The Superintendent's expression reflected all the tenderness of her nature; the mother-instinct, which she had never known, made her smile into the girl's serious face.

"My dear," she said, "you must not think that you're useless. You must never think that! Look at the success you've had in your club work—remember how the children that you teach have come to love you. You've done more with them, because of the things that you don't know, than I could ever do—despite the hard facts that I've had to brush up against. Find content, dear, in being the sweet place in our garden—that has so pitifully few flowers. Do not long for the hard, uncomfortable places on the other side of the garden wall!"

Despite the Superintendent's expression—despite the gentle tone of her voice, Rose-Marie felt a sudden desire to cry out against the irony of it all. She was so tired of being classed with the flowers! "They toil not, neither do they spin," came back to her, from a certain golden text that she had learned, long ago, in Sunday-school. Even at the time it had seemed to her as if the flowers enjoyed lives that were a shade too easy! At the time it had seemed unfair that they, who were not workers, should be beautiful—more beautiful than the ants, for instance, that uncomplainingly toiled all day long for their existence.

"I don't want to be a flower," she exclaimed, almost fretfully, "I want to be a worth while member of society—that's what I want! What's the use of being a decoration in a garden! What's the use of knowing only the sunshine? I want to know storms, too, and gales of wind. I want to share the tempests that you go through!" She hesitated; and then—"I read a book once," she said slowly, "I forget what it was—but I remember, in one place, that a woman was being discussed. She was a very beautiful elderly woman who, despite her age, had a face as unlined and calm as a young girl's face could be. One character in the book commented upon the woman's youth and charm, and another character agreed that she was beautiful and charming, but that she'd be worth more if she had a few lines on her face. 'She's never known tears,' the character said, 'she's never lived deeply enough to know tears! Her life has been just a surface life. If you go down deep enough into the earth you find water, always. If you go down deep enough into life you invariably find tears. It's one of the unbreakable rules!'" Rose-Marie paused, for a moment, and stole a covert glance at the Superintendent's face. "You don't want me to be a woman whose life is only a surface life," she pleaded, "and it will be just that if you keep me from helping, as I want to help! You don't want me to have a perfectly unlined face when I'm eighty years old?"

All at once the Superintendent was laughing. "You child!" she exclaimed when the first spasm of mirth had passed, "you blessed child! If you could know how ridiculously young you looked, sitting there and talking about lined faces—and yourself at eighty. Eighty is a long way off, Rose-Marie—for you!"

The girl joined, a trifle shamefacedly, in the older woman's laughter.

"I reckon," she agreed, "that I do take myself too seriously! But—well, there are families that I'm just dying to help—families that I've come in contact with through the"—again she was forced to a slight deceit—"through the Settlement House. I'm sure that I could help them if you'd let me visit them, in their own homes. I'm sure that I'd be able to reform ever so many people if you'd only let me go out and find them. The city missionary who spoke once in our church, back home, told of wonderful things that he'd done—of lives that he'd actually made over. Of course, I couldn't do the sort of work he did, but I'm sure—if you'd only give me a chance—" She paused.

The Superintendent was silent for a moment. And then—

"Maybe you're right, dear," she said, "and maybe you're wrong. Maybe I am cramping your ambitions—maybe I am hampering your mental and spiritual growth. But then, again, maybe I'm right! And I'm inclined to think that I am right. I'm inclined to adhere to my point, that it will be better for you to wait, until you're older, before you go into many tenements—before you do much reforming outside of the Settlement House. When you're older and more experienced I'll be glad to let you do anything—"

She was interrupted by a rap upon the door. It was a gentle rap, but it was, above all, a masculine one. There was real gladness on her face as she rose to answer it.

"I didn't expect Billy Blanchard—he thought he had an all-night case," she told Rose-Marie. "How nice!"

But Rose-Marie was rising to her feet.

"I don't think that I'll stay," she said hurriedly, "I'm too tired, after all! I think—"

The Superintendent had paused in her progress to the door. Her voice was surprisingly firm, of a sudden; firmer than Rose-Marie had ever heard it.

"No, my dear," said the Superintendent, "you're not too tired! You just don't want to be civil to a very fine boy—who has had a harder day than either of us. You came to the slums, Rose-Marie, to help people—to show that you were a Christian. I think that you can show it, to-night, by forgetting a silly quarrel that happened weeks ago—by forgetting the words Dr. Blanchard said that he never really meant, inside. If he thought that these people weren't worth it, do you suppose he'd stay here, at the Settlement House, for a mere pittance? He's had many a chance to go to fashionable hospitals, up-town!"

Rose-Marie, bewildered, and not a little ashamed, sank back into her seat as the Superintendent swung open the door.

The Young Doctor came in with a springing step, but there were gray lines that spoke of extreme fatigue about his mouth, and his eyes were darkly circled. His surprise, at the sight of Rose-Marie, was evident—though he tried to hide it by the breeziness of his manner.

"You'll be glad to know," he told the Superintendent, "that the stork has called on the Stefan family. It's a boy—nine pounds—with lots of dark hair. There have been three girls, in the Stefan family," he explained to Rose-Marie, "and so they are wild with joy at this latest addition. Papa Stefan is strutting about like a proud turkey, with his chest out. And Mamma Stefan is trying to sing a lullaby. I feel something like a tool in the hand of Providence, to-night!" He threw himself upon the sofa.

There was deep, motherly affection in the Superintendent's face as she smiled at him.

"We're all of us mental and physical wrecks this evening, Billy!" she said. "I think that I've never been so utterly worn out before. Katie" (Katie was the stolid maid) "is making chocolate for us!"

"Chocolate!" The Young Doctor's glance answered the affection that shone out of the Superintendent's face—"You are a dear!" He smiled at her, and then—all at once—turned swiftly to Rose-Marie.

"Don't let's squabble to-night," he said childishly, "not about anything! We're dog-tired, all three of us, and we're not up to even a tiny quarrel. I'm willing to admit anything you want me to—even that I'm wrong on a lot of subjects. And I want you to admit, yourself, that you'd rather be here, with the two of us, than out in some den of iniquity—reforming people. Am I right?"

Rose-Marie felt a glow of friendship toward the Young Doctor. Why couldn't he always be like this—confiding and boyish and approachable? She smiled at him, very sweetly, as she answered.

"You're right," she admitted. "I'm afraid that I haven't the heart to think of reforming any one, this evening! I'm just glad—glad from the very soul of me—to be here with you all, in the very center of this—island!"

The Superintendent's face was puzzled—the Superintendent's eyes were vague—as she asked a question.

"You said—island?" she questioned.

Rose-Marie laughed with a shade of embarrassment.

