter defeat, I was turning away when my steps were arrested by a not +unpleasant voice: + +"'Why don't you try your hand on me, Father? I'm a black enough sheep to +keep you busy for a few moments anyway.' + +"I wheeled around and found myself confronted by a short, thick-set man +of most unattractive appearance, a man whom you would scarce choose as a +companion along a lonely road at night. At a glance I sized up my new +acquaintance: a typical tramp who had taken a job at stoking the engine +to vary the monotony of the road. He was no professional 'hobo,' but +belonged to that class who take to tramping from necessity rather than +from choice--a too great love for the bottle being the necessity. They +find an odd job here and there, hold it until pay day, squander the +month's earnings in the nearest saloon, then on again in search of a job +somewhere else. + +"I am well acquainted with these men, but there was something about the +rough looking specimen before me, a certain something in his manner, in +his speech, in the twinkle of his eyes, which set him apart from the +rest of his class. A grizzled beard of iron grey concealed the lower +half of his face, and the right temple and cheek were disfigured by a +scar which gave the countenance a decidedly sinister appearance. In +spite of that I felt that the man before me had at one time been +accustomed to a very different life from the one he was leading now. + +"'Why don't you try your hand on me, Father?' he repeated, and the smile +accompanying the words made the ugly face almost pleasing. + +"There was not time for a lengthy conversation, the engine requiring +constant attention, but the tramp volunteered the information that he +answered to the name of Jim, and promised to report at the rectory in +the evening and give me a chance to try my hand on him. + +"In the evening, then, I sat and waited, half fearing that he had +changed his mind and would not come. But just as the first pale stars +began to twinkle in the sky Jim pushed open the gate and I went to meet +him with both hands extended in warmest welcome. He gave me his left +hand, and for the first time I noticed that the right was +gone--amputated at the wrist. Jim saw my glance of shocked pity and +smiled as he said calmly: + +"'It was the drink did it, Father--the hand and this scar on my face. +I'd been hitting it up pretty lively and didn't realize where I was +walking. The track wasn't wide enough for me and the train. One of us +had to get off, and as the engine was the stronger of the two--well, you +see the result before you.' + +"'How long have you been tramping, Jim?' I asked. + +"'More years than I care to think of now, Father. The drink again. In +fact, it's been the drink at every turn; it's ruined my life, made a +complete fool of me. But let's get down to business; only, you'll have +to help me out, it's so long since I went to confession I've almost +forgotten how.' + +"'Come into the house or the confessional in the church,' I suggested. + +"'The house or the confessional in the church? No, thank you, Father. My +little friends up yonder, those pretty, sparkling stars, my only +companions on many a lonely night, have been the witnesses of my +degradation. Let them now behold my restoration to the favor of the God +whom I've offended.' + +"Strange words, those, from a tramp, and I marveled at them. Without +more ado we 'got down to business,' and it was nearly two hours later +when we parted at the gate. In answer to a question of mine, Jim replied +whimsically: + +"'Where do I live while I'm working on this job? Well, you see, Father, +I am rather particular with regard to my lodgings, and as there is +nothing around here that quite suits me, I just crawl under the engine +and sleep there.' + +"'But when it rains, Jim?' + +"'Well, it just rains, that's all.' + +"The next morning Jim attended my Mass and received Holy Communion, and +every morning after that when I entered the church to offer up the Holy +Sacrifice the first person I would see would be my one-armed tramp +kneeling in a far corner, his rosary slipping through his fingers. The +rosary had belonged to his mother, and during all his years of tramping +he had guarded it as his most precious treasure. He had worn it in a +little chamois bag suspended from a string around his neck, but had not +used it in many, many years. He came regularly one evening in each week +to make his confession and to have a little chat with me. As the summer +progressed I wondered more and more at this strange new acquaintance of +mine; this rough looking tramp with the manners of a gentleman and the +speech, except for a few lapses in the vernacular of the road, of a man +of considerable education. The oddest thing of all was the feeling I had +that somewhere, at some time, Jim and I had met before. Little tricks of +voice and expression would seem strangely familiar. + +"The summer gradually faded into autumn, and one evening in late +September when I stood at the gate to say good-night to my tramp, he +remarked sadly: + +"'This is good-by as well as good-night, Father. I have given up my +work here and am off early in the morning.' + +"'Not the road again!' I cried, and the next second would have given +anything to recall the thoughtless words. A pained look crossed Jim's +face, but he answered quietly: + +"'No, Father, not the road. Never again shall I return to that life. I +have saved my wages this summer and am going back into the world to +begin life all over again. This time, with God's help, I shall not make +such a muddle of it as I did before.' + +"The next day he was gone, and many a night as I sat over my study-fire +reading or trying to work up my sermon for Sunday, my thoughts would +stray from the subject in hand and wander out into the world in search +of my friend the tramp. I would listen to the wintry blasts whistling +down my chimney and wonder where Jim was, and wonder still more at his +complete silence. Surely he might let me know if all were well with him. +Had he persevered? Or had he, perhaps, lapsed into his former ways, and +was he, even now, tramping the highways and byways? + +"Winter passed and spring came; still no news of Jim. Another summer, +another fall, another winter. Silence, absolute silence on the part of +my tramp. Then, one evening in May, exactly two years from the day when +I first met him, Jim stood before me once again. I recognized him by the +missing right hand and the scar on the temple. Aside from those two +points and the old merry twinkle in his eye he bore absolutely no +resemblance to my tramp of two years ago. The face was smooth shaven, +the bloat, caused by years of drinking, had all disappeared, and he +looked at least ten years younger than my former friend. His ragged +tramp's garb had been replaced by neat garments such as a fairly +prosperous business man might wear. His whole appearance seemed to +indicate that Jim had done well in the world to which he had returned. +Sitting in the garden, he told me all about it. + +"Yes, he had done well. It had been hard at first, oh! very hard. There +had been a time when, his savings all gone and no employment in sight, +he had faced actual starvation. But the darkest hour comes before dawn, +and that had been Jim's darkest hour. From then on things began to mend. +He had obtained a good situation and was happy in it. He had not +written because for long, for so very long, he had no news but bad news +to send. There was nothing but ill-luck and misfortune to report, and he +waited from day to day hoping things would brighten. Then, when the +unexpected stroke of good luck came, he decided to wait yet a little +longer until he could bring me the good news in person. + +"All the time he was talking I watched his face carefully. That +puzzling, baffling resemblance to some one whom I had known was stronger +than ever since the beard which concealed so much of his face had been +removed. I became more and more convinced that we had met before, but +when and where? I racked my memory, but the name, the personality I +wanted, eluded my grasp. Something of my thoughts must have shown in my +face, for when Jim finished his narrative he threw back his head, +laughing merrily at my very evident perplexity. + +"'It is really too bad to keep you guessing any longer, Father,' he +said. 'Let me help you to remember when and where we met before. Listen +and I will tell you a little story. + +"'It is Commencement day at a certain large college in a certain city +which we need not name. The graduating class have met together for the +last time in their own particular class-room. The saintly, white-haired +priest who has watched their progress step by step from the day they +first entered college stands before them. He speaks words to them which +brings tears to those young eyes, accustomed, as a rule, to looking only +on the merry side of life. He speaks words of true affection, of gentle +admonition and fatherly advice. He gives to each youth a tiny silver +medal of our Blessed Mother, and exacts from each one a promise that he +will faithfully carry that little medal until the day of his death.' + +"As Jim spoke he took from an inner pocket a small medal of our Lady and +laid it on the palm of his hand. I drew forth my rosary, and there, +beside the crucifix, hung a medal the counterpart of Jim's. He smiled as +he continued: + +"'I see you remember now, Father, but listen just a little longer for my +story is not finished. From that class-room those lads went forth into +the busy world of men and of affairs. They went their separate ways, +each one to fill that position in life to which he felt himself called, +most of them fired by ambition and confident of success. + +"'One of those young men left the college that night with his heart as +buoyant and hopeful as any of his companions. Almost from the first, +however, things seemed to go wrong with him. He was an orphan, father +and mother having died a few years before. Perhaps if either parent had +been at hand to warn him of the dangers into which he was drifting, his +life might have been different. Perhaps, even if some one had warned +him, the warning would have passed unheeded. He tried law for a time and +did not like it; tried business and gave that up; drifted from one thing +to another, always drifting lower, lower, until at last he found himself +an outcast and a wanderer. For some years he lived the life of a +vagrant. If at times a longing to return to better ways, a longing for +all that might have been, stirred faintly within him, the feeling was +quickly drowned by recourse to the one thing to which he remained +faithful, the enemy that had brought about his ruin, drink. + +"'During his wanderings he picked up odd jobs here and there, and one +day he is taken on by the boss of the stone-crusher over there in those +quarries of yours. They were badly in need of some one to stoke the +engine, and even a rough looking tramp was welcome. That same day there +comes to the place a certain priest who is searching for one of the +stray sheep from his own fold. The tramp recognizes the priest at once, +and the sight of that familiar face brings back the old, happy days of +his innocent boyhood. The priest commences to speak; he pleads, he +reasons with the boss of the stone-crusher. In spirit the tramp is once +more back in the college chapel listening to the saintly old man who had +been his guide and confidant in youth, and who had long since passed to +his reward. The vague, discontented longing for better things rises up +in full strength. After all, why not? The look on the priest's face as +he turns away decides him. That look of bitter disappointment, of real +grief, on the face of his old college friend is more than the tramp can +stand. He speaks, the priest turns to him, and--well, the rest of the +story you know for yourself, Father. That is, the rest as far as any +mortal can relate it. The end is not yet, but I trust that end will be +one which will satisfy even you.'" + +Silence reigned for several moments, the fragrant silence of a warm May +night. And then: + +"I am sure it will, I am sure it will," mused Father Anthony, smiling +confidently. "I have no fear as to what the end will be for Jim, my +one-armed tramp." + +"But the other man, Father, the boss of the stone-crusher? What has +become of him?" + +"Oh! that little game of hide and seek is still going on, but I have not +lost hope even yet. God's mills grind slowly and we must abide His own +good time, His own good time." + + + + +"HE HATH PUT DOWN THE MIGHTY." + + +"_Magnificat anima mea Dominum._" The exquisite voice rose and fell +daintily on the incense-laden air. + +"_Et exultavit spiritus meus in Deo salutari meo,_" responded the chorus +in triumphant harmony. + +It was a Sunday evening in early June and the hour for Vesper service at +Saint Zita's convent. Reverend Mother mounted the staircase leading to +the chapel, then paused, with her hand upon the door, to listen as the +wonderful soprano again took up the refrain: + +"_Quia respexit humilitatem ancillae suae._" + +"Poor child, poor child," whispered Reverend Mother, opening the door +and gliding noiselessly to her stall, where she knelt with bowed head +and prayed as she had never prayed before; prayed in fear and trembling +for the future of the girl whose voice had earned for her the title of +"the nightingale of Saint Zita's." + +Reverend Mother had always dreaded the day when she must part with this +dearly loved child who had been entrusted to her care some ten years +before. A gentleman had come to Saint Zita's bringing with him his +little daughter of six. A man of grave, even stern aspect, there was yet +a look in his eyes which filled the nun's heart with a great pity; it +was the look of one who had suffered deeply and in silence. He was a man +of few words and his errand was quickly explained. He was obliged to be +absent from home the greater part of the time and could not attend to +the education of his little girl as he would like to do. His wife was +not of our faith and was also too busily occupied to look after the +child. He did not mention that her occupation was that of society +butterfly, who sacrificed homelife, husband and child in the pursuit of +pleasure. Would Reverend Mother kindly undertake the charge of his +little Nita's education, spiritual as well as intellectual? Would she be +to the child what father and mother ought to be and could not? + +Reverend Mother had gladly undertaken the task, and since then Nita had +never been separated from her even for a day. During the vacations, when +other pupils scattered far and wide to their various homes, Nita had +remained at the convent, roaming at will through the deserted +class-room and beautiful grounds. She was the pet and darling of the +entire community. In the long summer afternoons when the nuns carried +their sewing out to the orchard behind the house, or to the pine grove +on the hill, where one could obtain such a lovely view of the river, +Nita would flit about amongst them like a veritable woodland fairy. Her +snatches of song and merry laughter made sylvan echoes ring and brought +smiles to the faces of the simple women who watched her with loving +sympathetic glances. + +Many a time, especially of late, had Reverend Mother looked at her with +anxious foreboding in her eyes. What would the future hold for this +child of hers, endowed as she was with singular beauty and a wonderful +voice? She was a docile child, sunny and sweet-tempered, and that very +pliancy of nature was what caused the nun many a moment of uneasiness. +What would become of her once she had left the shelter of her convent +home and was exposed to the influence of the light-hearted, merry, +soulless mother from whom she had inherited her beauty; the mother whose +only god was pleasure, whose one ambition was to be the best dressed, +the most popular, the most envied woman in her set. The only hope lay in +keeping Nita at the convent as long as possible, or at least until her +character had developed sufficiently to enable her to enter her mother's +world and hold her own against it. Still, Reverend Mother dreaded the +day when she must part with her child, and now that the parting had come +so unexpectedly, so much sooner than she had anticipated, it was doubly +hard to bear. + +The nun knelt in the chapel that June evening and prayed with all her +heart, not only for the future of the girl whose voice filled the air +with such exquisite melody, but also for help to break to that girl as +gently as possible the sad news awaiting her. Word had just arrived that +her father lay dangerously ill and Nita must hasten to his bedside if +she wished to see him once more in this world. The carriage was waiting +and Nita must go at once. + +The Benediction over and the lights extinguished, all save the tiny +radiance of the Sanctuary lamp, with a final appealing glance towards +the Tabernacle door, Reverend Mother left the chapel, descended to her +office, where she was accustomed to interview the pupils each in turn, +and summoned Nita to her presence. + +A little later she stood at the foot of the convent steps and watched +the carriage drive away with a weeping, forlorn little figure huddled in +one corner, while the good lay-sister who accompanied her vainly essayed +words of cheer and consolation. She watched with tear-dimmed eyes as the +carriage rolled rapidly down the avenue and out through the gate, then +entered the house and repaired at once to her refuge in all trials and +afflictions that might beset her way, the convent chapel. There, with +her eyes on the little golden door behind which the dearest and best of +Comforters is always waiting for the sorrowful, the sin-laden, the +weary-hearted, to come to Him, she found consolation and peace. Her +child was in the Lord's hands and surely in those hands she would be +safe. + +Many times have the June roses blossomed and fallen since the night on +which Reverend Mother stood in the convent doorway and watched the +departure of the carriage which was bearing her child away from her out +into the world of suffering and sin. Once more, the June sunshine is +flooding the land and the air is heavy with the odor of June blossoms. +In a small town in the south of France, a young woman, gowned in deepest +mourning, sits by her own casement and gazes gloomily, despairingly, out +into the gathering twilight. On a table at her side is a small pile of +money which she has counted over and over again in the vain hope that +she may have made a mistake and that, perhaps, after all, the amount is +not quite so small as she has made it out to be. That little pile of +money represents her entire worldly wealth, and when it is gone what is +to become of her? Work? She glances at the soft, delicate hands resting +idly in her lap. Their whiteness is dazzling as compared with the black +of her gown, and she smiles rather bitterly. What work could hands like +those perform? They are beautiful certainly, but useless, absolutely +useless, just as she herself is useless. There is not one thing by which +she can earn her daily bread, and earn it she must or starve. To what a +pass has she come; she, who at one time had wealth at her command and +the world at her feet. + +As she sits there, broken in spirit, broken in health, a middle-aged +woman in appearance, while in years not much beyond her first youth, +she recalls those triumphs of her past. Her success had been marvelous +though short-lived. Her mind wanders back to the days when she was the +pet and idol of musical Europe. The mere announcement that she was to +sing would pack the largest opera house to the very doors. Ah! those +days of triumph, when she had passed from one success to another, when +the mighty ones of the earth were pleased to do her honor, when the +incense of praise and flattery was burned day and night upon the shrine +of her greatness. Her mother was with her then, the beautiful, fairylike +little mother for whom her love had been almost worship. Her voice had +been with her, too, that voice at which two continents had marveled. +Both are gone now, the beautiful mother, the wonderful voice; gone, gone +forever, and she is alone in the world, alone and poor and friendless. + +She recalls the first and only time when she appeared in public in +America, her native land. She did not want to sing that night, for her +mother, who had been slightly ailing for some time, seemed very much +worse. She had decided not to appear at all, but had finally yielded to +the mother's entreaties and driven to the opera house. What an ovation +she had received that night! She could see it all again: the lights, the +flowers, the music, the vast audience simply frantic with delight at her +performance. At the close she had been recalled again and again, and +those enthusiastic plaudits still rang in her ears. How little she had +dreamed as she smiled and bowed her thanks, and how little those who +watched her had dreamed that never again was that wonderful voice to be +heard