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."

THE END