"I didn't really mean to say island," she explained, "but—well, you remember what Dr. Blanchard told us, once, about the little bugs that fastened together—first one and then another until there were billions? And how, at last, they made an island?" She paused and, at their nods of assent, went on. "Ever since then," she told them slowly, "I've thought of us, here at the Settlement House, as the first little bugs—the ones that the others must hold to. And I've felt, though many of them don't realize it, though we hardly realize it ourselves, that we're building an island together—an island of faith!"

There was silence for a moment. And then the Young Doctor spoke. His voice was a trifle husky.

"You've made me more than a bit ashamed of myself, Miss Rose-Marie," he said, "and I want to thank you for putting a real symbolism into my chance words. After all"—suddenly he laughed, and then—"after all," he said, "I wouldn't be surprised if you are right! I had a curious experience, this afternoon, that would go to prove your theory."

The Superintendent was leaning back, shielding her eyes from the light. "Tell us about your experience, Billy," she said.

The chocolate had come, and the Young Doctor took an appreciative sip before he answered.

"Just as I was going out this afternoon," he said, at last, "I ran into a dirty little boy in the hall. He was fondling a kitten—that thin gray one that you brought to the Settlement House, Miss Rose-Marie. I asked him what he was doing and he told me that he was hunting for a Scout Club that he'd heard about. I"—the Young Doctor chuckled—"I engaged him in conversation. And he told me that his ambition was to be a combination of St. George and King Arthur and all the rest of those fellows. He said that, some day, he wanted to be a good husband and father. When I asked him where he got his large ambitions he told me that a lady had given them to him."

Rose-Marie was leaning forward. "Did he tell you the lady's name?" she breathed.

The Young Doctor shook his head.

"Not a thing did he tell me!" he said dramatically. "The lady's name seemed to be something in the nature of a sacred trust to him. But his big dark eyes were full of the spirit that she'd given him. And his funny little crooked mouth was—" He paused, suddenly, his gaze fixed upon Rose-Marie. "What's the matter?" he queried. "What's the matter? You look as if somebody'd just left you a million dollars!"

Rose-Marie's face was flushed and radiant. Her eyes were deep wells of joy.

"I have every reason in the world," she said softly, "to be happy!" And she was too absorbed in her own thoughts to realize that a sudden cloud had crept across the brightness of the Young Doctor's face.



XIII

ELLA MAKES A DECISION

And then the climax of Ella's life—the crash that Rose-Marie had been expecting—happened. It happened when Ella came furiously into the Volsky flat, early one afternoon, and—ignoring the little Lily, who sat placidly on Rose-Marie's lap—hurried silently into her own room. Mrs. Volsky, bending over the wash-tubs, straightened up as if she could almost feel the electric quality of the air, as Ella passed her, but Rose-Marie only held tighter to Lily—as if, somehow, the slim little body gave her comfort.

"I wonder what's the matter?" she ventured, after a moment.

Mrs. Volsky, again bending over the wash-tubs, answered.

"Ella, she act so funny, lately," she told Rose-Marie, "an' there is some feller; Bennie, he tell me that he have seen her wit' some feller! A rich feller, maybe; maybe he puts Ella up to her funny business!"

There were sounds of activity from the inner room, as if clothing was being torn down from hooks—as if heavy garments were being flung into bags. Rose-Marie listened, apprehensively, to the sounds before she spoke again.

"Perhaps I'd better go in and see what's the matter," she suggested.

Mrs. Volsky, looking back over her shoulder, gave a helpless little shrug. "If you t'inks best," she said hopelessly. "But Ella—she not never want to take any help..."

Only too well Rose-Marie knew what Mrs. Volsky meant by her twisted sentence. Only too well she understood that Ella would never allow herself to be biased by another's judgment,—that Ella would not allow herself to be moved by another's plea. And yet she set Lily gently down upon the floor and rose to her feet.

"I'll see what she's doing," she told Mrs. Volsky, and pushed open the inner door.

Despite all of the time that she had spent in the Volsky flat, Rose-Marie had never been past the front room with its tumbled heaps of bedding, and its dirt. She was surprised to see that the inner room, shared by Ella and Lily, was exquisitely neat, though tiny. There were no windows—the only light came from a rusty gas fixture—but Rose-Marie, after months in the slums, was prepared for that. It was the geranium, blooming on the shabby table, that caught her eye; it was the clean hair-brush, lying on the same table, and the framed picture of a Madonna, upon the wall, that attracted her. She spoke of them, first, to the girl who knelt on the floor, packing a cheap suit-case—spoke of them before she questioned gently:

"You're not going away, are you, Ella?"

Ella glanced up from her packing.

"Yes. I'm going away!" she said, shortly. And then, as if against her will, she added:

"I got th' flower an' th' picture for Lily. Oh, sure, I know that she can't see 'em! But I sorter feel that she knows they're here!"

Rose-Marie's voice was very soft, as she spoke again.

"I'm glad that you chose the picture you did," she said, "the picture of the Christ Child and His Mother!"

Ella wadded a heavy dress into the suit-case.

"I don't hold much with religious pictures," she said, without looking up; "religion never did much fer me! I only got it 'cause th' Baby had hair like Lily's hair!"

Rose-Marie crouched down, suddenly, upon the floor beside the girl. She laid her hand upon the suit-case.

"Where are you going, Ella?" she asked abruptly. "Where are you going—and when will you be back?"

Ella's lips drew up into the semblance of a smile—a very bitter one—as she answered.

"It's none of yer business where I'm goin'," she said, "an' I may not ever come back—see?"

Rose-Marie caught her breath in a kind of sob. It was as she had guessed—and feared!

"Ella," she asked slowly, "are you going alone?"

The girl's face coloured swiftly, with a glorious wave of crimson. She tossed her head with a defiant movement.

"No, I ain't goin' alone!" she told Rose-Marie. "You kin betcha life I ain't goin' alone!"

Rose-Marie—sitting beside her on the floor—asked God, silently, for help before she spoke again. She felt suddenly powerless, futile.

"Why are you going, dear?" she questioned, at last.

Ella dropped the shoes that she had been about to tuck into the suit-case. Her eyes were grim.

"Because," she said, "I'm tired of all o' this," Her finger pointed in the direction of the outer room. "I'm tired o' dirt, and drunken people, and Jim's rotten talk. I'm tired o' meals et out o' greasy dishes, an' cheap clothes, and jobs that I hate—an' that I can't nohow seem ter hold! I'm tired, dog-tired, o' life. All that's ever held me in this place is Lily. An' sometimes, when I look at her, I don't think that she'd know the difference whether I was here 'r not!"

Rose-Marie was half sobbing in her earnestness.

"Ah, but she would know the difference," she cried. "Lily loves you with all of her heart. And your mother is really trying to be neater, to make a better home for you! She hasn't a pleasant time of it, either—your mother. But she doesn't run away. She stays!"

There was scorn in the laugh that came, all at once, from Ella's twisted mouth. Her great eyes were somberly sarcastic.