by mortal ears, that voice which had stirred millions of hearts +and made its owner one of the foremost singers of her day. + +She had driven home from that scene of triumph to find that her mother's +condition had become alarmingly worse in the few hours of her absence, +and before morning she had stood beside a deathbed the recollection of +which makes her shudder even now. The poor, pretty butterfly, her short +summer over, fought frantically but vainly against the annihilation +which was coming upon her. The memory of her early training at Saint +Zita's, the memory too of that other death-scene she had witnessed when +her father had passed away so calmly, so peacefully, with his eyes upon +the crucifix and the words of God's minister ringing in his ears, came +to the girl and she had begged to be allowed to send for a priest. Her +mother had never professed any belief, but it seemed terrible to Nita to +have her die without even a prayer to help her in that last awful +moment. Entreaties were of no avail. The idea of a priest, of religion, +of even a final prayer, was laughed to scorn. Besides, she was not +dying. She was young yet and was going to have many more years of +sunshine and pleasure before sinking into the oblivion of the cold, dark +grave. No, no, let them not speak of death, that fearsome, awful +spectre. She was going to live. Take it away, take it away, that +dreadful thing standing there beside her, laying its icy hand upon her +forehead. Its touch was turning her to stone. She was cold, and it was +growing so dark she could see nothing. Why did they not bring lights; +why did they not take away the dreadful thing beside her bed? + +The final struggle was fearful to behold, and even now Nita is haunted +day and night by the scene. Even now, there are times when she springs +from her sleep with a cry of terror, thinking she is again assisting at +the departure of that poor soul who fought so frantically against the +power of death. + +With her mother, a large part of their income died also, but she still +had sufficient money to supply her wants. Her voice, too, was a fortune +in itself; managers all over the country were eager and anxious to sign +a contract on any terms she chose to dictate. The shock of her mother's +death so unnerved her that she decided to spend a year in rest and +travel before returning to the stage. She had come abroad again, but had +scarcely reached London when she was attacked by a severe throat +trouble. The most eminent physicians were consulted, various treatments +tried, but the disease would not yield. The south of France was +recommended, and hither she had come in a last vain effort to save the +voice which had charmed all Europe. At first she was incredulous. Then, +she hoped against hope that time would prove them wrong and that the +lost voice would return some day even better and richer than it was +before. Now, all her hopes are gone, all her delusions swept away. She +knows she will never sing again, and here in her hand she holds the +cable message which forms the last in this series of dire misfortunes +which have come upon her within the last two years. It is the message +which tells her that her investments have failed and that she is +penniless. + +She sits by her window in the June twilight, the numbness of despair +taking possession of her. On the table lies all the money she owns in +the world. It is sufficient to cover the few bills she owes, the salary +of the woman who has traveled with her as maid and companion, and pay +her passage back to her native land. But what then? America once +reached, where can she go, to whom can she turn? The distant relatives, +the friends who crowded around her in her days of success, anxiously +seeking a smile, a word, a token of her favor, how will they receive her +if she goes to them a pauper, a dependent upon their charity? There is +no one to whom she can turn, no place to which she can go, and as the +twilight deepens a heavier blackness settles upon the soul of the girl. + +Presently the sound of music breaks in on the evening stillness, the +sound of an organ responding to the touch of skilled fingers and blended +with it the tones of women's voices. The nuns in a neighboring convent +are chanting the evening office. The sound recalls the chapel at Saint +Zita's, the orchard, the nuns, dear kind Reverend Mother. What peaceful, +happy hours those were? Has she ever known real happiness since she +quitted the quiet convent home of her childhood? Even in the days of her +greatest triumphs, was there not always something she could not attain, +the little bit more which was always wanting? But at Saint Zita's, how +different, oh! how different! Happiness such as the world could not +dream of ruled within its walls. She wonders what they are doing now, +the dear nuns and Reverend Mother. They, too, are probably in the chapel +reciting the office; some of them thinking of her perhaps. What would +they say if they knew how false she has proven to all their teachings, +how careless she has grown in the practice of that religion which is +dearer to them than life itself? + +A sentence in the last letter she received from Reverend Mother comes +now to her mind. The letter reached her years before and has never been +answered. The words are these: + +"Dear child, you are successful and happy now, with the world at your +feet, but if the day ever comes when all these things fall away from you +and you stand in need of a true friend or of any assistance we can +render, remember Saint Zita's is still your home and your old mother's +heart is sick with longing for a sight of her child. Worldly joys must +vanish, worldly hopes decay, but Saint Zita's and Reverend Mother will +be here waiting for you." + +How she longs for the peace and quiet of the old home and the comforting +touch of Reverend Mother's kind arms about her! What is it that the nuns +are singing! The "Magnificat." She listens in silence for a few moments, +then, a strange smile curving her lips, she recites in unison with the +choir: + +"_Deposuit potentes de sede._ Yea, Lord, Thou hast indeed put down the +mighty." + +It is not until after the voices are stilled, long after the world is +wrapped in slumber, that the girl turns from her open window and gathers +together the small store of money on the table beside her, repeating to +herself the while, slowly, half absently: + +"I wonder; I wonder." + + * * * * * + +Another year has rolled around and again the June roses in the garden +at Saint Zita's fill the summer air with their heavy fragrance. The +convent door opens and Reverend Mother steps out into the portico +accompanied by a caller, one of the "old girls" come back to pay a +fleeting visit to the home of her childhood. The nun has changed but +little with the passing of the years, but those who love her best note +with anxious eyes the slight stoop of the shoulders and feebleness of +gait. + +The visitor glances idly at a lay-sister who is busily engaged sweeping +the long flight of stone steps leading from the portico to the driveway +below. Her glance passes over the insignificant figure of the +lay-sister, and, looking across to the pine grove on the hill, she +speaks to Reverend Mother. + +"Do you know, Mother, every time I stand here and look at those trees I +am reminded of Nita, 'the nightingale of Saint Zita's,' as we used to +call her. That grove was ever her favorite resort and even the odor of +pines makes me think of her. I wish I knew what had become of her. I +witnessed her performance the only time she sang here in America, and +truly, it was wonderful. Then she disappeared completely from the face +of the earth, as completely as if the ground had opened and swallowed +her. Rumors came of her travels in England and the south of France and +after that no news of her could be obtained. Occasionally, my dear +Mother," and the visitor smiled knowingly; "occasionally I have fancied +that you knew her whereabouts and could tell us of her." + +"You are right, dear child, I could tell you, but I may not." + +"At least, Mother, tell me this: She is well and happy?" + +"She is well, indeed, and I think I may safely say happier than she has +ever been before." + +"Thank you, Mother," and the visitor descends the steps and is gone. + +"Sister Gabrielle," calls Reverend Mother gently. + +The lay-sister approaches, her broom still in her hand. + +"You heard our conversation, Sister?" + +"Yes, my Mother." + +"I spoke truly, did I not, dearest child?" and the old eyes peer +anxiously into the depths of the younger and smiling eyes raised to meet +her gaze. + +"You spoke truly, my Mother. Never before have I known what real peace +and real happiness were. Never, did I dream that life on earth could be +as mine is, so happy that it seems to me a little foretaste of the joy +the angels must know in heaven. _Deposuit potentes de sede, et exaltavit +humiles._" + + + + +A MEMORABLE CHRISTMAS MORNING. + + +On the outskirts of one of our large mill towns, at the very end of a +narrow street lined on each side by a row of dwelling houses of the +poorer class, stood a tiny cottage. It was a humble, unpretentious abode +of only four rooms, but it was home to the weary girl struggling up the +hillside. The tired eyes brightened and lagging steps quickened +involuntarily as she turned the corner and saw the welcoming light +streaming from the kitchen window. + +It was very late on the eve of Christmas day and the street was deserted +save for the solitary figure hastening towards that beacon light of +home. Darkness and silence reigned in most of the houses she passed, and +she sighed as she said to herself: + +"Poor mother! Still up and still at work. I wish she would not work so +hard; there is no need for it now." + +Reaching the kitchen window, she stood for a moment to take note of the +little scene within. By the table her mother sat sewing, her head bent +over her work and fingers flying as she plied the needle in and out. As +the girl watched, the mother looked up at the clock on the shelf above +the stove, shook her head sadly, and hastily brushing away the tears +which spring to her eyes, resumed her sewing. + +"Poor mother!" again sighed the girl. "Worrying about Tim, as usual, I +suppose." Then opening the kitchen door, she stepped into the welcome +warmth and light of home. + +"Well, little mother," she cried cheerily; "here I am at last, and I +suppose you thought I was never coming. You see, dear, we had to work +very late to-night to finish a large order. Then there was confession +and I was delayed there quite a while. I was almost the last to be heard +and it was considerably after ten by the time I left the church. +Everyone in town seemed to be going to confession to-night." + +"Not everyone," said her mother sadly. "There is _one_ who has not been +in spite of his promise to us and to the Father." + +The girl glanced quickly at the table on which plates for two were +laid, then at the supper keeping hot upon the stove, and exclaimed +rather bitterly: + +"So Tim is away again, as usual, is he? And he promised faithfully to +come home early to-night and go to confession for Christmas. But then, +he promised the same last Easter and every First Friday since, and has +broken his word every time. Mother, how long is it now since Tim has +been to Mass or to confession?" + +"I do not like to think, child; it's a pretty long time. I can't +understand what has come over him. He used to be such a good boy, such a +help and comfort to me, and now he is slowly breaking my heart. I've had +trials enough, trials enough, as you know, but I never complained. I +never murmured till now. I was always ready to say: 'God's will be +done.' But this, this is different. Long ago, when you and Tim were +children, and the twins upstairs were but a few weeks old, and your +father met with that accident that crippled him for life, I only said: +'God's will be done.' All through the years he lingered in sickness and +suffering and I had to work day and night, day and night to support you +all, I still said only: 'God's will be done.' All through that long, +hard fight to keep starvation from the door, when I saw my little +children crying at times with cold and hunger, and watched my husband +slowly dying and was unable to give him any of those little comforts and +luxuries which the sick require, my only words were: 'His holy will be +done.' But in this, the worst of all the trials that have come to me, +when I see my boy drifting away from us all, turning his back on God and +his religion and wandering away night after night with careless, jovial +companions, intent only on the pursuits of pleasure and folly; God help +me, I simply cannot bow my head and say: 'God's will be done'"; and +tears streamed unheeded from the mother's eyes. + +The girl stepped quickly to her mother's side and drew the gray head +gently to her shoulder, whispering comfortingly: "There, there, little +mother, don't cry so. You are fretting yourself to death over Tim, and +surely, surely, things will come right in the end. Tim is not a bad boy, +mother dear, only a little wild just now. Remember how good he used to +be, how kind, how helpful, in that hard time you were just speaking +about. Remember how good he was when father died, and how young he was +when he first went to work to help you support us all. Tim's a good boy +at heart, mother, and he's bound to come back before long." + +"Yes, dearie, that's what the Father says," returned her mother, slowly +drying her eyes and rising to lay the girl's supper upon the table. + +"He says not to worry but just pray, pray, pray, and Tim will surely +come back before long. But there, dear, sit down and eat your supper; +then we'll fill the children's stockings for I can guess what is in all +those parcels you brought home. Poor little things, it would not be +Christmas for them unless they hung their stockings. Thank God, I've +always managed to find something to put into them if it was only an +orange or an apple and a little candy. Indeed, that's about all it was +when you and Tim were younger, but life is so much easier now that you +are helping me." + +"And it is going to be easier still, mother dear, and you will be the +happiest little woman in the world one of these days. This wild spell of +Tim's is bound to pass and then he will settle down and be his own old +self again. There, dear," the girl continued, a few moments later; "my +supper is finished and now I'll clear away these dishes and fill the +children's stockings. Just see all the pretty things I've brought for +them. Won't their little eyes dance when they see them! Then, mother +dear, before we go to sleep, you and I will say the rosary for Tim. It +is too late for him to go to confession to-night, but wherever he is, +and God alone knows where he may be, he needs our prayers and he will +have them. As the good Father said, we will pray, pray, pray. If we only +pray hard enough and trust hard enough, things are bound to come right +in the end." + +The afternoon and evening had been unusually busy ones for Father +Xavier. Hour after hour he had sat in the confessional listening to the +tales of sin and sorrow that were poured into his ears. Hour after hour +he had spent bestowing the priestly absolution on the repentant sinner, +giving fatherly advice and consolation to the sorrowful, sending all +those troubled souls away lighter and happier for his ministrations. +Hour after hour he had waited, hoping against hope, for the sound of the +one voice above all others which he most desired to hear. + +In a town like that which formed Father Xavier's parish, the pastor is +indeed the father of his flock. Every man, woman and child is known to +him personally, and he takes a direct interest in each one's welfare. As +Father Xavier sat that Christmas eve and listened to the confessions of +his people, his heart grew sad and hope gradually died away as he waited +in vain for the voice of one whom he was striving to bring back to God +and to his duty. + +The crowd of penitents melted away one by one, the few last stragglers +had been heard, and still the priest waited in his confessional. The boy +might possibly come even yet, his boy whom he had loved with a special +affection ever since he was a tiny little chap first learning his +prayers in the baby class of the Sunday-school. Why was it he had not +been able to hold the boy? Why had he not been able to prevent his +wandering away with bad companions, this absolute neglect of all +religious duties on the part of his boy? Why could he not succeed in +bringing him back again even though the boy had wandered far afield? + +Father Xavier had hoped much from this Christmas eve, for Tim had +promised faithfully to make his confession and to start anew in the path +from which his feet had strayed. Tim had promised it as his Christmas +gift to the Father. Yes, Tim had promised, but Tim had broken his +promise. + +With a sigh of utter weariness, weariness of body, weariness of mind, +Father Xavier rose and left the confessional. He glanced over the +church; it was empty. He glanced towards the altar and his eyes rested +on the sanctuary lamp which appeared to be burning with unwonted +brightness. + +The hour was late, much later than he was accustomed to keep the church +open, still he lingered, unwilling to give up a last forlorn hope that +his boy might yet keep his promise. With eyes fixed on the Tabernacle +door, the priest knelt and commenced to recite the rosary, pleading, +pleading for his boy. The joyful mysteries were finished and no one +came; the sorrowful, still no one; finally, the glorious mysteries, and +still the priest was alone. + +With one last appeal for the welfare of that wandering soul, Father +Xavier rose from his knees and walked to the door of the church to close +it for the night. He passed out on the steps and stood for a moment +listening to a band of roisterers that were coming up the street +disturbing the peaceful quiet of the night with their noisy songs and +laughter. Where was his boy at that moment? He might possibly be with +this very band of half-drunken revellers who were even now passing by +and would soon be swallowed up in the darkness of the street. If not +with this band, he was probably wandering somewhere with another just +like it. Where was his boy at that moment? The priest turned, re-entered +the church, and locking the door, passed up the aisle extinguishing the +lights as he went along. He stood before the altar and once more looked +at the sanctuary lamp. It was certainly burning with unusual brightness +to-night. It set weird, fantastic shadows dancing along the walls and +peopled the dim recesses of the church with goblin shapes. It seemed +beckoning to him, calling to him, drawing him gradually to the steps of +the altar, where he sank upon his knees to pray once more for his +wandering boy. + +For yet an hour the priest lingered before the Tabernacle. Then, utterly +worn out in mind and body, he passed through the sacristy, locked the +door, and mounted the steps of his own house to seek a few hours of +rest before commencing the arduous duties of Christmas day. + +The church and rectory were situated on a hill and the priest stood in +his doorway and looked down upon the town below. It was now after +midnight, but many lights were still burning and the faint sound of +distant merry-making reached the priest's ears. Was his boy down there +among the revellers? + +Beyond the town lay the river, frozen, dark and still; and beyond that +again shone the lights of the neighboring city. Was his boy over there +beyond that dark, silent river? Was he over there in the city in some +one of those dens of iniquity which had lured so many young men to their +ruin? + +Well, wherever the boy was he must be left now to the care of God and +his angel for Father Xavier had done all he could that night; and the +priest went in and closed the door. + +At that same moment, in a little cottage at the other end of the town, a +sleepless mother rose from her knees beside the kitchen table and passed +slowly up the stairs to her own room. The children and the eldest girl +were long since asleep, but the mother could not rest for thinking of +her wayward boy. Where was he to-night; where at this very moment? And +he had promised, promised faithfully to turn over a new leaf with this +Christmas eve. Christmas eve was here, nay, it was come and gone for +midnight had sounded and it was now Christmas morning. Still, this night +must be for her as all those other nights when she had lain awake hour +after hour listening in silent anguish for the footstep that did not +come. She had hoped much from that promise of his to Father Xavier and +to her, and her disappointment was proportionately bitter. + +The mother walked to the window and looked out upon the silent, frosty +night. Low down upon the horizon myriads of stars were twinkling +merrily, but high up in the heavens the moon shone with a brilliant +radiance that totally eclipsed all lesser lights. The