"Sure, she stays," said Ella, "'cause she ain't got enough gumption ter be gettin' out! I know."

In her heart Rose-Marie was inclined to agree with Ella. She knew, herself, that Mrs. Volsky would never have the courage to make any sort of a definite decision. But she couldn't say so—not while Ella was staring at her with that cynical expression.

"I guess," she said bravely, "that we'd better leave your mother out of this discussion. After all, it's between you—and your conscience."

"Say," Ella's face was suddenly drawn and ugly, "say, where do you get off to pull this conscience stuff? You've always had a nice home, an' pretty clothes, an' clean vittles, an'—an' love! I ain't had any of it. But," her eyes flamed, "I'm goin' to! Don't you dast ter pull this conscience stuff on me—I've heard you profess'nal slummers talk before—a lot o' times. What good has a conscience ever done me—huh?"

Rose-Marie had been watching the girl's face. Of a sudden she shot her thunderbolt.

"Are you running away to be married, Ella?" she asked.

A second flush ran over Ella's face, and receded slowly—leaving it very pale. But her head went up rather gallantly.

"No, I ain't," she retorted. "Marriage," she said the words parrot-like, "was made fer th' sort o' folks who can't stick at nothin' unless they're tied. I ain't one of those folks!"

Across the nearly forgotten suit-case, Rose-Marie leaned toward Ella Volsky. Her eyes were suddenly hot with anger.

"Who gave you that sort of an argument?" she demanded. "Who has been filling your head with lies? You never thought of that yourself, Ella—I know you never thought of that yourself!"

Ella's eyes met Rose-Marie's angry glance. Her words, when she spoke, came rapidly—almost tumbled over each other. It was as if some class-resentment, long repressed, were breaking its bounds.

"How d' you know," she demanded passionately, "that I didn't think of that myself? How do you know? You're th' only one, I s'pose," her tone was suddenly mocking, "that knows how t' think! No"—as Rose-Marie started to interrupt—"don't try t' pull any alibi on me! I know th' way you Settlement House ladies"—she accented the word—"feel about us. You have clubs for us, an' parties, an' uplift meetin's. You pray fer us—an' with us. You tell us who t' marry, an' how t' bring up our children, an' what butcher t' buy our meat off of. But when it comes t' understandin' us—an' likin' us! Well, you're too good, that's all." She paused, staring at Rose-Marie's incredulous face with insolent eyes.

"You're like all th' rest," she went on, after a moment, "just like all th' rest. I was beginnin' t' think that you was diff'rent. You've been so white about Bennie. An' you washed Ma's hair—I wouldn't 'a' done that myself! But now—now it sticks out all over you; th' I'm-better-'n-you-are stuff. I never could think of a thing, I couldn't. But you—you're smart, you are. You could think—"

Rose-Marie's cheeks were flushed with a very real resentment, as she interrupted the girl's flow of half-articulate speech.

"Ella," she said, and her words, too, came rapidly, "you know that you're not being fair—you know it! I've never held apart from you in any way. Oh, I realize that we've been brought up in different—surroundings. And it's made us different from each other in the unimportant things. But we're both girls, Ella—we're both young and we've both got all of life before us. And so, perhaps, we can understand each other"—she was fumbling mentally for words, in an effort to make clear her meaning—"more than either of us realize. I wasn't, for one moment, trying to patronize you when I said what I did. I was only wondering how you happened to say something that I wouldn't ever dream of saying—that no nice girl, who had a real understanding of life"—she wondered, even as she spoke the words, what the Young Doctor would think if he could hear them issuing from her lips—"would dream of saying. You're a nice girl, Ella—or you wouldn't be in the same family with Bennie and Lily. And you're a sensible girl, so you must realize how important and sacred marriage is. Who told you that it was a mistake, Ella? Who," her childish face was very grave, indeed, "who told you such a terrible thing?"

Ella's eyes were blazing—Rose-Marie almost thought that the girl was going to strike her! But the blazing eyes wavered, after a moment, and fell.

"My gentleman fren' says marriage is wrong," said Ella. "He knows a lot. And he has so much money"—she made a wide gesture with her hands—"I can have a nice place ter live, Miss Rose-Marie, an' pretty clothes. Lookit Ma; she's married an' she ain't got nothin'! I can have coats an' hats an'—"

Rose-Marie touched Ella's hand, timidly, with her cool fingers.

"But you'll have to pay for them, Ella," she said. "Think, dear; will the coats and hats be worth the price that you'll have to pay? Will they be worth the price of self-respect—will they be worth the price of honourable wifehood and—motherhood? Will the pretty clothes, Ella, make it easier for you to look into the face of some other woman—who has kept straight? Will they?"

Ella raised her eyes and, in their suddenly vague expression, Rose-Marie saw a glimmering of the faded, crushed mother. She hurried on.

"What kind of a chap is this gentleman friend," she raged, "to ask so much of you, dear? Is there—is there any reason why he can't marry you? Is he tied to some one else?"

All at once Ella was sobbing, with gusty, defiant sobs.

"Not as far as I've heard of, there ain't nobody else," she sobbed. "I don't know much about him, Miss Rose-Marie. Jim gimme a knockdown ter him, one night, in a dance-hall. I thought he was all right—Jim said he was ... An' he said he loved me, an'"—wildly—"I love him, too! An' I hate it all, here, except Lily—"

Rose-Marie, thinking rapidly, seized her advantage.

"Will going away with him," she asked steadily, "be worth never seeing Lily again? For you wouldn't be able to see her again—you wouldn't feel able to touch her, you know, if your hands weren't—clean. You bought her a religious picture, Ella, and a flower. Why? Because you know, in your heart, that she's aware of religion and beauty and sweetness! Going away with this man, Ella, will separate you from Lily, just as completely as an ocean—flowing between the two of you—would make a separation! And all of your life you'll have to know that she's suffering somewhere, perhaps; that maybe somebody's hurting her—that her dresses are dirty and her hair isn't combed! Every time you hear a little child crying you'll think of Lily—who can't cry aloud. Every time a pair of blue eyes look into your face you'll think of her eyes—that can't see. Will going away with him be worth never knowing, Ella, whether she's alive or dead—"

Ella had stopped sobbing, but the acute misery of her face was somehow more pitiful than tears. Rose-Marie waited, for a moment, and then—as Ella did not speak—she got up from her place beside the suit-case, and going to the dividing door, opened it softly.

The room was as she had left it. Mrs. Volsky was still bending above the tubs, Lily was standing in almost the same place in which she had been left. With hurried steps Rose-Marie crossed the room, and took the child's slim, little hand in her own.

"Come with me, honey," she said, almost forgetting that Lily could not hear her voice. "Come with me," and she led her gently back to the inner room.

Ella was sitting on the floor, her face still wan, her attitude unconsciously tragic. But as the child, clinging to Rose-Marie's hand, came over to her side, she was suddenly galvanized into action.