night was very +still, very beautiful, but the silence and the beauty failed to bring +peace to the mother's heart. She looked up into the heavens. How +placidly cold the moon looked back at her, the same moon that was +probably shedding its beams upon her boy at that moment and could tell +her where he was if it could but speak. Why, oh why, could those beams +not speak and tell her what they saw; why could they not bring her some +message from the absent one! She had never felt like this before, she +had never felt so restless, so uneasy. It was impossible to think of +sleep; she would pray still longer. Perhaps the boy needed her prayers; +perhaps he was in danger, danger of body, danger of soul, and needed her +help. Her rosary in her fingers, she knelt by the window praying, +praying, while the moonbeams danced and played around the kneeling +figure. Perhaps it was just as well they could not speak and tell her +what they saw out there upon the river. Perhaps they were trying to tell +her and could not; trying to tell her of the three men, one of whom was +scarce more than a boy, struggling out there in the icy water, +struggling for life as the current sought to drag them down beneath the +frozen surface. Their fingers clutched desperately at the ragged edges +of the ice that had broken through with them and cracked and crumbled +away at their touch. + +Now but two figures were visible to the watching moonbeams; one had been +dragged down into the black waters, down to his death in the freezing +depths below. + +For a moment a cloud covered the moon's face obscuring its view of +things terrestrial. When it passed and that scene upon the river was +once more visible, only one figure remained still struggling bravely; +still clutching at the slippery, crackling ice; still fighting, not for +life alone, but for his soul's salvation. What thoughts must have passed +through his mind in those dreadful, despairing moments! Thoughts of sins +committed, of graces neglected; thoughts of all that might have been and +of all that was. Who can know of the sorrow and remorse that filled his +heart, of the wild cry for help and pardon that went up from the river +that night? + +Meanwhile, the moon shone calmly, steadily, on the boy still fighting +for his life, on the mother praying at her chamber window, and on good +Father Xavier sleeping the sleep of the exhausted. + +Somewhat later, but still before the dawn, he was summoned from that +sleep to answer a sick call from the hospital just across the river, to +which he was chaplain. Three young men coming home from the city shortly +after midnight had attempted to cross the frozen river, though warned of +the danger of doing so. The ice had broken through, two were drowned, +one saved, and the doctors thought he would live though unconscious at +present. + +No, the names of the young men were not known as yet. The sisters at the +hospital sent for the priest because the boy brought there wore a +scapular and they knew he must be a Catholic. Aside from that nothing +was known about him. + +Father Xavier's heart stood still. Something told him that his boy had +been one of those three. Two drowned, one saved! Which, oh, which was +the one saved? + +The hospital reached, it was with rapidly beating heart he followed the +nurse through the ward and stood beside the bed at the farther end. The +night light burned low and the features of the boy upon the bed were +scarcely visible. Stooping low, a fervent "Thank God" broke from the +priest's lips as he recognized in the silent figure, the boy for whom +his heart had been yearning. His boy had been the one that was saved. +Yes, saved from death, saved from worse than death, saved to carry out +the resolutions he had made while struggling in the icy river that +Christmas morning. + + + + +NANCY'S TALE. + + +"Dear, dear! but God's ways are wonderful, there's no denyin' that. Many +a time we poor mortals think if we only had the handlin' of things, the +world would be a pleasanter place for some of us, but I reckon the Lord +knows His own business best. He usually manages to bring things out +right in the end, so He does." + +Nancy sat before the kitchen stove, rocking to and fro, and gazing +abstractedly before her. Her mood was a reminiscent one and I knew if I +gave her time enough she would launch forth into one of the interesting +narratives of which she possessed a goodly store. To have interrupted +her train of thought by even a whisper would have been fatal; silence +and patience must be my watch-words. Presently she turned to me with the +query: + +"'Member Mona, the old apple-woman you met here about a year ago?" + +Remember the apple-woman? Indeed I did; once having met Mona it was +impossible to forget her. Besides, she was, one might say, one of the +landmarks of the town, the frail, shadowy little woman who sold her +apples and peanuts and candy from her stand on the street-corner. +Nancy's words reminded me that I had not seen Mona lately at her usual +place of business. + +"Well," resumed Nancy, "Mona's gone, gone forever. Poor Mona! It's the +hard life she's had, and I'm after thinkin' she's not sorry that it's +over and she's found peace an' happiness at last. Want to know her +story? Well, I'll tell it to you, for it's me that can, havin' known her +since we was wee scraps of babies playin' on the floor together back +there in the old country. Yes, indeed, we were babies together, we grew +up together, an' we come out here to America on the same ship. Dear, +dear, how long ago that was, an' it don't seem much more than yesterday. + +"Well, as I was sayin', times was mighty hard in Ireland that year, +specially in the little town where me an' Mona was born an' reared. +Crops failed, work was slack; finally, famine an' pestilence took +possession of the land. Ah! child, child, you cannot dream what them +words mean, famine an' pestilence. To see the rich growin' poor, the +poor starvin' an' dyin' on every hand; the little children cryin' with +cold an' hunger, an' the fathers an' mothers with ne'er a scrap of food +to give 'em. That was the state of things in Ireland the year we left +it. + +"The plague had carried off my father an' mother, my brothers was all +married an' moved away, an' my only sister was at service in London, so +when Mona begged me to come to America with her an' Michael an' the +little ones, I just jumped at the chance. Michael was a good fellow, +sober an' industrious, but there was no work to be had at home and he +had heard such wonders of the land across the sea. There, a man that was +a man had no trouble in findin' work an' making a comfortable livin' for +himself an' family. He wanted to leave Mona with his sister in Dublin, +who offered to care for her an' the children until he'd made a home for +'em in the country he was goin' to. But no, Mona wouldn't hear to that. +She'd promised at God's altar to take him for better or worse an' to +cling to him till death. Because the worse had come, she wasn't goin' to +desert him an' let him go out alone to the cold land of the stranger to +fight his battle all by himself. She'd go with him an' stand by him and +help an' comfort him in his struggles. She knew she could help him. +She'd been taught by the nuns an' could do all sorts of fine sewin'. In +America, as in Dublin, there must be rich ladies who would pay well for +a bit of fine embroidery or hand-made lace. No, no, Mona wouldn't be +left behind; he must take her an' the little ones, no matter what was +before them. It was settled at last that we was all to go together, an' +so, one bright mornin' we stood on the deck of the ship that was +carryin' us far away from home an' all we loved, far away to the strange +land across the sea. With the tears runnin' down our faces, we waved +farewell to the shores of Ireland, an' Mona, though she didn't know it, +was wavin' farewell to happiness in this world. Poor girl, it's little +she knew from that day on but grief an' trouble an' sufferin'. + +"Well, child, as I was sayin', it was the fine, bright mornin' that we +left Ireland, but the good weather held for only a few days after. Then, +there blew up such a storm as I never see before an' hope never to see +again. It was fearful, fearful. I couldn't describe it to you if I +tried. We just lay in our berths, every one of us, our backs agin the +wall, our knees braced agin the board in front, an' we holdin' on for +dear life expectin' every moment to be dashed out on to the floor an' +have all our bones broken. We was too frightened to say a word, but we +prayed, oh, my! how we did pray, every mother's son of us. For nigh onto +three days that poor boat struggled on bravely agin the ragin' storm, +but the ship wasn't built that could live in that sea, an' the end was +bound to come sooner or later. Come, it did, at last. An officer stood +on the stairs orderin' us all up onto the deck; the ship had sprung a +leak, the water was pourin' in faster than they could pump it out, an' +we must take to the boats at once. + +"I never can remember rightly what happened then. It seems now such a +confusin' jumble of men, women and childer, all screamin' an' rushin' +for the stairs, and all the time the wind was a howlin' an' the vessel +was groanin' an' pitchin' so you had to cling to whatever was nearest to +keep on your feet at all. I don't know how we got there, but the next +thing I remember was standin' on the deck an' hangin' on to something +to keep from bein' washed overboard by the great waves that broke over +the ship an' flooded her from stem to stern. Mona stood near me with the +baby on her arm an' holdin' tight to the hand of little Gerald who hid +his face in her skirt an' sobbed in terror. Michael was beside her, one +arm holdin' her close while with the other he hung onto the railin' just +as I was doin'. Pretty soon, the boats was lowered an' everyone made a +rush for 'em. There was a shout of: + +"'Stand back, there, stand back! Women an' children first; only the +women an' children.' + +"The ship's officers an' sailors beat back the men an' commenced puttin' +the women into the boats as fast as they could. One of 'em caught Mona +by the arm an' tried to hurry her away. She struggled with him an' +begged to be left with Michael. The sailor swore at her an' then I heard +Michael's voice, calm an' steady, above the din of the storm: + +"'Go at once, asthore,' say he; 'for the sake of the childer, go at +once. Sure, dearie,' says he, 'we're in the Lord's hands anyway! can't +ye trust Him on the water just the same as on the land?' + +"The sailor lifted Mona an' the baby in his arm (it's the wee bit of a +thing she was always) an' passed her on to another to be lowered into +the boat. Michael caught up little Gerald an' cried out to me: 'Take the +boy with you, Nancy; take him quick, girl.' But before I could lay my +hand on the child I was seized and put into the boat beside Mona. The +poor girl screamed and held out her arms for the little lad, but the +boat was shoved off an' the last thing I can remember, as a mountain of +water rolled up between us an' the ship, was seein' Michael still +clingin' to the rail an' holdin' little Gerald on his arm. Then Mona +fainted agin my shoulder and I had my hands full tendin' her an' the +baby. + +"It was nearly dusk when we took to the boat, an' pretty soon it was so +dark you could scarce see your hand before you. I'll never forget the +horrors of that night, indeed then I won't, tossin' on top of waves as +big as mountains an' the next minute goin' down, down, down, till I +thought sure we'd strike bottom before ever we come up again. But even +the longest night must wear away, an' when day broke we seen a big +vessel comin' towards us an' in the course of an hour or so we was all +transferred to her decks. She cruised around for a time, hopin' to pick +up some of the other boats, but couldn't find none of 'em. There was no +tellin' how far away from the wreck an' the boats we'd drifted in the +night. The vessel that picked us up was bound for America an' so we +continued our voyage to this country. + +"I've often heard people complain of the coldness an' hardness of the +world; by 'the world,' always meanin' the folks that live in it, I +suppose. To my way of thinkin' there's a deal more kindness in the world +than there is selfishness an' badness, an' the people on that steamer +proved me right in one case anyway. They made up a purse among 'em an' +give a share to each of us that had been picked out of the sea, as you +might say. So, when we landed, we each had a little money to start in +with. I soon found work in a mill, an' my poor Mona managed to keep +herself an' the baby by doin' fine sewin'. For a long time we kep' house +together, me an' Mona, then I married an' moved away to another town. My +own troubles come on me thick an' fast after that an' what with one +thing an' another, an' movin' here an' there, it was years before I set +eyes on her again. Then we met quite by accident an' I found she was +livin' not far from here with an old woman who peddled shoestrings an' +pencils on the street. Mona herself kep' a stand on a corner where she +sold apples an' peanuts an' such stuff. + +"That night she come to see me here an' we talked over old times an' all +that had happened since last we met. She'd done well at her sewin', she +said, and brought up the baby in tolerable comfort. Then, just as the +child was growin' into a woman that could be of help to her mother an' +pay her back for her years of workin' an' strugglin', she was took down +with consumption. All the little poor Mona had managed to save went in +carin' for her sick daughter an' buryin' her when she died. By that +time, Mona's health was pretty well broke up, her eyes was not as good +as they used to be, an' she had to give up the sewin'. She fell in with +the old woman who peddled shoestrings, and, by her advice, started in +with her apple-stand. They'd been together ever since an' managed to +earn a livin' between 'em. We talked an' we talked that night, an' when +Mona was goin' she turned to me an' says: + +"'Nancy,' says she, 'I can't tell you how thankful I am to have seen +you again. An' I can't tell you how much good you've done me. Nancy,' +says she, 'I've been a wicked woman, a wicked, rebellious woman,' says +she. 'I've said dreadful things in my heart an' felt hard an' bitter at +times against Almighty God for all the trials an' sufferin' He sent me. +When I look at you, I'm ashamed of myself. I've lost a husband, so have +you; I lost a daughter, you lost two; my son sleeps at the bottom of the +sea, but your son--.Nancy, Nancy, when I go home to-night, I'll get down +on my knees an' thank God that my boy is sleepin' at the bottom of the +sea instead of wanderin' the earth a shame an' a disgrace to me.' + +"You see, child, that was before my Danny come back to me to be +reconciled to His God. It was while he was still wanderin' I didn't know +where, an' goin' from one piece of villainy to the next. + +"Poor Mona, I don't believe she was half as bad as she made herself out +to be, an' certainly from that day to this I've never heard a complaint +or a murmur cross her lips. She's been sick, too, most all the time, an' +there's been many a day when she'd ought to be home in bed but off she'd +go an' stand on her corner an' peddle her apples because the old woman +that lived with her was sicker than she an' they wouldn't have no money, +come rent day, unless Mona went out an' earned it for 'em. Talk about +the heroes that done such wonderful things that folks has to write whole +books about 'em! I tell you what, child, there's many a hero hid away in +the dirty little side-streets and alley-ways of every big city; only +folks don't know about 'em. To my mind, Mona was one of them heroes; so +sweet an' patient, pretty well on in years herself, an' all crippled +with the rheumatism, but goin' out day after day to sell her apples; a +slavin' an' a killin' herself for a woman a little older an' a little +sicker than she was. An' all this because the old woman had been kind to +her in her hour of greatest need. + +"Well, after findin' her again, I seen Mona every day; she used to come +here in the evenin' an' we'd sit an' talk of them that was gone. She was +with me when my Danny died, an' she thanked God with me for havin' +brought him back to me in the end. Then, one night, Mona didn't come, +but they brought me a message sayin' she was in the hospital, dyin' from +an accident, an' wanted to see me right away. I didn't let the grass +grow under my feet you may be sure, an' before long I stood beside the +bed where she was lyin', her poor, pale face all drawn with sufferin'. +I've called her a hero for the life she'd led, an' her end was sure +enough a hero's end. That afternoon a child had started to run across +the street at the corner where Mona's apple-stand was. He didn't see the +horse an' team that come tearin' up the street, an' the driver was too +busy lashin' the horse to see the child. In spite of her rheumatism, +Mona dashed in front of the team, and with a quick shove, sent the child +flyin' out of harm's away. He rolled over an' over on the street, but +beyond a scratch or two wasn't hurt. But Mona fell an' the team passed +over her ankles crushin' both of 'em badly. Her age an' the shock, +together with her injury, made 'em sure she couldn't live long. The +chaplain had been sent for, they told me, an' would come at any moment +now. + +"She was sleepin' when I reached her, so I sat down beside the bed an' +waited. The priest come an' stood lookin' down at her, an' the kindness +an' pity on his face was wonderful to see. He looked at me an' I fair +jumped out of my chair with the shock his eyes sent through me. + +"'Glory be to God!' I says, blessin' myself, for I was all a tremble +with the fright of it. 'Sure it's Michael Conners himself come back from +the dead.' + +"That very minute Mona's eyes opened slowly an' fixed themselves on the +priest's face. A smile that brought the tears to my eyes, it was that +beautiful, crossed her face an' she held out her thin, white hand to +him, whisperin', 'Michael.' Then she closed her eyes again an' was off +unconscious once more. + +"The priest looked first at her, then at me, an' his face was all +puzzled an' amazed like. + +"'How do you know that my name is Michael Conners?' says he. + +"'How do you know it yourself, Father?' says I, for I had my suspicions +by that time. + +"'Because of this,' says he, showin' me a strangely carved little black +wooden crucifix attached to his beads. 'This was on my neck when I was +saved from the wreck in which my father an' mother perished.' + +"'Well,' says I, 'you're wrong. 