"Oh, darlin', darlin'," she sobbed wildly, "Ella was a-goin' ter leave you! Ella was a-goin' away. But she isn't now—not now! Darlin'," her arms were flung wildly about the little figure, "show, some way, that you forgive Ella—who loves you!"

Rose-Marie was crying, quite frankly. All at once she dropped down on the floor and put her arms about the two sisters—the big one and the little one—and her sobs mingled with Ella's. But, curiously enough, as she stood like a little statue between them, a sudden smile swept across the face of Lily. She might, almost, have understood.



XIV

PA STEPS ASIDE

They wept together for a long time, Ella and Rose-Marie. And as they cried something grew out of their common emotion. It was a something that they both felt subconsciously—a something warm and friendly. It might have been a new bond of affection, a new chain of love. Rose-Marie, as she felt it, was able to say to herself—with more of tolerance than she had ever known—

"If I had been as tempted and as unhappy as she—well, I might, perhaps, have reacted in the same way!"

And Ella, sobbing in the arms of the girl that she had never quite understood, was able to tell herself: "She's right—dead right! The straight road's the only road...."

It was little Lily who created a diversion. She had been standing, very quietly, in the shelter of their arms for some time—she had a way of standing with an infinite patience, for hours, in one place. But suddenly, as if drawn by some instinct, she dropped down on the floor, beside the cheap suit-case, and her small hands, shaking with eagerness, started to take out the clothes that had been flung into it.

It was uncanny, almost, to see the child so happily beginning to unpack the suit-case. The sight dried Rose-Marie's tears in an almost miraculous way.

"Let's put away the things," she suggested shakily, to Ella. "For you won't be going now, will you?"

The face that Ella Volsky lifted was a changed face. Her expression was a shade more wistful, perhaps, but the somber glow had gone out of her eyes, leaving them softer than Rose-Marie had supposed possible.

"No, Miss," she said quietly, "I won't be going—away. You're right, it ain't worth the price!" And the incident, from that moment, was closed.

They unpacked the garments—there weren't many of them—quietly. But Rose-Marie was very glad, deep in her soul, and she somehow felt that Ella's mind was relieved of a tremendous strain. They didn't speak again, but there was something in the way Ella's hand touched her little sister's sunny hair that was more revealing than words. And there was something in the way Rose-Marie's mouth curved blithely up that told a whole story of satisfaction and content. It seemed as if peace, with her white wings folded and at rest, was hovering, at last, above the Volsky flat.

And then, all at once, the momentary lull was over. All at once the calm was shattered as a china cup, falling from a careless hand, is broken. There was a sudden burst of noise in the front room; of rough words; of a woman sobbing. There was the sound of Mrs. Volsky's voice, raised in an unwonted cry of anguish, there was a trickle of water slithering down upon an uncarpeted floor—as if the wash-tub had been overturned.

It was the final event of an unsettling day—the last straw. Forgetting Lily, forgetting the unpacking, Rose-Marie jumped to her feet, ran to the door. Ella followed. They stood together on the threshold of the outer room, and stared.

The room seemed full of people—shouting, gesticulating people. And in the foreground was Jim—as sleek and well groomed as ever. Of all the crowd he seemed the only one who was composed. In front of him stood Mrs. Volsky—her face drawn and white, her hands clasped in a way that was singularly and primitively appealing.

At first Rose-Marie thought that the commotion had to do with Jim. She was always half expecting to hear that he had been apprehended in some sort of mischief, that he had been accused of some crime. But she dismissed the idea quickly—his composure was too real to be born of bravado. It was while her brain groped for some new solution that she became conscious of Mrs. Volsky's voice.

"Oh, he ain't," the woman was moaning, "say he ain't! My man—he could not be so! There ain't no truth in it—there can't be no truth.... Say as he ain't been done to so bad! Say it!"

Ella, with a movement that was all at once love-filled, stepped quickly to her mother's side. As she faced the crowd—and Jim—her face was also drawn; drawn and apprehensive.

"What's up?" she queried tersely of her brother. "What's up?"

The face of Jim was calm and almost smiling as he answered. Behind him the shrill voices of the crowd sounded, like a background, to the blunt words that he spoke.

"Pa was comin' home drunk," he told Ella, "an' he was ran inter by a truck. He was smashed up pretty bad; dead right away, th' cop said. But they took him ter a hospital jus' th' same. Wonder why they'd take a stiff ter a hospital?"

Mrs. Volsky's usually colourless voice was breaking into loud, almost weird lamentation. Ella stood speechless. But Rose-Marie, the horror of it all striking to her very soul, spoke.

"It can't be true," she cried, starting forward and—in the excitement of the moment—laying her hand upon Jim's perfectly tailored coat sleeve. "It can't be true.... It's too terrible!"

Jim's laugh rang out heartlessly, eerily, upon the air.

"It ain't so terrible!" he told Rose-Marie. "Pa—he wasn't no good! He wasn't a reg'lar feller—like me." All at once his well-manicured white hand crept down over her hand. "He wasn't a reg'lar feller," he repeated, "like me!"



XV

A SOLUTION

As Rose-Marie left the Volsky flat—Ella had begged her to go; had assured her that it would be better to leave Mrs. Volsky to her inarticulate grief—her brain was in a whirl. Things had happened, in the last few hours, with a kaleidoscopic rapidity—the whirl of events had left her mind in a dazed condition. She told herself, over and over, that Ella was saved. But she found it hard to believe that Ella would ever find happiness, despite her salvation, in the grim tenement that was her home. She told herself that Bennie was learning to travel the right road—that the Scout Club would be the means of leading him to other clubs and that the other clubs would, in time, introduce him to Sunday-school and to the church. She told herself that Mrs. Volsky was willing to try; very willing to try! But of what avail would be Bennie's growing faith and idealism if he had to come, night after night, to the home that was responsible for men like Jim—and like Pa?

Pa! Rose-Marie realized with a new sense of shock that Pa was no longer a force to reckon with. Pa was dead—had been crushed by a truck. Never again would he slouch drunkenly into the flat, never again would he throw soiled clothing and broken bottles and heavy shoes into newly tidied corners. He was dead and he had—after all—been the one link that tied the Volskys to their dingy quarters! With Pa gone the family could seek cleaner, sweeter rooms—rooms that would have been barred to the family of a drunkard! With Pa gone the air would clear, magically, of some of its heaviness.

Rose-Marie, telling herself how much the death of Pa was going to benefit the Volsky family, felt all at once heartless. She had been brought up in an atmosphere where death carries sorrow with it—deep sorrow and sanctity. She remembered the dim parlours of the little town when there was a funeral—she remembered the singing of the village choir and the voice of the pastor, slightly unsteady, perhaps, but very confident of the life hereafter. She remembered the flowers, and the mourners in their black gowns, and the pure tears of grief. She had always seen folk meet death so—meet it rather beautifully.

But the passing of Pa! She shuddered to think of its cold cruelty—it was rather like his life. He had been snuffed out—that was all—snuffed out! There would be for him no dim parlour, no singing choir, no pastor with an unsteady voice. The black-robed mourners would be absent, and so would the flowers. His going would cause not a ripple in the life of the community—it would bring with it better opportunities for his family, rather than a burden of sorrow!

"I can't grieve for him!" Rose-Marie told herself desperately. "I can't grieve for him! It's the only chance he ever gave to his children—dying! Perhaps, without him, they'll be able to make good...."

She was crossing the park—splashed with sunshine, it was. And suddenly she remembered the first time that she had met Bennie in the park. It seemed centuries away, that first meeting! She remembered how she had been afraid, then, of the crowds. Now she walked through them with a certain assurance—she belonged. She had come a long distance since that first meeting with Bennie—a very long distance! She told herself that she had proved her ability to cope with circumstance—had proved her worth, almost. Why, now, should the Superintendent keep her always in the shadow of the Settlement House—why should the Young Doctor laugh at her desire to help people? She had something to show them—she could flaunt Bennie before their eyes, she could quote the case of Ella; she could produce Mrs. Volsky, broken of spirit but ready to do anything that she could. And—last but not least—she would show Lily to them, Lily who had been hidden away from the eyes of the ones who could help her—Lily who so desperately needed help!

All at once Rose-Marie was weary of deceit. She would be glad—ever so glad—to tell her story to the Superintendent! She was tired of going out furtively of an afternoon to help these folk that she had come to help. She wanted to go in an open way—with the stamp of approval upon her. The Superintendent had said, once, that she would hardly be convincing to the people of the slums. With the Volsky family to show, she could prove that she had been convincing, very convincing!

With a singing heart she approached the Settlement House. With a smile on her lips she went up the brownstone steps, pushed wide the door—which was never locked. And then she hurried, as fast as her feet could hurry, to the Superintendent's tiny office.

The Superintendent was in. She answered Rose-Marie's knock with a cheery word, but, when the girl entered the room, she saw that the Superintendent's kind eyes were troubled.

"What's the matter?" she questioned, forgetting, for a moment, the business of which she had been so full. "What's the matter? You look ever so worried!"

The Superintendent's tired face broke into a smile.

"Was I looking as woe-begone as that?" she queried. "I didn't realize that I was. Nothing serious is the matter, dear—nothing very serious! Only Katie's sister in the old country is ill—and Katie is going home to stay with her. And it's just about impossible to get a good maid, nowadays—it seems as if Katie has been with me for a lifetime. I expect that we'll manage, somehow, but I don't just fancy cooking and sweeping, and running the Settlement House, too!"

All at once an idea leaped, full-blown, into the brain of Rose-Marie. She leaned forward and laid her hand upon the Superintendent's arm.

"I wonder," she asked excitedly, "if you'd consider a woman with a family to take Katie's place? The family isn't large—just a small boy who goes to school, and a small girl, and an older girl who is working. There's a grown son, but he can take care of himself..." the last she said almost under her breath. "He can take care of himself. It would be better, for them—"

The Superintendent was eyeing Rose-Marie curiously.

"We have plenty of sleeping-rooms on the top floor," she said slowly, "and I suppose that the older girl could help a bit, evenings. Why, yes, perhaps a family might solve the problem—it's easier to keep a woman with children than one who is," she laughed, "heart-whole and fancy free! Who are they, dear, and how do you happen to know of them?"

Rose-Marie sat down, suddenly, in a chair beside the Superintendent's desk. All at once her knees were shaky—all at once she felt strangely apprehensive.

"Once," she began, and her voice quivered slightly, "I met a little boy, in the park. He was hurting a kitten. I started to scold him and then something made me question him, instead. And I found out that he was hurting the kitten because he didn't know any better—think of it, because he didn't know any better! And so I was interested, ever so interested. And I decided it was my duty to know something of him—to find out what sort of an environment was responsible for him."

The Superintendent's tired face was alight She leaned forward to ask a question.

"How long ago," she questioned, "did you meet this child, in the park?"

Rose-Marie flushed. The time, suddenly, seemed very long to her.

"It was the day that I came home bringing a little gray cat with me," she said. "It was the day that I quarreled with Dr. Blanchard at the luncheon table. Do you remember?"

The Superintendent smiled reminiscently. "Ah, yes, I remember!" she said. And then—"Go on with the story, dear."

Rose-Marie went on.

"I found the place where he lived," she said hurriedly. "Yes—I know that you wouldn't have let me go if you'd known about it! That's why I didn't tell you. I found the place where he lived; an unspeakable tenement on an unspeakable street. And I met, there, his family—a most remarkable family! There was a mother, and an older sister, and an older brother, and a drunken father, and a little crippled girl...."

And then, shaking inwardly, Rose-Marie told the story of the Volskys. She told it well; better than she realized. For the Superintendent's eyes never left her face and—at certain parts of the story—the Superintendent's cheeks grew girlishly pink. She told of the saving of Ella—she told of Bennie, explaining that he was the same child whom the Young Doctor had met in the hall. She told of Mrs. Volsky's effort to better herself, and of Jim's snake-like smoothness. And then she told of Lily—Lily with her almost unearthly beauty and her piteous physical condition. As she told of Lily the Superintendent's kind eyes filled with tears, and her lips quivered.

"Oh," she breathed, "if only something could be done for her—if only something could be done! Billy Blanchard must see her at once—he's done marvellous things with the crippled children of the neighbourhood!"

With a feeling of sudden confidence Rose-Marie smiled. She realized that she had caught the Superintendent's interest—and her sympathy. It would be easier, now, to give the family their chance! Her voice was more calm as she went on with the narrative. It was only when she told of the death of Pa that her lips trembled.

"You'll think that I'm hard and callous," she said, "taking his death so easily. But I can't help feeling that it's for the best. They could never have broken away—not with him alive. You would never have taken them in—if he had had to be included! You couldn't have done it.... But now," her voice was aquiver with eagerness, "now, say that they may come! Say that Mrs. Volsky may take Katie's place. Oh, I know that she isn't very neat; that she doesn't cook as we would want her to. But she can learn and, free from the influence of her husband and son, I'm sure she'll change amazingly. Say that you'll give the family a chance!"

The Superintendent was wavering. "I'm not so sure," she began, and hesitated. "I'm not so sure—"

Rose-Marie interrupted. Her voice was very soft.

"It will mean," she said, "that Lily will be here, under the doctor's care. It will mean that she will get well—perhaps! For her sake give them a chance...."

The Superintendent's eyes were fixed upon space. When she spoke, she spoke irrelevantly.