'Tain't Michael, but Gerald, is your +name, an' praise be the Lord but this'll be the happy day for my poor +Mona when she finds out the truth. That crucifix with the name of +Michael Conners on it was given to your father on his marriage day by +the priest that married him. Here's the mate to it that he give your +mother on the same day,' an' I picked up Mona's rosary lyin' on the bed +an' showed him the cross on it. They was as like as two peas, only on +the back of hers was carved the name of Mona Conners. + +"Well, we had to break the news to her gently, an' it's the happy woman +she was for the next few days in spite of all the pain she suffered. +She'd just lie there holdin' Gerald's hand an' gazin' at him an' makin' +him tell over an' over again of how he'd been saved from the wreck. He +was only a wee lad of three at the time, but he could still remember of +his father standin' there on the deck of the sinkin' ship an' holdin' +him in his arms. He could still hear the words his father spoke to him +an' feel the father's hand slippin' the rosary over his head an' +claspin' the little fingers around the cross as it lay on his breast. +Michael had passed him to a sailor an' he was lowered into one of the +boats, where a kind-hearted woman took compassion on his loneliness an' +cared for him. They'd been picked up by a sailin' vessel bound for +France, an' the woman who first cared for him, took him with her from +France to America an' finally adopted him. She brought him up, educated +him, an' at last he became a priest of God. + +"He was with his mother to the very end, an' it was his hand that give +her the last blessin' of the Church an' his voice recited the prayers +that send the departin' soul safe on its journey to the throne of God. +It's the happy woman my Mona was in them last few days upon earth, an' +it's the happy woman she is this day, all her troubles over, all her +sufferin's gone, an' she in Paradise for ever an' ever." + +During Nancy's recital, the shadows of twilight had gathered and +deepened, and now her little kitchen was wrapped in darkness. Still, she +sat for several moments buried in thought which I cared not to +interrupt. Then, with a sigh, she rose to light the lamp and I noticed +that tears filled her eyes though the brave lips were smiling. + +"Yes, yes," she repeated. "God's ways are wonderful, they are that. Even +if we don't understand things in this world, we're sure to in the next, +for the Lord knows His own business best every time." + + + + +PATSY. + + +Patsy was wide awake in a second. What was it those men were talking +about; what was it they were planning to do? That name, and "the brown +house on the hill"! By a strong effort, he kept his eyes closed and +breathed regularly and deeply as though still sleeping. He must not let +them suspect that he was listening, but he must catch every word they +said, every word. How he hated them, this band of rascals that had +gotten his David into their clutches and were slowly but surely making +him as bad as they! His David bad? No, no! David was kind and good and +gentle to him always. David was not bad, he would not listen to their +dreadful scheme. He would refuse to help them; surely he would. His +David a thief? It was impossible. But that dreadful plan they were +discussing! "The brown house on the hill"; "to-morrow night"; and David +was promising to go with them. + +Patsy shivered beneath the bedclothes and bitter tears gathered in his +eyes and trickled down the pale, sunken cheeks. The men were leaving and +David was renewing his promise to accompany the expedition to the brown +house on the hill to-morrow night. In fact, he was to act as guide to +the man appointed to commit the deed, for who, so well as David, could +show them the way to the library in which was the safe that they were +going to rob? + +They had gone now and Patsy felt that David was standing beside the bed +and looking down at him. He opened his eyes and two more tears escaped, +which he hastily brushed away. Immediately David was on his knees, the +little cripple's hand clasped tenderly in his. + +"What's the trouble, kid?" he questioned anxiously. "Is it the pain +that's bad to-night?" + +"'Tain't the pain, Davy, 'tain't the pain at all," sobbed the child. + +"What is it then, youngster? Come now, tell your own Davy what's +troubling you, there's a good boy." + +"David, how long is it since mother was taken away from us? It seems so +long. I was thinkin' of mother, Davy, and wishing she was here with us +this night." + +"You poor kid, poor little crippled kid," muttered David, patting the +small, thin hand. "It's natural, I suppose, for you to pine for your +mother, but ain't Davy been almost like a mother to you, Patsy? He's +tried hard, that he has, to be father and mother and big brother all in +one." And the man smiled somewhat wistfully. + +"You've been all that and more too, Davy. 'Twasn't on my account I was +wishin' for mother, 'twas on yours. If she was here, she'd know how to +keep you from going with them men to-morrow night. She'd know how to +keep you to home, and I don't know what to say or to do to stop you from +going." + +David's face darkened slightly and there was a note of sternness in his +voice as he said: + +"So you was listening, was you, and heard what we was talkin' about?" + +"I didn't listen a purpose, David; at least, not at first. I happened to +wake and heard 'em speak of the brown house on the hill. Then I wanted +to hear everything and I listened a purpose after that. Oh, Davy! +Davy!" the child cried imploringly, sitting up in the bed and clasping +his hands in petition; "don't do it, Davy; don't be a thief to please +those wicked men; don't go robbing the brown house on the hill." + +A fearful fit of coughing racked the little form and David held him +gently in his arms until the paroxysm had passed. Then, laying the boy +back upon the pillows, he said quietly: + +"You mustn't get excited, Patsy, it's bad for you. We'll not talk no +more to-night. In the morning I'll tell you the story of the house on +the hill and you'll see I'm not tacklin' this job to please anyone but +myself. Go to sleep now, kid, for I'll not say another word to-night, +not another word." + +When David spoke in that tone of voice Patsy knew there was nothing for +him to do but to obey. Turning his face to the wall, he closed his eyes, +but sleep did not visit him that night. He lay listening for the stroke +of the town clock as it sounded, one after another, the slowly dragging +hours; he lay listening to David's regular breathing and wondered how a +man could sleep so calmly with such a deed in prospect; he lay anxiously +turning over in his mind various schemes by which he could frustrate +the plan in case he failed in persuading David to abandon it altogether. +Several times fits of coughing shook him nearly to pieces, and at those +times the pain in his poor little chest was well-nigh unbearable. He +smothered the cough as well as he could beneath the bedclothes for fear +of disturbing David. As for the pain--well, pain and Patsy had been +companions so long now that he had grown quite accustomed to it. + +The next day was cold and dismal, with a leaden sky threatening snow, +and a bitter wind blowing that searched the very marrow of one's bones. +The few neighbors who chanced to glance out of their windows at an early +hour in the afternoon were surprised to see Patsy making his way along +the street, slowly and painfully, with the aid of his crutches. They had +never known him to be abroad on a day like this; indeed, it was many a +day since he had attempted going upon the street at all. Poor little +Patsy, his crutches were once a familiar sight going up and down the +pavements on pleasant days in the summer time, but they had thought +never to see him leave his room again. Did David know? Some one should +stop the child; he was too weak to wander out alone like that. But +then, it was no affair of theirs; David could probably be trusted to +look after the boy. + +As no one was willing to make it his business to interfere, Patsy went +on his way unmolested. A strange look of determination battled with the +pain on the sickly, childish face as he made his way bravely against the +biting wind that sought to drive him back. He had learned the mystery of +the house on the hill; he knew now why David hated so bitterly that +house and all connected with it; he knew why David was willing and eager +to help the men in the plan they were to carry out that night. David had +told him all about it, and for the first time in his life he had felt +afraid of this dearly loved brother of his. It had been a revelation to +Pasty. Surely, this bitter, unforgiving, revengeful man could not be the +same who had been father, mother and big brother to the little cripple +for whom he had cared so tenderly since their mother had been taken from +them. + +It had sounded like a fairy tale to Patsy; he could scarcely believe his +own ears. Just to think of it; that brown house on the hill had once +been their mother's home, and the man who lived there, the man whom +David hated with undying hatred, was their mother's brother and their +uncle. On the day she married, she had left her home forever, her +brother vowing that never as long as he lived would he set eyes upon her +face again; to him she would be as though dead. Once, when father lay +dying (Patsy could not remember it, but David had told him of it), +mother had written to their uncle imploring a little help in their +misery. It was not for herself she had asked but for the dying husband +and sickly baby. Her letter had been returned to her with these harsh +words written on the back: "Some mistake here. No woman has the right to +call me brother. My only sister died years ago." David had kept the +letter ever since; he had been old enough at the time to understand. He +had vowed then to have revenge some day and he kept the letter to remind +him of the vow should he ever be in danger of forgetting it. + +Patsy knew now why his brother so hated the house on the hill, and why +David had been so cross on that day last summer when he, Patsy, had come +home and told of the young lady who had been so kind to him, the lady +who lived in the house on the hill. As a rule, every one was good to +Patsy. Even the children on the street, who quarrelled among themselves, +striking, reviling, pelting one another with stones, had, nothing but +kind words and smiles for Patsy. But that day last summer he had +wandered farther from home than usual and a crowd of rough boys had +stopped and commenced tormenting him, laughing at him, calling him +names, jeering at his deformity, and even pulling his hair and pinching +his ears. The child had tried to push past them, but they closed in on +him and it might have fared ill with Patsy but for the timely arrival on +the scene of the young lady from the house on the hill. + +She quickly scattered the band of hoodlums and then walked with Patsy +until he was well on his way home and safe from further attack. She had +been kind to him, and made him promise to come and see her. That was how +he knew her name and where she lived. He had wanted to see her again and +had thought of her so often but David would not let him go. + +Many a night, when the pain kept him from sleeping, he would while away +the long hours by thinking of the gentle, beautiful girl, and he never +said his prayers at night and morning, as mother had taught him, that he +did not add a petition for his "lovely lady." And to think that she was +his own cousin, his uncle's daughter; she lived in the house on the hill +and it was her house that David and those men were planning to rob. For +her sake as well as David's the deed must be prevented; her father must +not be robbed; David must not become a thief. Patsy had determined that +last night when he first heard them mention the scheme. If no one else +would stop them, he would, though he could not imagine how he was going +to do it. He had thought and thought until his head ached so that he +could hardly see, but no plan suggested itself to his mind. He prayed, +too, long and earnestly, for the priest at the Sunday-school told them +God would always answer little boys' prayers if what they asked for was +good for them. And was it not a good thing for which he was pleading? +Simply that he might find a way to keep his lady from being robbed and +save David from becoming a thief? + +At last, the idea he wanted had come to him; he knew just what he must +do to secure his end. There was danger in the plan, to himself, but he +must risk that. It mattered little what happened to him if he could only +save his David, his dear, kind big brother, who would never have thought +of doing wrong had it not been for those wicked men who had led him +astray. Patsy feared those men mightily. He knew their anger would be +terrible should they discover how their plan had been frustrated. They +might even kill him if they found him out, but he hoped they need not +know. He would confess to David alone at supper time that evening; no +matter how angry, David would not hurt his little brother. Of that Patsy +was certain. Anyway, whatever the risk, he must take it to save David +and to save the lady. + +The early winter twilight was closing in when Patsy reached his home +again and dragged himself up the stairs to the one room which he and +David occupied. He was almost exhausted and his breath came in short, +sharp gasps which cut him like knives. He would have liked to crawl into +his bed, close his eyes and never open them again, he was so tired. But +he must not give in yet; his task was but half accomplished. David must +be told of what he had done, and at that thought a spasm of fear +contracted his heart. Shivering, he drew a chair near the stove and +waited with closed eyes and pain-drawn face for the sound of David's +foot upon the stairs. + +Twilight passed and darkness filled the little room, still David did not +come. Patsy lighted the lamp upon the table, wondering anxiously why his +brother was so late. He put more coals upon the fire, which was burning +low, and made the tea for David's supper. He set out the loaf of bread, +the cold meat, the cheese, upon the table, then resumed his chair and +his eager listening for footsteps that were so long in coming. It seemed +to Patsy he had waited for hours and hours, and suddenly his heart +stopped beating and his eyes distended in terror as a thought occurred +to him. Suppose David did not come at all! What, what would happen then? +But there, that was David's step and all would be well now. The child +looked up eagerly as his brother entered the room, then, nearly cried +aloud in his bitter disappointment. David was not alone. One of the gang +was with him, and this was a contingency for which Patsy had made no +allowance. What was he to do now? How could he tell his brother, how +warn him, in the presence of that dreadful man? + +For the first time in his life David was so preoccupied that he paid no +heed to the little cripple who had now withdrawn to the darkest corner +of the room and crouched there in abject terror. The two men made a +hasty meal and then sat by the table talking in tones so low that Patsy +heard scarcely a word of what was said. Anyway, he cared nothing for +their plans now; he had spoiled everything for them. But how was he to +tell David, how was he to tell David? + +By and by, a third man joined them and there was more whispering with +heads close together. At last, the three arose and made preparations for +going out. They moved towards the door and were astonished to find +themselves confronted by a small, crippled figure, that stood swaying on +his crutches, directly in their way. A bright red spot burned on either +cheek, the eyes were brilliant with fever, and the child was panting for +breath. But he said very quietly, his eyes fixed steadily on his +brother's face: + +"You mustn't go out to-night, David." + +The men gasped and looked at one another in amazement. + +"You mustn't go out to-night, David," the child repeated. "You mustn't +none of you go to the house on the hill to-night." + +"We mustn't go out, mustn't we," exclaimed one of the men roughly. +"Who's to stop us going, I'd like to know? Stand aside, kid, before harm +comes to you." + +"Who's to stop you? I am. I have stopped you." + +A laugh of derision greeted this statement. + +"Yes," Patsy repeated; "I've stopped you. I peached on you; I warned 'em +you was comin'." + +David's face was terrible to see. + +"What's that you're saying, Patsy? You what?" + +"I warned 'em this afternoon. I went to the house on the hill and told +'em you was comin'. You mustn't go, David, you mustn't go. The police'll +be there waitin' for you, 'cos I told 'em you was comin'. I didn't want +you to be a thief, David; I done it for your sake. Oh, David, David!" + +David's face was livid and his clenched fist was raised to strike, but +Patsy and his crutches lay in a little huddled heap at David's feet. + +When the child opened his eyes again, the men were gone and he and his +brother were alone. He looked into the face bending above him and gave a +sigh of relief. All the anger was gone, only anxious solicitude rested +there. Patsy tried to speak, but his voice was so weak and low that +David had difficulty in understanding what he said. He leaned over to +catch the faintly whispered words: + +"You ain't mad at me now, are you, Davy? I'm so glad. I'd hate to go +away thinkin' you was mad at me. I had to do it, Davy, I had to tell; +there wasn't no other way to keep you from being a thief. I'm sorry to +leave you alone, Davy, but I guess mother wants me in Heaven. You know +the doctor said I'd be going soon anyway. Mother said she'd be waitin' +for you and me and I guess she wants me now. I'm sorry to leave you, but +I'm afeared I must go. It'll be lonesome for you when I'm gone. You'll +have no one to light the lamp and make the tea for you in the evenings. +You'll come home here at night and it'll be all dark and lonely with no +Patsy to meet you. But remember, David, I'll be lookin' at you from +Heaven. Mother and I'll be waitin' for you there and I'm thinkin' even +Heaven won't be just right till you've come to us. Promise me you'll +come to us some day; promise you'll never go with them wicked men no +more. Let 'em alone or they'll make you as bad as they be, and then you +won't never see mother and me. Promise you'll let 'em alone, Davy; +promise you'll be good and come to us in Heaven some day." + +"I promise, kid, I promise," whispered David brokenly. "With God's help +I'll turn over a new leaf and I'll come to you some day." + +A smile brightened the pale, pinched face, a smile of absolute content +and trustful affection. + +"God bless you, my Davy, God bless you," murmured the faint voice +haltingly. "Good-by--until we meet--in Heaven." + + + + +THREE EVENINGS IN A LIFE. + +I. + + +One by one the city clocks chimed the hour of midnight. One by one Jane +counted the strokes and sighed despairingly as she glanced at the window +in which the light still burned so brightly. The air was bitter cold, a +fine snow was falling, and she had been trudging up and down, up and +down, for ages it seemed to her. Richard was growing so heavy and her +arms ached so she could scarcely hold him. Still, there was nothing for +it but to tramp up and down, up and down the narrow street, the baby in +her arms, until mother should give the welcome signal. When that lamp in +the window opposite was put out and the house in darkness, she would +know that it was safe for her to creep up the stairs and into the bed in +the kitchen which she shared with the baby brother now sleeping in her +arms. + +Seating herself upon a doorstep she was passing, Jane shifted the baby +to a more comfortable position and leaned her head against the rough +woodwork of the tenement house. How tired, she was, how very tired! Her +head ached, her back ached, she ached all over. Day after day, she +worked in the factory from early morning until nightfall. Night after +night, she walked the street with Richard in her arms, not daring to +enter the house until father was safely sleeping. Of course it did not +happen every night. Just once in a while father would come home sober +and then there was no fear of harm to the baby or herself. Many a night, +too, he did not come home at all, but on those occasions she and mother +scarce dared to close an eye. They knew not at what moment he might +return, possibly in even an uglier mood than usual. Mother was never +afraid for herself. She could usually manage him, although there had +been times when bad cuts and bruises bore testimony to the treatment to +which she had been subjected. For Jane and little Richard, their only +chance lay in keeping out of the way, so Jane would tramp the street, +Richard in her arms, despite aches and pains and weariness. + +The child on the doorstep anxiously watched the window across the way. +Would the light never go out? Father must be unusually bad to-night, and +she was so tired. The day had been a hard one at the factory and every +bone in her body ached. Well, there was one comfort; to-morrow would be +Sunday and she could stay at home all day. To-morrow? To-day, rather, +for midnight had already passed. She would have one long day to rest and +help mother. She felt now as if she could sleep the whole day through. +She would like to sleep for a week at least, and even then she would not +be rested quite enough. There were moments of unusual fatigue and +depression in which she could almost wish that she might fall asleep and +sleep forever as the other little ones had done. Three of them there +were, delicate, sickly little creatures, who had struggled for a time +against the ills of human existence and then given up the unequal +conflict. At times, she could almost find it in her heart to envy them +were it not for mother and Richard, especially Richard. + +There, at last! The light was gone, the window in darkness, and it was +safe for her to return to the tenement across the way. + + +II. + +The same street, the same tenement house, but grown even uglier and +dingier with the passing of the years. In a small room on the second +floor, Jane sits beside the bed on which her mother tosses in the +delirium of fever. Her heart is slowly breaking as she listens to the +moaning, insistent cry which issues from those parched lips. All through +the days and nights of anxious watching, that cry has been ringing in +her ears, the call for "Richard, Richard, Richard." + +That her mother is dying she knows full well, and how she longs for one +loving glance, for one word of affection, to carry with her in the +lonely years to come. But no look of recognition comes to the sightless +eyes and no word escapes the lips save that never ceasing cry of +"Richard, Richard, Richard." A white-capped nurse flits softly about, +but Jane pays no heed to her. The doctor enters and hold whispered +consultation with the nurse. Jane does not even glance at him. She is +tired of hearing him say the same old thing time after time: "While +there is life, there is hope." She knows there is no hope, though +everything possible has been done to save the precious life now ebbing +so swiftly. Thank God, they are no longer poor as when she was a child. +Her salary is a splendid one and she has been able to have the best +advice, the best care