"Then," she said, "that was where you went every afternoon—to the tenement. You weren't out with some man, after all?"

Rose-Marie hung her head. "I went to the tenement every afternoon," she admitted, "to the tenement. Oh, I know that you're angry with me—I know it. And I don't in the least blame you. I've been deceitful, I've sneaked away when your back was turned, I've practically told lies to you! Don't think," her voice was all a-tremble, "don't think that I haven't been sorry. I've been tremendously sorry ever so many times. I've tried to tell you, too—often. And I've tried to make you think my way. Do you remember the talk we had, that night when we were both so tired, in your sitting-room—before Dr. Blanchard came? I was trying to scrape up the courage to tell you, then, but you so disagreed with me that I didn't dare!"

The Superintendent seemed scarcely to be listening. There seemed to be something upon her mind.

"Rose-Marie," she said with a mock sternness, "you're evading my questions. Answer me, child! Isn't there any one that you—care for? Weren't you out with some man?"

Rose-Marie was blushing furiously.

"No," she admitted, "I wasn't out with a man. I never had any sort of a sweetheart, not ever! I just let you all think that I was with some one because—if I hadn't let you think that way—you might have made me stay in. I wouldn't have made a point of deliberately telling you a falsehood—but Dr. Blanchard gave me the idea and "—defiantly—"I just let him think what he wanted to think!"

The Superintendent was laughing.

"What he wanted to think!" she exclaimed. "Oh, Rose-Marie—you've a lot to answer for! What he wanted to think...." Suddenly the laugh died out of her voice, all at once she was very serious. "Perhaps," she said slowly, "your idea about the Volsky family is a good one. We'll try it out, dear! There was a MAN, once, Who said: 'Suffer the little children to come—'Why, Rose-Marie, what's the matter?" For Rose-Marie, her face hidden in the crook of her elbow, was crying like a very tired child.



XVI

ENTER—JIM

It was with a light heart that Rose-Marie started back to the tenement. The tears had cleared her soul of the months of evasion that had so worried her—she felt suddenly free and young and happy. It was as if a rainbow had come up, tenderly, out of a storm-tossed sky; it was as if a star was shining, all at once, through the blackness of midnight. She felt a glad assurance of the future—a faith in the Hand of God, stretched out to His children. "Everything," she sing-songed, joyously, to herself, "will come right, now. Everything will come right!"

It was strange how she suddenly loved all of the people, the almost mongrel races of people, who thronged the streets! She smiled brightly at a mother, pushing a baby-buggy—she thrust a coin into the withered hand of an old beggar. On a crowded corner she paused to listen to the vague carollings of a barrel organ, to pat the head of a frayed looking little monkey that hopped about in time to the music. All at once she wanted to know a dozen foreign languages so that she could tell those who passed her by that she was their friend—their friend!

And yet, despite her sudden feeling of kinship to these people of the slums, she did not loiter. For she was the bearer of a message, a message of hope! She wished, as she sped through the crowded streets, that her feet were winged so that she might hurry the faster! She wanted to see the expression of bewilderment on Mrs. Volsky's face, she wanted to see a light dawn in Ella's great eyes, she wanted to whisper a message of—of life, almost—into Lily's tiny useless ear. And, most of all, she wanted to feel Bennie's warm, grubby little fingers touching her hand! Jim—she hoped that Jim would be out when she arrived. She did not want to have Jim throw cold water upon her plans—which did not include him. Well she knew that the arrangement would make no real difference to him—it was not love of family that kept him from leaving the dirty, crowded little flat. It was the protection of a family, with its pseudo-respectability, that he wanted. It was the locked room, which no one would think of prying into, that he desired.

She went in through the mouth-like tenement door—it was no longer frightful to her—with a feeling of intense emotion. She climbed the narrow stairs, all five flights of them, with never a pause for breath. And then she was standing, once again, in front of the Volskys' door. She knocked, softly.

Everything was apparently very still in the Volsky flat. All up and down the hall came the usual sounds of the house; the stairs echoed with noise. But behind the closed door silence reigned supreme. As Rose-Marie stood there she felt a strange mental chill—the chill of her first doubt. Perhaps the Volskys would not want to come with her to the Settlement House, perhaps they would resent her attitude—would call it interference. Perhaps they would tell her that they were tired of her—and of her plans. Perhaps—But the door, swinging open, cut short her suppositions.

Jim stood in the doorway. He was in his shirt sleeves but—even divested of his coat—he was still too painfully immaculate—too well groomed. Rose-Marie, looking at him, felt a sudden primitive desire to see him dirty and mussed up. She wished, and the wish surprised her, that she might sometime see him with his hair rumpled, his collar torn, his eye blackened and—she could hardly suppress a hysterical desire to laugh as the thought struck her—his nose bleeding. Somehow his smooth, hard neatness was more offensive to her than his mother's dirty apron—than his small brother's frankly grimy hands. She spoke to him in a cool little voice that belied her inward disturbance.

"Where," she questioned, "are your mother and Ella? I want to see them."

With a movement that was not ungraceful Jim flung wide the door. Indeed, Rose-Marie told herself, as she stepped into the Volsky flat, Jim was never ungraceful. There was something lithe and cat-like in his slightest movement, just as there was something feline in the expression of his eyes. Rose-Marie often felt like a small, helpless mouse when Jim was staring at her.

"Where are your mother and Ella?" she questioned again as she stepped into the room. "I do want to see them!"

Jim was dragging forward a chair. He answered.

"Then yer'd better sit down 'n' make yourself at home," he told her, "fer they've gone out. They're down t' th' hospital, now, takin' a last slant at Pa. Ma's cryin' to beat th' band—you'd think that she really liked him! An' Ella's cryin', too—she's fergot how he uster whip her wit' a strap when she was a kid! An' they've took Bennie; Bennie ain't cryin' but he's a-holdin' to Ma's hand like a baby. Oh," he laughed sneeringly, "it's one grand little family group that they make!"

Rose-Marie sat down gingerly upon the edge of the chair. She did not relish the prospect of spending any time alone with Jim, but a certain feeling of pride kept her from leaving the place. She would not let Jim know that she feared him—it would flatter him to think that he had so much influence over her. She would stay, even though the staying made her uneasy! But she hoped, from the bottom of her heart, that the rest of the family would not be long at the hospital.

"When did they go out?" she questioned, trying to make her tone casual. "Do you expect them back soon?"

Jim sat down in a chair that was near her own. He leaned forward as he answered.

"They haven't been gone so awful long," he told her. "An'—say—what's th' difference when they gets back? I never have no chance to talk wit' you—not ever! An'," he sighed with mock tragedy, "an' I have so much t' say t' yer! You never have a word fer me—think o' that! An' think o' all th' time yer waste on Bennie—an' him too young t' know a pretty girl when he sees one!"

Rose-Marie flushed and hated herself for doing it. "We'll leave personalities out of this!" she said primly.

Jim was laughing, but there was a sinister note in his mirth.

"Not much we won't!" he told her. "I like you—see? You're th' best lookin' girl in this neck o' woods—even if you do live at the Settlement House! If you'd learn to dress more snappy—t' care more about hats than yer do about Bible Classes—you'd make a big hit when yer walked out on Delancy Street. There ain't a feller livin' as wouldn't turn t' look at yer—not one! Say, kid," he leaned still closer, "I'm strong fer yer when yer cheeks get all pink-like. I'm strong fer yer any time a-tall!"

Rose-Marie was more genuinely shocked than she had ever been in her life. The flush receded slowly from her face.

"You'd like me to be more interested in clothes than in Bible Classes!" she said slowly. "You'd like me to go parading down Delancy Street ..." she paused, and then—"You're a fine sort of a man," she said bitterly—"a fine sort of a man! Oh, I know. I know the sort of people you introduce to Ella—and she's your sister. I've seen the way you look at Lily, and she's your sister, too! You wouldn't think of making things easier for your mother; and you'd give Bennie a push down—instead of a boost up! And you scoff at your father—lying dead in his coffin! You're a fine sort of a man.... I don't believe that you've a shred of human affection in your whole make-up!"

Jim had risen slowly to his feet. There was no anger in his face—only a huge amusement. Rose-Marie, watching his expression, knew all at once that nothing she said would have the slightest effect upon him. His sensibilities were too well concealed, beneath a tough veneer of conceit, to be wounded. His soul seemed too well hidden to be reached.

"So that's what you think, is it?" he asked, and his voice was almost silky, it was so smooth, "so that's what you think! I haven't any 'human affection in my make-up,'" he was imitating her angry voice, "I haven't any 'human affection'!" he laughed suddenly, and bent with a swift movement until his face was on a level with her face. "Lot yer know about it!" he told her and his voice thickened, all at once, "lot yer know about it! I'm crazy about you, little kid—just crazy! Yer th' only girl as I've ever wanted t' tie up to, get that? How'd yer like t' marry me?"

For one sickening moment Rose-Marie thought that she had misunderstood. And then she saw his face and knew that he had been deadly serious. Her hands fluttered up until they rested, like frightened birds, above her heart.



XVII

AN ANSWER

There was eagerness—and a hint of something else—in Jim's voice as he repeated his question.

"Well," he asked for the second time, "what d' yer say about it—huh? How'd yer like ter marry me?"

Rose-Marie's fascinated eyes were on his face. At the first she had hardly believed her ears—but her ears had evidently been functioning properly. Jim wanted to marry her—to marry her! It was a possibility that she had never dreamed of—a thought that she had never, for one moment, entertained. Jim had always seemed so utterly of another world—of another epoch, almost. He spoke a language that was far removed from her language, his mind worked differently—even his emotions were different from her emotions. He might have been living upon another planet—so distant he had always seemed from her. And yet he had asked her to marry him!

Like every other normal girl, Rose-Marie had thought ahead to the time when she would have a home and a husband. She had dreamed of the day when her knight would come riding—a visionary, idealized figure, always, but a noble one! She had pictured a hearth-fire, and a blue and white kitchen with aluminum pans and glass baking dishes. She had even wondered how tiny fingers would feel as they curled about her hand—if a wee head would be heavy upon her breast.

Of late her dreams, for some reason, had become a little less misty—a little more definite. The figure of her knight had been a trifle more clear cut—the armour of her imagination had given place to rough tweed suits and soft felt hats. And the children had looked at her, from out of the shadows, with wide, dark eyes—almost like real children. Her thoughts had shaped themselves about a figure that was not the romantic creation of girlhood—that was strong and willing and very tender. Dr. Blanchard—had he not been mistaken upon so many subjects—would have fitted nicely into the picture!

But Jim—of all people, Jim! He was as far removed from the boundaries of her dream as the North Pole is removed from the South. His patent leather hair—she could not picture it against her arm—his mouth, thin-lipped and too red.... She shuddered involuntarily, as she thought of it and the man, bending above her, saw the shudder.

"Well," he questioned for the third time, "what about it? I'm a reg'lar guy, ain't I? How'd you like to marry me?"

Rose-Marie moistened her lips before she answered. Her voice, when it came, was very husky.

"Why, Jim," she said faintly, "what an idea! How did you ever come to think of it?"

The man's face was flushed. His words tumbled, quickly, from his unsteady mouth.

"I'm crazy about yer, kid," he said, "crazy about yer! Don't think that bein' married t' me will mean as you'll have ter live in a dump like this-there"—the sweep of his arm was expressive—"fer yer won't! You'll have th' grandest flat in this city—anywhere yer say'll suit me! Yer'll have hats an' dresses, an' a car—if yer want it. Yer'll have everything—if yer'll marry me! What d' yer say?"

Rose-Marie's face was a study of mixed emotions—consternation struggling with incredulity for first place. The man saw the unbelief; for he hurried on before she could speak.

"Yer think that I'm like my pa was"—he told her—"livin' on measly wages! Well, I ain't. Some nights I make a pile that runs inter thousands—an' it'll be all fer yer! All fer yer!"

Of a sudden, Rose-Marie spoke. She was scarcely tactful.

"How do you make all of this money, Jim?" she questioned; "do you come by it honestly?"

A dark wave of colour spread over the man's face—dyeing it to an ugly crimson.

"What's it matter how I get it," he snarled, "long's I get it! What business is it of yers how I come by my coin? I ain't stagin' a investergation. And"—his face softened suddenly, "an' yer wouldn't understand, anyhow! Yer only a girl—a little kid! What's it matter how I gets th' roll—long as I'm willin' ter spend it on m' sweetie? What's it matter?" He made a movement as if to take her into his arms—"What's it matter?" he questioned again.

Like a flash Rose-Marie was upon her feet. With a swing of her body she had evaded his arms. Her face was white and drawn, but her mind was exceptionally active—more active than it had ever been in all of her life. She knew that Jim was in a difficult mood—that a word, one way or the other, would make him as easy to manage as a kitten or as relentless as a panther, stalking his prey. She knew that it was in her power to say the word that would calm him until the return of his mother and his sister. And yet she found it well-nigh impossible to say that word.

"I'm tired of deceit," she told herself, as she stepped back in the direction of the door. "I'll not say anything to him that isn't true! ... Nothing can happen to me, anyway," she assured herself. "This is the twentieth century, and I'm Rose-Marie Thompson. This is a civilized country—nothing can hurt me! I'm not afraid—not while God is taking care of me!"

Jim had straightened up. He seemed, suddenly, to tower.

"Well," he growled, "how about it? When'll we be married?"

Rose-Marie raised her head gallantly.