possible, for her dying mother. No, they are no +longer poor, but of what avail is money now? It cannot bring back the +days that are gone, the happy days before Richard went away. And they +were happy, then, so happy. + +After her father's death, which had occurred while she was still a mere +child, she and mother had devoted themselves to the task of caring for +little Richard. They toiled; they starved, they saved--all for Richard. +They prayed and planned and hoped--for Richard. He must go to school, he +must go to college, he must become a power in the world. For themselves, +poor food, poor clothes, the old tenement were good enough, for every +cent they saved meant so much the more for Richard when he should have +come to man's estate. And Richard? Oh! he had been well content to take +all they offered him. He went to school, he went to college; only, +somehow, the reports of his doings there were anything but encouraging. +They seemed to be merely a series of pranks and mischief, but the +devoted mother was very ready to make allowances. The boy was young, he +would grow steadier as he grew older. They must have patience with him +for a few years yet. At times Jane doubted the wisdom of their course, +and when the demands, not only upon their patience but upon their purse, +became greater and greater, Jane had counseled removing him from college +and setting him to work. Not so the mother. Her cry was ever: "Patience, +patience, and all will yet be well." So they bore with him a while +longer to their never ceasing sorrow. + +His escapades grew wilder, the reprimands of the faculty more severe. At +last came the final prank, which had resulted in his disgrace and +expulsion. Even then, she and mother was ready to forgive and had +written him to come home. No answer from Richard had ever been received. +Instead, came the news that the boy had disappeared, run away; the last +seen of him was boarding a train for the West. All efforts at tracing +him had proved futile, and to this day they knew not where he was. + +Mother had never smiled again but had drooped and faded day by day. +Time and again Jane had urged moving to more congenial surroundings, to +a flat or cottage in the suburbs, to fresh air and sunshine. But no, +mother would not have it so; Richard might come back some day and how +could he find them if they moved away from the old home in the tenement +house? + +Even now, when she is dying, her last thought is not for the girl beside +her, the girl who has toiled so patiently, watched so faithfully, +sacrificed all so generously, for mother and for Richard. Even in +delirium, her thoughts are only for the absent one; her words, that +insistent, heartrending cry for "Richard, Richard, Richard." Jane bows +her head in anguish but whispers low: "Thy will be done." + + +III. + +Long since, the factory whistle has sounded the signal for release from +the day's toil. The workers in the factory, a small army of men and +women, boys and girls, poured forth from the doorways of the huge +buildings, swarmed up the street, laughing and chattering, and dispersed +to their several homes. The buzz and jarring of the machinery have +ceased and silence fills the place. Even the offices are deserted, with +the exception of one from which issues the steady click, click, of a +typewriter. + +Jane Horton, private secretary and confidential clerk to the millionaire +president of the company, is a very busy as well as a very important +individual. The sound of that whistle means release for the workers in +the rooms above, the toilers at the machines where she herself labored +so many years ago; it means release for stenographers, bookkeepers, +clerks, in the general office without; but for her, there yet remain +many things to be attended to before she can take advantage of the half +holiday and seek the seclusion of her small suburban home. Important +letters must be written, private letters which cannot be entrusted to +the care of an ordinary stenographer. For some time longer Jane's +typewriter clicks unceasingly, and it is nearly dusk before her task is +finished and she is free to lock her office door and leave the building +for the night. + +She walks rapidly along the darkening streets, sorry that she is so +late. She fears Marie will have been watching for her all the afternoon +and worrying perhaps, little Marie, the lame factory girl whom she has +befriended, the girl with eyes so strangely like to Richard's. The +resemblance is startling at times, though Richard's eyes were ever +merry, ever dancing with fun and mischief, while Marie's are grave and +sweet and sad. Still, the likeness is there, and probably that is the +reason that Jane has been so anxious to help this girl, scarce more than +a child, who had appealed to her for aid. Marie was by no means the +first to seek her assistance in time of need, for Miss Horton's name +stands for all that is kind and gracious and helpful in every department +of the factory. The woman who has succeeded, who has worked her way up, +step by step, to a position of trust and confidence, does not forget the +time when she stood, as Marie does now, with her foot upon the lowest +round of the ladder. She never forgets the days when she worked as they +work, and is ever ready to extend a helping hand to those who need it. +To her, then, Marie had come, as had so many others before her, in her +hour of trial and distress. Hastening along the street, Jane smiles as +she recalls the day Marie had first tapped upon her office door and, +entering timidly, waited for permission to speak. Jane had been +unusually busy and frowned impatiently at the interruption. The eyes, +so like to Richard's, had quelled her anger and she listened to the +girl's story. + +It was Jackie was the trouble this time, Jackie who came next to her and +who helped in the support of the family. He'd just broken his leg and +was in the hospital and there was no telling when he would be out again. +The twins were sick, too, and there were Nellie and Minnie and the +little baby, and mother not strong enough to work even if she had time +to leave the children. Father? Well, that's just where Miss Horton's +help was needed. Father had worked here in the factory, out in the +shipping-room, but they'd discharged him several weeks ago. Yes, father +had been discharged before, many times before, and had been taken back +again. This time they would not let him come back though he had begged +and pleaded and promised faithfully never to touch the drink again. No, +no, father did not get drunk very often, only once in a while, and he +was never cross or ugly. He was the kindest and best of fathers only he +drank a little just once in a while. Wouldn't Miss Horton please; +please, say a word for father and get them to take him back? Miss +Horton hesitated for a moment, looked into the eyes so like Richard's, +then promised that she would. + +She certainly kept her promise and said, not one word, but many, in her +efforts to have Marie's father reinstated in his former position. The +man was a stranger to her, she had never seen him, never even heard his +name before, but for Marie's sake she pleaded his cause most earnestly. +The same reply met her every turn: + +"Not a better man in the place when he was sober, the very best worker +we've got. But just when we're busiest and need him most, off he goes +and gets drunk. Not so very often, oh! no, but always when he's needed +most. We've forgiven him time again, but he's had his last chance. We'll +not take him back." + +Jane had even appealed to the president himself, but the appeal was +useless. He never interfered in such matters, left them entirely to the +department heads. + +The eyes like Richard's filled with tears as Marie was told of the utter +failure of all appeals. The pale face grew paler day by day and the thin +figure drooped wearily. Jane had, more than once, offered pecuniary +help, which had been gently but firmly refused. They'd manage somehow, +Marie thought, until Jackie was well again and able to help, though it +was hard to feed so many on just one girl's pay. If they would only take +father back, that was all the help she needed; just for them to take +father back. He'd not touched a drop now for six months and vowed he +never would again. He'd taken the pledge and was making the First +Fridays. He'd not missed one since he began five months ago, and oh! if +they'd only give him one more chance. That's what father said himself, +that's all he wanted, just one more chance to make good. He meant it +this time, too, Marie was quite sure of that. If they'd only give him +that one chance he'd make the most of it. + +Jane Horton had promised to make one more attempt and she is now +carrying to Marie the good news that her efforts have been crowned with +success. + +Following the directions given her, she passes from the broad, +well-lighted streets to smaller, darker ones. Finally she turns down a +narrow, crooked alley and enters a tumble-down house at the farther end. +Bad as was the tenement home of her early childhood, this place is far +worse, and a wave of pity fills Jane's heart as she thinks of that +delicate, patient child growing up in surroundings like these. Marie +herself opens the door in response to Jane's knock, her eyes anxiously +asking the question her lips dare not utter. + +"Good news, little one, good news," cried Jane joyously, advancing into +the room and taking in at a glance the terrible poverty of the place, +the shabbiness of the woman laying the table for supper, and of the +barefooted, ragged children who stare at her in open-mouthed +astonishment. "Where is your father, Marie? Take me to him at once for I +bring him what he asked for--one more chance to make good." + +In answer to Marie's call, the door leading into an adjoining room opens +and a man steps forth. The light of the lamp shines full upon his face, +and for one breathless moment they face each other in silence, the woman +who has succeeded in life, the man who has failed, and to whom she +brings one last chance of redeeming his failure. + +Despite the change of name and the greater changes wrought by the hand +of time, she knows him at once. It is Richard, her brother. + + + + +THE ELEVENTH HOUR. + + +It was an ordinary tenement house of the poorest class, exactly like its +neighbors, which lined both sides of the dingy street. The door was +always open, more than half the time hanging by one hinge, the stairways +were dark and crooked, the rooms small and dirty. In a back kitchen on +the topmost floor, a man sat, or rather huddled, in a chair drawn close +to the stove. His eyes were closed and his head drooped wearily against +the back of the chair. That last spell of coughing had been unusually +severe and had left him weak and breathless. A plague on the cough, +anyway. Why was it he could not get rid of it? The doctor from the +dispensary, the district nurse, even Maggie, had assured him that with +the coming of summer this cold of his would be better. Summer was here, +though you would not think so to-day with this raw east wind and +drizzling rain, and instead of being better he was worse, decidedly +worse. Could it be that they were all wrong and Nancy alone was in the +right? Nancy, who, of all that approached him, was the only one who +dared to tell him the truth. The truth? No, it was a lie, a lie; he was +not dying, he was going to be well and strong again as soon as he could +shake this cold that had settled upon him. Nancy was a meddlesome old +woman. He had told her so not more than an hour ago and had sent her off +about her business. He had been harsh to her and rude, and after all she +was old and had probably meant to do him a kindness. But, then, he was +not sorry; she'd not come bothering him any more now with her dismal +croakings of death and eternity. Death? He defied it. Eternity? Time +enough to think of that. + +He opened his eyes and they rested upon the chair which Nancy had +occupied one hour ago, which she had occupied so frequently during the +past few months. She had been almost a daily visitor since he and Maggie +had been living in these wretched lodgings in "Nancy's Alley," as it was +called. Evidently, the old woman seemed to think the entire street was +her personal property and that she was responsible for the welfare of +all the dwellers thereon. Well, he guessed he had taught her not to come +meddling in his affairs. He hoped he had anyway. Dying? The idea of such +a thing; how dared she tell him he was dying when everyone else fed him +with the hope that he would be better to-morrow, next week, next month. +Ah! yes, but to-morrow never came; or rather, when it did come, it was +no longer to-morrow with its promise of renewed health. It was to-day, +with the same disappointment, the same pains, the same racking cough, +which he had endured on so many other to-days that had come and gone +before it. + +Watching the chair she had so lately occupied, he could see once more +the figure of Nancy, her bright eyes and cheery smile, and hear the +nimble tongue which chattered so merrily or soothed so gently according +to the needs of her listener. He could see the little, stooped figure in +its ragged gown, the work-worn hands, the smooth, grey hair. He would +miss her visits; yes, indeed, he would miss them sorely. But what right +had she to go talking to him of death? Still, she was old, she had been +kind to him, and he had driven her away in anger. He had called her a +meddlesome busybody who went about poking and prying into other people's +affairs and had ordered her to leave the house and never enter it again. + +"Pokin' an' pryin' is it?" she had answered quietly as she made her way +towards the door. He remembered now how difficult it had been for her to +walk even on the level floor; what a task it must have been for her to +climb those three long flights of stairs as she had been doing every day +for these months past. "Pokin' an' pryin' is it? Maybe so, maybe so. But +Nancy didn't mean it that way, no, lad, indeed she didn't. Nancy was +thinkin' of her own boy lyin' at rest out yonder with the green grass +growin' over him, her own boy that went the same way you're a goin' now. +He'd be about the same age as you, too, an' there's the look on your +face that I seen on his so often, the desperate, despairin' look that it +breaks my heart to see. I figured that if you was my boy, I'd be glad +for some one to tell you the truth an' try to bring you back to God +before it's too late. I'd figured, too, that most likely you had a +mother somewheres. She may be still on the earth prayin' for you an' +longin' for you, same as I prayed an' longed for my Danny for so many +years. She may be in heaven lookin' down on us now, but wherever she is +she'll be glad to know that I tried to bring you back. It's for her sake +that I'm doing this, for the sake of your poor mother wherever she may +be." + +His mother! What memories that name conjured up! His mother who had +kissed and blessed him as she closed her eyes forever so many, many +years ago. He was still looking at the chair which Nancy had occupied +but he saw it not. He was a boy once more standing by his mother's +bedside, her soft, white hand in his, and was promising her--ah! how +many promises he had made holding that dear hand for the last time, and +how readily he had broken those promises every one! + +His mind wandered on and he saw himself a boy at school, a youth at +college, a grown man filling a position of trust in a large business +concern. In those days, wherever he might turn, there was one figure +standing out before all others, one friend, tried and true. When boys at +school this friend had saved his life; when young men at college, it was +to this friend's continued help he owed any little success he may have +attained. After leaving college, his position was secured through the +kindly offices of this same friend whose desk was next his own in the +office in which they were employed. + +His gaze still rested on the vacant chair but he saw only a pretty +little suburban cottage with flower garden and smooth green lawn and +box-bordered gravel paths. Once upon a time that cottage was his, and +the sweet-faced girl, who trod those paths so daintily, tripping to the +gate to meet him on his return in the evening, was his wife. Upstairs in +the nursery their children slept, two fair little girls with their +mother's pretty eyes and dainty ways. All that had been his, once upon a +time. + +He still watched that vacant chair but he saw only the day they +discovered the loss of that money which had disappeared so mysteriously +from the firm's safe. Suspicion rested upon that one true friend of his, +the friend to whom he owed all he was, all he had. There was not +sufficient evidence to prove that he was the thief, but in the minds of +his employers there was no doubt as to his guilt. The supposed +delinquent was dismissed and the cloud of suspicion rested upon him +wherever he went thereafter. Only two people had known the truth, the +man now sitting by the stove in the tenement house kitchen and the +friend who had suffered in silence rather than betray him. They had +never met again, and not long after the robbery, the man now sitting by +the stove had heard of his friend's death; the physicians said it was +typhoid, but he knew better. Disappointment, anxiety, heartbreak, were +the real causes of his friend's early taking off. + +He still gazed at the empty chair but he saw only the series of +misfortunes that had befallen him since the day his friend died. He had +launched into business on his own account; the result was dire disaster. +His home was burned in the dead of night; they barely escaped with their +lives. Everything was gone; there was no insurance and ruin and despair +confronted them. His children died suddenly of a malignant fever and the +heartbroken mother had followed them to the grave within a few weeks. He +was alone, all alone, and from that day to this had gone steadily +downward until now he found himself in this dirty tenement depending for +his daily bread upon the faded, ragged little woman who was now his +wife. Poor Maggie, how she irritated him at times and yet she had been +a good faithful wife to him. But for her, they would not have even this +miserable apology for a home. Yes, even Maggie, with her watery eyes and +thin, unkempt hair, Maggie, who scrubbed floors for a living and could +not write so much as her own name nor read the simplest child's primer; +even Maggie was far too good for the worn-out drunkard and gambler whom +she tended so faithfully. + +A light tap upon the door, but the man by the stove was too much +occupied with those phantoms of the past to pay heed to it. The door +opened quietly and a priest stepped into the room. The man's gaze +shifted from the vacant chair to the black-robed figure standing by the +door and looking at him in puzzled amazement. Phantoms of the past? Yes, +indeed, and here was one more come to torment him and to mock at him. +The two watched each other in silence for a moment. Then, the man +crouching in his chair by the fire found voice at last: + +"What brings you here, you, of all men? Have you come to taunt me, to +upbraid me, to delight your eyes with the sight of my misery? Have you +come to laugh at me in my downfall?" + +"Nay, friend," returned the priest gently, "none of those things has +brought me to you to-day. I come only on a mission of mercy, to bring +you peace and pardon." + +"But how did you find me; who sent you to me?" demanded the man by the +fire. + +"A little old woman, Nancy by name, told me there was one here sadly in +need of the ministrations of a priest. I did not dream that I should +find _you_." + +"You know me then; you remember me?" + +"I remember you perfectly and recognized you at once, though you have +changed almost beyond recognition." + +"You say you know me, but you do not, you do not. You may know _who_ I +am, but you don't know _what_ I am. You don't know that I'm a thief. +Yes, a thief, for it was I who took that money he was accused of +stealing. Do you know that?" + +"I know it," answered the priest calmly, "and still I say I bring you +peace and pardon." + +"Perhaps you know, too, that I am a murderer, for it was grief, +heartbreak, which weakened him so that when disease attacked him he had +not sufficient strength to combat the fever. Do you now that, you who +talk to me so easily of peace and pardon?" + +"I know that, too, and it is in his name that I offer you forgiveness +for your sins." + +"You know all then? He told you?" + +"He told me in the delirium of fever. He never knew he told; he died +thinking he carried the secret with him to the grave. He was faithful +even unto death." + +"Faithful even unto death. And you, his brother, come to me now and, +knowing all, dare to hold out to me the hope of forgiveness and of +peace?" and the man stared incredulously into the kind, pitying eyes +bent upon him. + +"I, his brother, offer you now forgiveness of all your sins and peace +which surpasseth all understanding." + +The sick man was seized with a violent fit of coughing and when it had +passed, he lay back in his chair exhausted, with closed eyes and white, +pain-drawn face. The priest, wishing to give him a moment to rest and +recover his breath, walked to the window and looked out. In the field +below more than a score of ragged men, women and children were +scratching and digging among piles of ashes, eagerly searching for and +gathering up the half-burned cinders; searching, too, in the forlorn +hope of finding something of greater value that might have been thrown +away by accident. The rain beat noisily on the window pane and the +priest shivered as he looked at those scantily-clad little children, not +one of whom could boast of shoes and stockings, and at the white heads +and bent figures of old women on whose unprotected shoulders the rain +fell so pitilessly. What mattered the inclemency of the weather to them? +Winter would be here by and by; they must gather in all the fuel +possible before it was upon them with its snow and sleet and icy blasts. +In fact, even when winter came, many of these same little children and +old women, even grown men who either could not find other work to do or +did not care to seek it, many of these same people would be seen day +after day scratching and digging in this same field of ashes. + +The priest turned from the window with a sigh of pity for the miserable +creatures below. His glance strayed over the untidy kitchen which bore +all the marks of the most extreme poverty and he gave another sigh of +pity for the man who had been brought so low in the last days of his +life, the man whom he had known in the time of his success and +prosperity. + +He approached the chair beside the stove and the tired eyes opened +slowly and looked at him. Unaccustomed tears filled those eyes and the +hard voice softened marvelously. + +"Nancy was right," that changed voice was saying. "I am dying. Father, +you say you bring me forgiveness in his name, forgiveness for the great +wrong I did him. In his name, I will accept the gift. Father, I will +confess my sins to you and beg God's pardon for them." + +Two hours later, when poor, tired Maggie, with aching arms and aching +back, returned from her day's work, she was surprised at the gentleness +with which he greeted her. Never had he been so kind before: she was +more accustomed to harsh words and even curses than kindness from him. +She set about preparing their evening meal and he actually ate what she +put before him without even once finding fault with the food or with +her. She could not understand it and felt vaguely alarmed. + +Again the door opened and a face peered in anxiously. It would look as +if the owner of the face was fully prepared to slam the door and take to +her heels at a second's notice. The man in the chair by the stove smiled +faintly and called: + +"Come in, Nancy; it's all right." + +The little stooped figure sidled into the room but stood with her hand +upon the door ready for flight at any moment. She could not trust her +eyes and ears, she knew they must be deceiving her. + +"Come in, Nancy," the man repeated. "Come in and sit down there in the +chair you occupied this afternoon when you dared to tell me the truth +that all others feared to tell. You're a brave little woman, Nancy, and, +thanks to you, all is well with me at last. As he said, he brought me +forgiveness for my sins and peace which surpasseth all understanding. +Thanks to you, Nancy, thanks to you." + +"Thanks to me is it, lad? Not a bit of it, not a bit of it. Thanks be +to God!" ejaculated Nancy fervently. + +"Thanks be to God!" whispered Maggie, as a tear rolled down her worn and +faded cheek and splashed into the pan of water in which she was washing +the supper dishes. "Thanks be to God for bringin' him back even at the +eleventh hour!" + + + + +THE STORY OF JULIE BENOIT. + + +Julie leaned against the door of the room from which she had just been +summoned. Her black eyes flashed defiance into the eyes of the woman +watching her in sorrowful silence. + +"Why you come here?" she cried. "Why you not leave me alone? I not want +to see you nor anyone. You no right to come here; you not my forewoman +now. You dismiss me in disgrace a week ago, you and that superintendent +in your factory over there. What you come for; to punish me some more?" + +"My poor child," returned the other gently, "you must not hate me so. +Believe me, I love you, Julie, and I've come here as your friend." + +"You a friend to me; me, Julie Benoit who is sent away from the factory +because I steal all that money! No, no, I know better than that, you no +friend to me, you despise me. All the girls point their finger at me, +for I steal that money. But I give it all back, do I not? And the +superintendent he say it is my first offense and he will not send me to +prison. Oh yes! he is very kind. Julie have give back the money, Julie +is forgiven, but she is a thief and cannot work with honest people. She +must go, and without a reference. No one could recommend a thief. Well, +Julie does go, so why you not let her alone?" + +"Julie, Julie, listen to me," cried the forewoman almost in despair. +"Believe it or not as you please, I have come here to-day to help you if +I can. I have come because there was something in your face, a look in +your eyes, that day you left us that has haunted me ever since. I have +come because I feared you were in trouble and were too proud to tell us +so. Julie, for twenty years I have been forewoman of my department over +there in the factory. Many, many girls have worked with me, new ones +coming, old ones going all the time. Some have left for one reason, some +for another, but never before has one gone from me in anger or disgrace. +All my girls have loved me, Julie, and I loved them. Why was it I never +could win you, win your trust and confidence. Was I not kind to you, +child? I tried to be for I wanted your love and trust." + +The flashing eyes and angry face of the girl softened a little as the +woman continued: + +"I know you are not a bad girl, Julie. I know that you never before +stole anything. I have been thinking of you all this week and worrying +about you, for it must have been some great trouble which induced you to +take that money. Why did you take it, child? Won't you please tell me?" + +"You ask me why I take it? Well, I will tell you. Do you know what is in +that room just behind this very door I lean against? It is my mother. +She will never move again, never speak to me again; she is dead. Yes, +she died last night but I not tell no one. If I tell, they will take her +away and bury her I not know where. I have no money to bury her myself. +Pretty soon I will have to tell, then they bury her in a pauper's grave +with other people poor like us. I not know where they put her; I never +can go and kneel at her grave and whisper to her that I have not +forgotten. + +"You want to know why I steal that money? Well, a week ago poor mother +she is so very sick. They tell me she cannot live many days; but I think +if only I have money I can save her yet. I can have doctors to see her, +big doctors who will go to sick people only for very much money. I can +buy her food and medicine and perhaps send her away to some place where +the sun will shine for her, where she can breathe God's pure air. Why +even strong people can scarce live in a place like this where the +sunshine never come, where it is cold and damp all the time. How can the +poor little mother hope to grow well again in such a place, without good +food, often without a fire, the air not fit for anyone to breathe. I +think of it all the time. I lie awake at night and think of it, it is +before me all day at my work. Money, money, if only I have a little +money, I can save my mother yet. Then the chance come, the money is +there before me. I look at it, I take it. That is all. + +"You ask me why I steal that money. I steal it for her, my mother; to +save her life. Yes, and for her, too, the blind grandmother, and for +them," and she pointed to a very old woman sitting close to the stove +and holding in her arms a whimpering child of four. At her side +crouched two more children, somewhat older, huddled together in a ragged +shawl. They wore neither shoes nor stockings and the small feet were +blue with cold. + +"Oh, you poor child," exclaimed the forewoman, her eyes filling with +tears. "Why did you not tell me a week ago instead of taking that money, +for one wrong can never right another; why did you not tell me? We might +not have been able to save your mother, but we could have helped you. +Even after you took the money, if you had told me all, something might +have been done for you. I wish you had told me, Julie, I wish you had +told me." + +The shocked grief of the woman's face and voice had their effect upon +the girl, and it was in a much more gentle tone that she continued: + +"You can see for yourself how it is with us now, but we are not always +like this. If you care to listen and will sit down, I tell you all about +it. + +"No, indeed, we are not always like this. I can remember when father is +alive how happy we all are. He is a mason, good and steady, and he work +for us all the time. We live in a pretty little flat, it is bright and +clean and mother keep it so and make everything look nice for us. She +sing and she laugh and she look so pretty in those days. I go to school +and Marie also, dear Marie who died one year ago. Antoine, too, he go to +school with Marie and me. Lorraine there, she too little; she stay at +home with mother and with grandmother. + +"Well, we are all so happy until one day father is brought home to us. +He is dead, killed at his work by a falling derrick. That same day poor +little Baptiste, him there on grandmother's lap, he come into this cruel +world. Mother is sick, so very sick for a long time after. It is weeks +and weeks before she can walk around again. By the time she does, the +little money she had saved is all gone; there is not a cent in the house +and the landlord puts us out into the street. + +"I am only twelve at the time but I go to work in a factory--not your +factory, but one away off the other side of the river. I have to walk +long, long distance in the cold, dark morning, and walk back again at +night, but I am happy for I earn money to help at home. Mother she go to +work too, in a great steam laundry where she stand all day at a big +machine. She very thin and pale, and so tired at night she can hardly +walk home. But she, too, is content; for she have work to do and work +means money to buy food for the little ones and for the blind +grandmother. + +"We get along pretty well for almost three years. Then, just a year ago, +the factory I work for shuts down. Times are hard, there is no more work +for us, we must go. We do go. We try first one place, then another, to +find work. It is the same story everywhere, times are hard and there is +no work for us. + +"Then mother gets that dreadful cold. The laundry where she works is +always so very hot. She come out at night into the cold air; her coat is +thin for she cannot buy a warm one and she get a dreadful chill one +night as she comes home. She cough all the time after that. It shake her +nearly all to pieces; but she still go to her work till one day she fall +beside her machine. They bring her home and we put her into bed and she +never leave it again. + +"What to do then we know not. One, two, three days pass; at last there +is a day when grandmother and I eat nothing. We give the last scraps of +bread to the children and spend the last two pennies on milk for +mother. There is nothing left for us. We not sleep that night; we sit by +the empty stove and we think all night. Grandmother is praying all the +time; she is, oh so good, that grandmother. She pray and she pray, and +she tell me God is kind and good, He will show us a way. Me, I am not +good like that. I say to her God cannot be kind and merciful, or he +would not treat us so. What have we done that He punish us like that? +She say to me: + +"'Hush, child, hush; you very bad, very wicked. God is good and kind and +loving. He not try us any more than we can bear; He send us help soon if +we trust in Him.' + +"Next morning is cold, very cold; we have no fire and no food. I have +been everywhere to look for work and find nothing. But I put on my hat +to go out and try once more. Grandmother ask me what I do. I tell her I +go again to look for work. She say: 'No, child, you stay here with your +mother to-day; it is my turn now.' + +"She is old; she is blind and I fear to have her go out alone, but she +is firm and will go. She take her stick and she go out. She come back +later with bread for the children and a little money to buy coal. I not +ask her where she get it; I know. She beg it on the street. Every day +she go out like that, and when she bring back food and money she not say +one word and I not ask her where she get it; I know. + +"She keeps us from starving for a few weeks and then, at last, I find +work in your factory. For a time, I am almost happy again, for now +grandmother need beg no more; my pay will keep us in food and fire. Even +mother seems better for a little while, and I think perhaps she will get +well and we will all be happy once again. But mother is soon very, very +sick, and I see her dying day by day and can do nothing to help her. + +"Then, that day last week, a party of ladies come to visit the factory. +The wife of the superintendent is with them. She very handsome, very +rich; she beautifully dressed. She stop near my table to take off her +coat, the room is warm and the fur coat heavy. She lay her purse down on +my table while she remove the garment; one of the ladies call to her and +she go away, leaving the purse behind her on my table. + +"Mother is very sick that morning; she not sleep all night, but cough, +cough, cough. There is the purse before me. No one is looking; I pick it +up and open it. It is filled with money, the money that may save my +mother's life. That lady will never miss it. I slip the purse inside my +dress and go on with my work. I can hardly keep from screaming with joy +I am so happy to think I have the money which is going to save my +mother's life. The ladies go away and I feel that I am safe; she has +forget about her purse. I want to rush away at once, but I must stay at +my work so no one will suspect. + +"Presently the superintendent he come in and he talk to you and you look +very grave. Then he say one of the ladies have left her purse on a table +in this room. Will the girls be kind enough to stop work and search for +it? He will give five dollars reward to the one who finds it. We all +search but no purse is found, and he go away again. Pretty soon he come +back and the lady with him. She look around for a few moments, then she +walk straight over to my table. The superintendent ask is she sure, +quite sure. She say she is perfectly sure. She lay her purse on that +table in order to remove her coat, then forget to take it up again when +she go away; and she look very hard at me. + +"The superintendent ask me if I have seen the purse and I say no. I +suppose he know by my face that I am lying for he tell you to take me to +the dressing-room and search. Then I know there is no hope for me; if +you search you find the purse, so I take it out and hand it to him. He +talk to me about my wickedness but I not answer him. He discharge me, +but I not say one word. You talk to me, but I not speak to you either, I +am too heartbroken, too despairing. My mother she will die now, she will +surely die; and grandmother she will have to go out begging once again. + +"I come home and I tell them I am discharged. I not tell them why, for +they very good and stealing is a sin. They be so shocked and sorry. I +sit beside my mother, despair in my heart, and I watch her dying, dying, +dying. + +"Her pain is all over now; she leave me last night and she never come +back again. I watch with her in there when you come. I watch with her +some more when you go; then I must tell that she is gone, that she is +dead, and they come and take her away," and she threw herself on the +floor by the door of her mother's room in a perfect agony of grief. + +In a moment the kind-hearted woman was on her knees beside the +heartbroken girl, whom she gathered into her motherly arms, murmuring +words of comfort all the while. Gradually the dreadful sobbing subsided, +and after a time the girl was once more standing before that door she +guarded so jealously. Seeing that she was her own calm self again, the +forewoman said gently: + +"My poor child, again I say that I wish you had told me a week ago. So +much suffering would have been saved. However, this is no time for vain +regrets, it is the time for action. I must leave you at once, Julie, but +I will be back, and will, I hope, bring you good news. In the meantime +do you say nothing to anyone about your mother. You will believe that I +will help you? You will do as I say?" + +"You very good," replied Julie simply, laying her hand in that of the +forewoman; "when you want me, you find me there," and she pointed to the +door behind which her mother's silent form was resting. + +Two days later, the forewoman, seated at her desk, was apparently +absorbed in the newspaper she was reading while leisurely disposing of +her noonday lunch. In reality she was covertly watching an excited group +of girls on the other side of the room who were discussing some matter +of evident importance. Without doubt, something was wrong. The forewoman +rather surmised what the trouble was and smiled behind the shelter of +her newspaper. She knew these girls and was quite sure that the +difficulty, whatever it was, would be brought to her for settlement. As +she had said to Julie, she loved her girls, and they in turn loved and +trusted her. + +In this instance she had not long to wait. Presently the girls cast +aside napkins and lunch boxes and moved toward the corner of the room +where their forewoman was waiting. She watched their approach in smiling +silence. Slightly in advance of the others came a small, impetuous +figure, a painfully thin, cross-eyed girl of fifteen, whose abundant +crop of freckles had earned for her the sobriquet of "Speckles." She had +answered to that name for so long now that she had almost forgotten she +ever owned any other. She was impulsive, good-hearted, and a general +favorite in spite of her rather sharp little tongue. Rushing up to the +forewoman's desk, she said excitedly: + +"Miss Merton, it can't be true, what Louise has just been telling us, +that you are going to let that horrid Julie Benoit come back again. You +surely wouldn't take her back, would you, Miss Merton?" + +"Yes, it is perfectly true," replied the forewoman calmly. "Julie will +return to us next Monday, and I hope all my girls will do everything +they can to make her feel that we are glad to have her back." + +"But we're not glad. We don't want her back," cried one girl. + +"Why it's impossible after what she did," added another. + +"I, for one, wouldn't work in the same room with a girl like that," said +a third, with a toss of her head. "I wouldn't dare leave any of my +belongings out of my sight for a single instant." + +"That's just the trouble," chimed several all at once. "We wouldn't feel +safe for a moment knowing there was a thief amongst us." + +During this outburst the forewoman sat quietly watching the indignant +faces before her. Then she said very gravely: + +"Girls, I think we all misjudged Julie, and really almost owe her an +apology. I have asked her pardon, and though I do not expect you to do +the same, I do ask you to receive her back with kindness." + +"Misjudged her! Apology!" gasped Speckles. "She took that money, didn't +she?" + +"Yes." + +"And a person who takes money that belongs to someone else is a thief, +isn't she?" + +"Yes, certainly." + +"Well then, I say a thief is a thief, and I don't see where any +misjudging comes in," and Speckles looked defiantly from one to another. + +A tall blonde whose thoughtful blue eyes had been studying the +forewoman's face, laid her hand on the excited girl's arm, remarking +gently: + +"Let's not judge too hastily, Speckles dear. I think Miss Merton has +something to tell us. For my part I used to pity Julie, she seemed so +weak and sickly and so terribly alone. She was with us but she was not +one of us." + +"Pity your grandmother," cried Speckles the irrepressible. "If she was +alone all the time, it was her own fault. She was a stuck-up old thing +and wouldn't make friends with any of us. If you'd speak to her she'd +only stare at you with those fierce black eyes of hers and answer yes or +no just as short and snappy as you please." + +"I doubt if we tried very hard, any of us, to win her friendship, the +poor little thing. And she did seem so forlorn and lonely at times," +answered the blonde. "But there, girls, let's all keep quiet if we can +for I know Miss Merton has something to tell us." + +"You are right, Louise, I have a little story to tell you, the story of +Julie Benoit," and she told them Julie's story as she had heard it from +Julie herself. In conclusion, she added: "When I left that poor child +beside her dead mother, I went at once to the superintendent and told +him the whole story. You girls know how kind he is; many of you have had +personal experience of his charity. He called in his wife and together +they planned to bury Julie's mother as a Catholic should be buried, they +to stand all the expense. They have also undertaken to see that the +younger children are sent to school and the grandmother properly cared +for, and Julie is to return to her place here on Monday. + +"I wish you could have seen her face when I went back to those two +dreadful rooms in the alley where she lives and told her what the +superintendent and his wife had said. She stared at me, amazed, +incredulous; then said slowly in an awed whisper: + +"'They do all that for me, Julie Benoit the thief! You tell the lady it +is I who steal her money but she forgive and have my mother buried like +a Christian. She have her taken into church where the priest will bless +her and pray over her. She have her buried where I can go and kneel +beside her grave and tell her that I love her still and that I forget +her never, no never. The lady do all that for me who steal her money. +But she is good, she is kind to forgive me.' + +"After a moment's thought, she added: 'You think God will forgive me +too? I very bad, very wicked; I say all those dreadful things about Him, +but He will forgive me, is it not so? Grandmother say He good and kind. +You think He will forgive me if I ask Him?' + +"It was a very different Julie that I left that night; oh! very +different from the girl who met me with such fierceness earlier in the +evening. Just as I was leaving, she said to me very humbly: 'The girls +at the factory, you think they will forgive me also? I very rude to +them; I say I hate them all. You think they will forgive me?' + +"So now, my girls, your welcome to Julie on Monday morning will be the +best answer to that question." + +"Will we forgive her, the poor girl!" cried Speckles impulsively. "You +bet we will. If there's any one here who won't be kind to that poor +little Julie, she'll just have to reckon with me. I think it is we who +should ask her to forgive us, for I must admit we were all rather +hateful to her. Oh, I say, girls! I've just got an idea," she continued. +"Here, Louise, just hand me one of those empty boxes from that shelf +over your head. There you are. Now then, this is a hat and I pass it +around to each one of you, so. I say to each one of you: 'Did you notice +that poor Julie has been wearing a thin summer coat all this bitter +winter weather? It used to make me shiver just to look at her. Did any +of you notice that her shoes were all broken through and even in rain +or snow storms she never had any rubbers to wear over them?' Suppose +each one of us chip in a few pennies, we can all spare a little, and +have Miss Merton give it to her to buy shoes or something for herself. +I'll start with fifty cents." + +The box was passed from one to another, each contributing what she +could, and each contribution meaning more or less of a sacrifice to the +donor. In this way a goodly sum was collected and laid on Miss Merton's +table. + +"There, girls," said the triumphant Speckles. "That will show Julie +whether we have forgiven her or not. And now, do you hear that musical +whistle calling us back to our places? We'd better hustle for the +machines will start up in a minute or two. Machines are like time and +the tide, they wait for no man. Nor woman, either, not even for Julie +Benoit," and with a laugh, Speckles was off like the wind. + +As the girls departed, each to her own machine or work-table, Miss +Merton looked after them, a tear in her eye and a smile upon her lips. + +"God bless my girls," she said to herself. "Their hearts are in the +right place, every one of them. I need have no fear of the welcome they +will give my poor little Julie Benoit." + + + + +PETER. + + +Peter was thinking. Not that it was an unusual event for Peter to think. +Quite the contrary! To Peter himself it seemed that life was one +continuous round of thinking and planning and worrying. It certainly was +for him, especially since the advent of the baby, that wonderful baby +sister of his. Somehow things had not mattered so much before, when +there was no one to be considered but himself. Now it was different, +with his baby to be thought of and cared for. Peter was worried and +anxious. He felt that a great responsibility rested upon his shoulders. +They were young shoulders, too, far too young to be burdened with the +cares and troubles of life. + +The winter wind came tearing down the street, stinging his face and +piercing through his thin garments. Shivering, he turned up the collar +of his worn and ragged coat and thrust his hands deep into the pockets. +Then he hastened on with eyes on the ground and bent down head, for +Peter was thinking. A mighty problem confronted him, a problem which +must be solved at once. + +He turned into the dirty, narrow alley in which he lived, opened the +door of a tenement house, and, running quickly up a flight of stairs, +entered Mrs. Dempsey's kitchen. The savory odor of frying ham greeted +his nostrils and reminded him that he had had nothing to eat since +morning. Well, never mind that, he would have supper soon now, he and +baby together. + +"Bless me, Peter, is that you home so early?" cried cheery Mrs. Dempsey +turning around from the stove, frying-pan in one hand, a large fork in +the other. "You must have had good luck to-night to be back so early." + +Peter caught up in his arms the pretty child who toddled across the +floor and threw herself upon him with a shriek of delight. With a +gravity befitting his great responsibility, he seated himself upon a +nearby chair, holding the baby close to him and smoothing back the +tangled yellow curls. + +"Yes, Mrs. Dempsey, I had real good luck to-night. Was all sold out long +afore the other fellers, then hustled right home to baby. I hope she +wasn't no bother to ye, Mrs. Dempsey." + +"Bother is it? The darlin', an' she as quiet as a little lamb. It's an +angel she is entirely an' ye'd think so yerself if ye could have seen +the nice supper of bread and milk she ate along with my own young ones." + +"Does angels eat bread and milk, Mrs. Dempsey?" Peter asked the question +in all sincerity. He had often wondered about angels and he really +wanted to know. + +"Oh, I guess they does," replied the good woman absently, too busy with +her cooking to pay much heed to what Peter was saying. "Goin', Peter? +Wish ye could stay and have a bite yerself, but I suppose if that +precious father of your'n come home and his supper warn't ready he'd +make it pretty hot for you, poor child. Well, good-night, Peter. Bring +the baby back in the morning." + +"By the way, Peter," she called after him just as he was closing the +door. "To-morrow's Christmas day ye know. Don't forget to drop into the +church on yer way home and hear Mass, like a good boy." + +Peter's ideas on the subject of religion were very vague. Mrs. Dempsey +had told him he must always attend Mass on Sunday and reminded him of +the fact every Saturday night when he would come to claim the baby. +Perhaps Christmas was another sort of Sunday, thought Peter. To him +Christmas had always meant a time when other boys and girls talked of +nothing but Christmas trees and turkey and wonderful presents they had +received. No one had ever given Peter anything. He wondered if Mrs. +Dempsey would. He had not known Mrs. Dempsey last Christmas; she came to +the alley only a few months ago. Life had been somewhat easier for Peter +since her coming for she helped so much in caring for baby while he was +out. He wished Mrs. Dempsey would give baby something for Christmas. He +had hoped to do so himself, but somehow he never could find a cent for +anything except the absolute necessities of life. Sometimes he could do +no more than provide bread and milk for the baby and go hungry himself. +That was when father would beat him and take away the few pennies he was +saving to buy food for the little sister and himself. + +With baby held carefully in his arms, Peter descended the two flights of +stairs to his home in the cellar. As he pushed open the door of the +room which served as kitchen and living room in the daytime and as +sleeping apartment for himself and baby at night, the damp chill of the +place struck him as it never had done before. Groping his way to the +table he lighted the candle upon it. Then, after wrapping baby in his +mother's old shawl and depositing her upon their bed in the corner, he +proceeded to make a fire in the cracked and rusty stove. Peter was only +eleven, but the children of the slums are little men and women almost +from their cradles, and Peter was really the man of the family. He it +was who cared for the baby and prepared their frugal meals; he it was +who cried his papers upon the street in the cold darkness of the winter +mornings, who ran errands all day for the grocer on the next corner and +again in the evening sallied forth with his papers under his arm in +order to procure food to keep the life in their bodies. If father ever +earned any money but little of it was contributed to the family support. + +As Peter wrestled with the fire, which positively refused to kindle, he +was still revolving in his mind the problem which troubled him. He had +been thinking of it all day, and the only thing he could decide was +that something must be done at once, but what that something was to be +he could not imagine. Things had been going from bad to worse lately, +and after last night he would never know an easy moment while baby was +under the same roof with father and mother. For himself he did not care. +He had grown accustomed to the beatings, to the drunken quarrels and +fearful language; in fact, he had never known anything different. But +last night father had tried to hurt baby. He might try again and perhaps +next time no Peter would be at hand to save her. They were unusually bad +last night, both father and mother; the child was frightened and had +begun to whimper. Angered still further by the sound, the man had seized +a stove-lifter and flung it straight at baby's head. But Peter had +already sprung between and the missile struck him full on the forehead, +causing a wicked-looking bruise. He had lain stunned for a time, then +crept into bed with baby and listened in terror as the quarrel between +his father and mother progressed from words to blows. He had not minded +these things before, but what would he do if father should ever beat +baby as he, Peter, had been beaten so many times? And Peter felt the +time was coming when father would surely do it. Last night was but the +beginning. + +A noise from the next room told him that mother must be waking from the +drunken sleep in which she had lain for several hours. At any moment she +might open that door and enter the kitchen, and her temper was always +terrible when she would first awaken from those long sleeps which +followed a carousal. In a few moments, too, father would come home. The +fire refused to burn; so supper would not be ready, and with mother in a +temper and no supper at hand, something would surely happen. + +Peter looked at the sleeping baby and shuddered. For her sake he dared +not face another night like last night. Yet, what could he do? A volley +of imprecations from the next room decided him: he must take baby away +from here and at once. Yes, he would take her away, but where, where +could he go? Where in all the great city could he find a shelter for his +baby on this cold winter night? If he did take her away it might be only +to have her freeze to death on the street. Well, they must go, anyway. +No matter what happened to them later they must leave here at once. + +Rearranging the shawl so that part of it covered the golden head, he +stooped and gathered the baby into his arms. Then it all came to him in +a sudden flash of inspiration and he almost laughed aloud in his joy as +he hurried from the room and out into the street. He knew exactly where +to go and wondered why he had not thought of it before. How foolish he +had been not to think of it at once! + +One day last summer he had stood outside a tall iron railing and watched +a crowd of happy children at play in the grounds which the railing +enclosed. He could see it all now, the yard, the romping children and +the great brick building on the other side of that railing through which +he watched enviously. They were having such a good time, he did wish he +might go in and join in the fun. But he could not spare the time, he had +wasted too much already, and the grocer would scold him for being so +long on the errand which had brought him into the neighborhood of the +yard and the children. As he turned reluctantly away, two ladies passed +and he heard one say in answer to a question from her companion: + +"That building? Why, that is St. Teresa's Orphanage, a home for poor +children who have no parents or else have bad ones who neglect or ill +treat them. The good sisters gather in all such needy children whom they +can find, care for them, educate them and teach them a trade so that +they may----" + +The rest Peter had not heard, but those few words, spoken by the passing +lady on that day last summer, had suddenly recurred to his mind. "St. +Teresa's Orphanage, a home for children with bad parents who neglect or +ill treat them." That was their case exactly, baby's and his. To St. +Teresa's, then, they must go in search of a home. He was quite sure he +could find it again. It was ever so far away, over on the other side of +the city, but he remembered the way perfectly, and would have no +difficulty in reaching the orphanage. + +For some time Peter trudged bravely along the city streets. It was quite +dark now and lights streamed from the windows of shops and houses as he +passed. Throngs of people hurried by anxious to escape from the cold +night to the firesides of home. All these people carried +mysterious-looking parcels; "Christmas presents for some happy little +boy or girl," thought Peter. Twice he stopped to shift the baby from one +shoulder to the other. He never knew before that she was so heavy; his +half frozen little arms almost refused to carry their burden any longer. +He was terribly tired, and he wondered why the lights were dancing so. +They were turning round and round and made him so dizzy he could scarce +see where he was going. He did not think, that day last summer, that the +way was quite so long as this. Surely, he must have been walking for +hours and hours. Oh! why was baby so heavy and why would those lights +persist in dancing so? + +He wondered if they could be lost and what would happen to them if they +were. He was almost certain he had taken the right turnings every time, +but he might have made a mistake. At that last corner he was not quite +sure whether he should turn to the left or the right. If they were lost, +what would become of them? + +The lights were acting very strangely to-night; they had stopped dancing +now but were all turning black, and what was this funny feeling that was +creeping over him? He sat down hurriedly on some steps he was passing +and leaned his head against the railing for support. He felt baby +slipping from his arms onto the step beside him but was powerless to +hold her. Once more that funny feeling was creeping over him and he +wondered if he could be dying. Mr. Dempsey's Tim had died. Peter had +gone upstairs to see him. They had put him into a funny-looking white +box that was nearly covered with flowers, and he looked so strange lying +there all white and still among the blossoms. The next day the white +box, the flowers and poor little Tim were carried away. The neighbors +said Tim was dead; Mrs. Dempsey said he had gone to heaven. Peter +wondered if he died would anyone put him in a white box and cover him +with flowers; if he died, would he go to heaven and see Tim there? + +Peter had often been very anxious as to what heaven was like. He had +asked Mrs. Dempsey. Her answer had not been quite satisfactory, but then +she could not know exactly since she had never been there. And the +angels, what were they like? Again Mrs. Dempsey had been referred to and +again the reply was most disappointing. Beautiful beings with wings? +Why, birds had wings and some of them were very beautiful. As for +singing before the throne of God; well, Peter could not even guess what +the throne of God meant. + +He guessed he must be dying; he felt dead already, all except his head. +That would go soon and then he would see the angels he had wondered so +much about. But if he died, what would become of baby? Who would look +after his precious baby? That dreadful thought caused him to open his +eyes suddenly. With a great effort he raised his head and the sight of +the iron railing against which he was leaning made his heart bound with +a sudden thrill of hope and put new life into the exhausted little +frame. It was the railing through which he had watched the children on +that day last summer, and the steps on which he sat were the steps of +St. Teresa's Orphanage. He had taken the right turning after all and had +reached his destination without knowing it. + +With difficulty. Peter got upon his feet, lifted the baby and essayed to +drag himself up that long flight of steps. Panting, exhausted, he +reached the top and laid his burden down at the threshold of that door +which always opened so gladly to receive such waifs as he. In the +darkness Peter felt around for the bell. Surely, there must be a bell +somewhere. He must find it quickly for that dreadful feeling was +creeping over him and he knew in another moment he would fall. Where was +it; oh! why could he not find it? At last the despairing fingers touched +the button of an electric bell; they pressed it hard, and a loud peal +rang through the hall inside. Then Peter sank down to the ground beside +the baby and even his head went this time. + +A moment later (or so it seemed to Peter) he opened his eyes and saw +bending over him the most beautiful face he had ever beheld. He knew now +that he was in heaven was looking on the face of an angel. It was just +what he should think an angel's face ought to be, so sweet and kind and +gentle, the soft eyes filled with heavenly love and pity. And there were +the wings, too, all white and shining, but Mrs. Dempsey had neglected to +mention that angels' wings grew out of their heads. Somehow, Peter had +supposed their wings grew from their shoulders; he was sure Mrs. Dempsey +had said so. He would like to send her a message and tell her how +mistaken she had been. He wondered if he could. + +He felt a gentle hand slip beneath his shoulders and raise him a little +and the angel commenced to feed him with something warm and sweet upon a +spoon. It tasted better than anything he had ever eaten before. + +Suddenly he thought of baby. What had happened to her? Was she in heaven +too? He tried to ask the angel, but found he could not utter a word; he +was too weak and tired. The kind eyes watching him interpreted rightly +the anxious look that crossed his face; they were well accustomed to +divining the unspoken troubles of worried little minds. The angel spoke +and to Peter the voice sounded like heavenly music: + +"You must not try to talk, dear. Just finish this gruel like a good boy +and then go to sleep again. Your baby sister is quite safe, and is +sleeping sweetly in her crib over in the little one's dormitory. You +shall see her in the morning if you are good now and do as I tell you." + +As he finished the gruel his eyes closed wearily for a moment, and when +he opened them again there were two angels leaning over him. The second +was not nearly so lovely as the first, but her face, too, bore that +same look of heavenly sweetness which Peter felt instinctively none but +angels' faces could wear. It was the look which older people than Peter +have often marveled at; the look one sees upon the faces of those who +have died to the world and to themselves and given their entire being to +God in a life of charity and self-sacrifice. + +The second angel laid her fingers on his wrist and seemed to be counting +something as she kept her eyes on a small silver watch she held in her +hand. Then she poured a spoonful of bright-colored liquid from a bottle, +and, lifting his head, bade him swallow the medicine. Unquestioningly he +obeyed, and as his head was laid back upon the pillow he felt himself +slipping away into the land of oblivion. Just as consciousness was +leaving him, he heard a voice, seemingly far away, saying: + +"He will do very nicely now, Sister Agnes. It was simply a case of +starvation and complete exhaustion." + +Vaguely he wondered what she meant. + + + + +GOD'S WAY. + + +"We have reached the summit at last, Cecile? The hill seemed unusually +steep to-night and the way unusually long." + +"Yes, mother, we have reached the top at last and here is the rustic +bench on which we usually sit and watch the sun go down behind those +blue and misty hills in the distance." + +"Ah! those hills, Cecile. How I have always loved them. To me this has +ever seemed the fairest spot on earth, and the view from this hill just +at sunset the most beautiful I have ever seen. It is ten long years +since my eyes have beheld it, but in my mind I still see it all so +clearly. Tell me it is all there, Cecile, just as it was on that evening +so many, many years ago when I first looked upon its beauties. Your dear +father had just brought me, a happy bride, here to his northern home. We +walked up the hill together to watch the sun set and I thought then I +had never seen a lovelier view: the green fields of waving corn, and +the apple orchards all in blossom, sloping down gradually to the river; +the river itself tumbling and tossing madly over the waterfall far up +there to the left, then swirling and eddying on for a space, only to +grow calm once more quietly, steadily, resume its placid journey to the +ocean. Beyond the river, those wonderful forests, dark, mysterious and +silent. They rise and rise, higher, ever higher, and terminate at last +in the blue and misty hills of which you were just speaking. I love it +all, Cecile, and I could not bear to think that any part of it had +changed with the advancing years. Tell me it is just the same; tell me +it is all there as it was so long ago." + +"Yes, mother dear," answered the younger woman, "it is all there just as +it has ever been; the fields and the river, the forests and the hills +beyond." + +Cecile neglected to mention that the fields were now mere barren stubble +and that the river was visible only here and there as it peeped through +between the many buildings lining its banks; immense buildings of +factory and mill, smaller structures, cottages and tenement houses +occupied by the workers in factory and mill. She supposed the forests +were still there but the day had been very sultry with scarce a breath +of air stirring and a heavy pall of smoke from the huge chimneys hung +over the valley, hiding everything which lay beyond. Only the tops of +the distant hills rose in triumph above it. + +"I am glad to think it is all unchanged," said the mother with a sigh of +content. "I know it is foolish to feel as I do about it, but it would be +a real grief to me to think that my beautiful valley had been sacrificed +to the need or the greed of advancing civilization." + +"God has been very good to me, Cecile, and I thank Him with all my heart +for the blessings He has sent me to compensate for that one dreadful +calamity, your dear father's sudden death ten years ago and my long +illness and subsequent blindness. As I sat to-day in my little garden +listening to the twittering of the birds, and inhaling the fragrance of +my flowers, I was thinking how peaceful and happy my life is and how +grateful I should be. You know, dear, just occasionally I long to be +able to see again, to see the birds and the flowers, to see the +beautiful world around me. That is very wrong and wicked I know, and I +chase the rebellious wish away by thinking of my many blessings, +especially of you and my Philippe. You have both been my comfort and +consolation. By the way, dear, no letter has come from Philippe to-day?" + +"No, mother, not yet." + +"It is strange that we have not heard from him. This is the first time +he has not written to me for my birthday." + +"But he did not forget you, mother. Are you not wearing his beautiful +gift to you which arrived this morning?" + +"No, he did not forget," replied the older woman, as her fingers strayed +lovingly over the lace scarf resting so lightly on her snow-white hair. +"My Philippe never forgets and that is why I worried just a little this +morning when his usual birthday letter did not come. Then, this +afternoon, a sudden idea occurred to me which made me very happy. Shall +I tell you what it was, Cecile? I am quite sure I have discovered the +reason why Philippe did not write me for my birthday." + +It was well the blind eyes could not see the look of startled fear which +flashed across Cecile's face. + +"You have discovered why he did not write?" she exclaimed, and her voice +trembled slightly. + +The mother laughed happily. "Yes, I am quite sure I have discovered the +reason. I have a feeling, and I know it is a true feeling, that before +my birthday is quite over Philippe will be here with us. He is coming, +Cecile; he is not far away at this very moment, and before the evening +is over he will be with us." + +Tears filled Cecile's eyes but she rose quietly and said, trying to +speak lightly: + +"The night mist is rising from the river, mother dear. Had we not better +turn our faces toward the east and home?" + +"You are right, child, it will be as well for us to go home a little +early to-night. I am feeling unaccountably weary though very, very +happy. It will be best for me to go home and rest a little before the +evening train arrives bringing my Philippe back to me." + +Cecile said nothing, but very gently, very tenderly guided the blind +mother's steps as they wended their way homeward in the sweet summer +twilight. + +Half an hour later Cecile paced restlessly up and down the broad veranda +of her home. She had left her mother sleeping on the couch in her pretty +sitting-room upstairs and could now face the problems and difficulties +which confronted her. In her mind she reviewed the years that had come +and gone since that sad night when her dying father had whispered almost +with his last breath: + +"Your mother, Cecile; I trust her to you. Take care of her for me when I +am no longer here to watch over her myself. Promise me you will shield +her from every worry, that you will stand between her and all troubles +as I have always done." + +The girl had promised and right faithfully had she kept her word, but at +what a cost to herself! She was thinking now of her promise and of how +she had kept it. She was thinking, too, of her mother's serious illness +which had followed that night, an illness from which she had recovered, +it is true, but which left her blind for life. What a terrible calamity +her mother's blindness had appeared to be at that time, and yet, there +came a day, that dreadful day two years ago, when she had thanked God on +her knees for the affliction which enabled her to conceal the trouble +which had come upon them. + +Once more she lived through that day two years ago, the day when those +awful letters had come, one from Philippe, one from the lawyers. She had +read them at first without comprehending their meaning. Then as the +truth began to dawn upon her, she cried to herself that it could not be +true, it could not be. There was some terrible mistake somewhere. But +there it was before her in black and white; Philippe's own confession, +the lawyers' letter confirming all the facts. They were ruined, +penniless, and Philippe had done this thing; Philippe, her tall handsome +brother, the pride and darling of their mother's heart. But worse than +poverty, worse than ruin faced them. Philippe was a disgraced man, +sentenced to jail for fifteen years. + +It was an old, old story; she had heard of such cases before but paid +little heed to them. Now it was Philippe, her brother, and oh! how +different it all seemed. It was simply the story of an ambitious young +man, making his way in the world, winning name and fame among the ablest +financiers of the Western city in which he had elected to live his +life. It was simply the story of one who had much and who wanted more, +who strained every nerve to win in the great game he was playing, the +game of money-getting. It was the story of one who risked all in one +grand final coup, who risked all and lost all. And what was risked and +lost was not his alone; everything belonging to his mother and sister +had gone too. Worse still, he had made use of money which was not +theirs, funds of the bank of which he was treasurer. Of course, he had +only borrowed them, he had been so sure of success, and he intended +replacing the money in a few days. He had reasoned as so many men before +him had reasoned, as men will continue to reason as long as this world +shall be. + +Such had been the trial which faced Cecile that day two years ago. Her +one thought had been that mother must never know; her heart had always +been weak and the shock would kill her, simply kill her. Words her +mother had once spoken to her returned to her mind as she had finished +reading those letters. The remark had been caused by some little act of +thoughtfulness on Philippe's part, some little gift he had sent her, +for Philippe had always been careful to remember all the little +household feast days with beautiful and often costly gifts. + +"Cecile," her mother had said, "you have both been good children to me, +you and Philippe, good and kind and thoughtful. I think it would break +my heart if my children should ever forget me, ever cease to love me. I +can imagine but one thing worse, to have them forget their God, to know +that they had committed any grievous wrong. I have sometimes heard of +mothers whose sons have been led astray into ways of wickedness and +proved a disgrace to themselves and to their families, and I have said +to myself: 'Poor woman, how can she bear it, how can she go on living +knowing what her boy has become? It would kill me, I know it would. +Thank God, my Philippe is a good boy, brave and upright like his father; +I shall never have cause to worry about him.'" + +Those words kept ringing through Cecile's brain as she had read the +letters over, and over again, and she had determined then and there, at +all costs, her mother should never know. But how was she going to +conceal the fact of their poverty, of their absolute ruin? + +They had always lived in comfort and where was she to find the money to +supply their daily needs? Since her father's death and her mother's +affliction, they had lived in the utmost seclusion. The few friends of +her earlier life had drifted away one by one and there was no one to +whom she could turn for help or advice in her hour of need. She must +manage alone somehow, she and faithful black Mandy to whom her mother +was still the "li'l Missy" of long years ago, the "l'il Missy" of the +happy days on the southern plantation. + +For two years they had succeeded, but by what sacrifices to themselves +no one would ever know. Many a time they had been reduced almost to the +verge of starvation in order to provide for the blind mother the little +delicacies to which she had been accustomed. Gradually, articles of +furniture disappeared from their accustomed places; costly pieces of +bric-a-brac, rare old china, everything of value which Cecile thought +her mother would not be likely to miss. Cecile's own apartment had been +reduced to four walls, a bare floor, one chair and the bed upon which +she slept. The mother's rooms and Philippe's alone remained untouched. + +Then Cecile found employment in the office of one of those new +factories which had recently been erected over there beyond the town. +This step had been the cause of the first disagreement between her +mother and herself. + +"Why, Cecile, what do you mean?" the poor mother had gasped in her utter +bewilderment when informed of her daughter's intention. "Surely, I +misunderstood what you just said. Bookkeeper in the office of a +_factory_! Earn your own living! What _are_ you talking about! What +strange jest is this, my dear? For you certainly cannot be in earnest." + +"Indeed I am not jesting, mother dear, but am very much in earnest. I +really want to earn money of my own, and shall be so much happier if I +have a regular occupation. And you want me to be happy, do you not?" + +"I cannot understand you at all, Cecile. I really cannot. In my youth, +we of the south considered it a disgrace for a young lady to even dream +of earning her living. Your father left us plenty of money. I do not +know just how it was invested, for I never cared to trouble my head +about money matters. I preferred to leave all that to you and the +lawyers. Still, I know my income is quite sufficient for our wants. Even +if we should lose our money, there is Philippe to provide for us. He +would agree with me, I know. He would never, never allow his sister to +work for a living." + +Of course Cecile had persisted in her resolution, and it grieved her to +feel that her mother had never become reconciled to what she considered +a mere whim. + +Letters from Philippe came at occasional intervals, letters which were +carefully edited before she read them aloud to her mother. Gifts from +Philippe came too, just as they had always done, but now each gift meant +some added sacrifice for poor Cecile. Her very last bit of jewelry, a +gift from her father on the Christmas before he died, had been sold to +purchase the lace scarf which had come that morning in Philippe's name. + +Of all this Cecile was thinking as she paced the veranda that summer +night. It had all been very hard to bear but it was as nothing compared +with that last blow which had fallen two nights ago. + +She had been to the town for necessary supplies and was returning rather +late in the evening. The road was lonely, deserted, and she could not +suppress the cry of fright which rose to her lips as a man sprang from a +little thicket which she was passing and stood directly before her, +barring her path. Her second cry was one, not of fear, but of startled +recognition. The man was Philippe, no longer her handsome Philippe, but +a ragged, wild-eyed, desperate man. His story was told in a few words. +He had grown restive under the confinement of prison life, then frantic, +simply frantic, and had made up his mind to escape. How, he did not +know, but he schemed and planned and watched his chance and finally +succeeded in getting away. He had managed to make his way to her, and +now she must give him money to enable him to get out of the country. + +Money? Where was she to find money to give him? + +"But you must, Cecile; you must give me every cent you can lay hands +on," he had cried savagely. "They are after me, I tell you, and if I am +taken back it will be to answer to a charge of murder. Of course, I +didn't mean it, you understand. One of the guards was in my way, +and--well, there's one guard less in the world, that's all." + +He had come to the house late that night and she had given him food, +some of his own clothes which still hung in his room and which the +mother had never allowed anyone to touch, and all the money she "could +lay hands on." It was not much but it was every cent she had. She had +heard nothing from him since, and the suspense of the last two days had +been agonizing, the alternate hopes and fears, the wondering, wondering +where he was, what was happening to him at that very moment. + +The click of the garden gate and a footstep upon the gravel walk caused +her to turn hastily and descend the veranda steps. At first, she thought +it was Philippe come back to her, but a second glance showed that the +figure approaching through the dusk was that of good Father Anselm, her +parish priest. He was a young man, only recently appointed to the town, +but he knew her story and had frequently helped her with kindly advice +and sympathy. Her heart stood still as she watched his approach. +Something in his manner, something in his face seen dimly through the +gathering darkness, told her that he was the bearer of evil tidings. + +"What is it, Father?" she asked tremulously. "Is it that they have taken +him?" + +"Yes, my child, they have taken him. They are bringing him here." + +"Bringing him here! But why, why should they bring him here?" A sudden +dreadful thought flashed through her mind. "Father, you have not told me +all; there is something else." + +"My poor child, there _is_ something else to tell you." + +"You need not tell it, Father, I know. They have taken him, but +not--alive. My poor Philippe is gone, dead. Tell me how it happened, +Father, will you please?" + +The girl's unnatural calm was more pitiful than any outburst of grief +could have been, and an immeasurable compassion spoke in the priest's +voice as he told the story of Philippe's death. + +"He was hiding in the deserted hut in Planter's Wood (you know the spot, +Cecile) and they discovered his place of concealment. They had been +following after him for days but he thought he would be safe there and +could come out at night and procure food from you. There was a short, +sharp struggle in which he received a mortal wound. Doctors were sent +for; I, too, was summoned. Thank God, he was conscious up to the very +last and I arrived in time to reconcile him with the Master whose love +he had outraged, whose commands he had broken. His end was very quiet +and peaceful, he simply closed his eyes and fell asleep as a little baby +might. + +"But we must not stand here talking, my child. We have a duty to +perform, you and I, and we must be brave and perform that duty at once, +difficult though it may be. Where is your mother, Cecile? She will have +to be told before--before they arrive. I came on ahead for that very +purpose." + +"We cannot tell her, Father, we cannot. It will kill her." + +"We _must_ tell her; it will be impossible to hide it. Take me to her +and we will tell her together. God will be with us and will help us, my +child." + +"Oh! if God would only spare her, if He would only spare her! If He +would only open a way so we need not tell her!" + +Her brain was in a whirl as she mounted the stairs; she was stunned, +broken. Of one thing only was she perfectly conscious. Philippe was +coming and his mother must be awakened. That mother's last words as she +had closed her eyes were: + +"I am strangely weary, Cecile, weary and very drowsy. I think I shall +sleep a little, but be sure and wake me when Philippe comes." + +Wake her when Philippe comes! Yes, for Philippe _is_ coming and his +mother must be wakened. + +They stood beside the couch and looked down upon the sleeping woman. How +quietly she rested there, how still she was and peaceful! But how _very_ +still she was, and what was that scarcely palpable shadow resting on the +sweet, calm face? Was it only a shade cast by the lamp which Cecile had +brought in and placed upon a table behind them, or was it----? + +With a cry of alarm, the girl fell on her knees and caught frantically +at her mother's hand. It lay in hers absolutely passive and cold, so +cold. The priest raised the lamp till the light shone full upon the face +of the sleeper. Sleeping she was indeed, the last long sleep from which +not they, not Philippe, not anyone could waken her. + +Father Anselm laid his hand on the head of the stricken girl and said +gently: + +"A moment ago, my child, you prayed that God might spare her. He had +granted your prayer even before it was uttered. We need not tell her now +for she has learned it all from One who could tell it far more gently, +far more mercifully than we could." + +The sound of shuffling steps, as of men who carried a heavy burden, came +up to them from the gravel walk below. + +"Requiescant in pace," whispered the priest. + +Cecile knelt as if turned to stone. Mechanically, she listened to the +voice of the priest reciting the De Profundis; she listened to the call +of the crickets shrilling through the summer night without; she listened +to the heart-breaking sobs of faithful black Mandy crouching on the +floor by the side of her "li'l Missy;" she listened to those shuffling +footsteps as they entered the house, slowly mounted the staircase and +paused at the door of what had once been Philippe's room. + +Yet again the priest's voice recited: + +"Requiescant in pace." + +And this time, Cecile, laying her cheek upon the dear cold hand she held +in hers, responded brokenly: + +"Amen." + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Alchemist's Secret, by Isabel Cecilia Williams + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ALCHEMIST'S SECRET *** + +***** This file should be named 19224.txt or 19224.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/9/2/2/19224/ + +Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +http://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" +or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +http://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official +page at http://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit http://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. +To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + http://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/19224.zip b/19224.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..2099501 --- /dev/null +++ b/19224.zip diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..50aa30c --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #19224 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/19224) |