"We won't ever be married, Jim Volsky!" she told him, and even to her own surprise there was not the suggestion of a quaver in her voice. "We won't ever be married. I'm surprised at you for suggesting it!"

The man stared at her, a moment, and his eyes showed clearly that he did not quite understand.

"Yer mean," he stammered at last, "that yer t'rowing me down?"

Rose-Marie's head was still gallantly lifted.

"I mean," she said, "that I won't marry you! Please—we'll let the matter drop, at once!"

The man came a step nearer. The bewilderment was dying from his face.

"Not much, we won't let the matter drop!" he snarled. "What's yer reason fer turnin' me down—huh?"

It was then that Rose-Marie made her mistake. It was then that she ceased to be tactful. But suddenly she was tired, desperately tired, of Jim's persistence. Suddenly she was too tired even to be afraid. The lift of her chin was very proud—proud with some ingrained pride of race, as she answered. Behind her stood a long line of ancestors with gentle blood, ancestors who had known the meaning of chivalry.

Coolly she surveyed him. Dispassionately she noticed the lack of breeding in his face, the marks of early dissipation, the lines that sin had etched. And as she looked she laughed with just the suggestion of hauteur. For the first time in her life Rose-Marie was experiencing a touch of snobbishness, of class distinction.

"We won't discuss my reason," she told him slowly; "it should be quite evident to any one!"

Not many weeks before, Rose-Marie had told the Young Doctor—in the presence of the Superintendent—that she loved the people of the slums. She had been so sure of herself then—so certain that she spoke the truth. More recently she had assured the Superintendent that she could cope with any situation. And that very afternoon she had told Ella that they were alike, were just young girls—both of them—with all of life in front of them, with the same hopes and the same fears and the same ambitions.

She had believed the statement that she had made, so emphatically, to the Young Doctor—she had believed it very strongly. She had been utterly sure of herself when she begged the Superintendent to let her know more of life. And, during her talk with Ella, she had felt a real kinship to the whole of the Volsky family! But now that she had come face to face with a crisis—now that she was meeting her big test—she knew that her strong beliefs were weakening and that she was no longer at all sure of herself! And as for being kin to the Volskys—the idea was quite unthinkable.

Always, Rose-Marie had imagined that a proposal of marriage would be the greatest compliment that a man could pay a girl. But the proposal of the man in front of her did not seem in the least complimentary. She realized—with the only feeling of irony she had ever known, that this proposal was her very first. And she was looking upon it as an insult. With a tiny curl of her lips she raised her eyes until they met Jim's eyes.

"It should be quite evident," she repeated, "to any one!"

Jim Volsky's face had turned to a dark mottled red. His slim, well manicured hands were clenched at his sides.

"Y' mean," he questioned, and his voice had an ugly ring, "y' mean I ain't good enough fer yer?"

All at once the snobbishness had slipped, like a worn coat, from the shoulders of the girl. She was Rose-Marie Thompson again—Settlement worker. She was no better, despite the ancestors with gentle blood, than the man in front of her—just more fortunate. She realized that she had been not only unkind, but foolish. She tried, hurriedly—and with a great scare looking out of her wide eyes—to repair the mistake that she had made.

"I don't mean that I am better than you, Jim," she said softly, "not in the matter of family. We are all the children of God—we are all brothers and sisters in His sight."

Jim Volsky interrupted. He came nearer to Rose-Marie—so near that only a few inches of floor space lay between them.

"Don't yer go sayin' over Sunday-school lessons at me," he snarled. "I know what yer meant. Yer think I ain't good enough—t' marry yer. Well"—he laughed shortly, "well, maybe I ain't good enough—t' marry yer! But I guess I'm good enough t' kiss yer—" All at once his hands shot out, closed with the strength of a vise upon her arms, just above her elbows. "I guess I'm good enough t' kiss yer!" he repeated gloatingly.

Rose-Marie felt cold fear creeping through her veins. There was something clammy in Jim's touch, something more than menacing in his eyes. She knew that her strength was nothing to be pitted against his—she knew that in any sort of a struggle she would be easily subdued. And yet she knew that she would rather die than feel his lips upon hers. She felt an intense loathing for him—the loathing that some women feel for toads and lizards.

"Jim," she said slowly and distinctly, "let go of me this instant!"

The man was bending closer. A thick lock of his heavy hair had shaken down over his forehead, giving him a strangely piratical look.

"Not much I won't," he told her. "So I ain't good enough—"

All at once Rose-Marie felt the blindness of rage—unreasoning, deadly anger. Only two things she knew—that she hated Jim and that she would not let him kiss her. She spoke sudden defiant words that surprised even herself.

"No," she told him, and her voice was hysterically high, "no, you're not good enough! You're not good enough for any decent girl! You're bad—too bad to lay your fingers upon me. You're—you're unclean! Let go of me or I'll"—her courage was oozing rapidly away, "or I'll scream!"

Jim Volsky's too red lips were on a level with her own. His voice came thickly. "Scream, if you want to, little kid!" he said. "Scream t' beat th' band! There ain't no one t' hear yer. Ma an' Ella an' Bennie are at the hospital—givin' Pa th' once over. An' th' folks in this house are used t' yellin'. They'd oughter be! Scream if yer want to—but I'm a-goin' ter have my kiss!"

Rose-Marie could feel the warmth of his breath upon her face. Knowing the futility—the uselessness of it—she began to struggle. Desperately she tried to twist her arms from the slim, brutal hands that held them—but the hands did not loosen their hold. She told herself, as she struggled, that Jim had spoken the truth—that a scream, more or less, was an every-day occurrence in the tenement.

All at once she realized, with a dazed, sinking feeling, that the Young Doctor had had some foundation of truth in certain of his statements. Some of the slum people were like animals—very like animals! Jim was all animal as he bent above her—easily holding her with his hands. Nothing that she said could reach him—nothing. She realized why the Young Doctor had wanted her to leave the Settlement House before any of her dreams had been shattered, before her faith in mankind had been abused! She realized why, at times, he had hurt her, and with the realization came the knowledge that she wanted him, desperately, at that minute—that he, out of all the people in the world, was the one that her heart was calling to in her time of need. She wanted his strength, his protection.

Once before, earlier in the afternoon, she had realized that there was much of the cat in Jim. Now she realized it again, with a new sense of fear and dislike. For Jim was not claiming the kiss that he wanted, in a straight-forward way—he was holding her gloatingly, as a cat tortures a mouse. He was letting her know, without words, that she was utterly helpless—that he could kiss her when he wanted to, and not until he wanted to. There was something horribly playful in his attitude. She struggled again—but more weakly, her strength was going. If there were only somebody to help—somebody!

And then, all at once, she remembered—with a blinding sense of relief—what she had been forgetting. She remembered that there was Somebody—a Somebody Who is always ready to help—a Somebody who watches over the fate of every little sparrow.

"If you hurt me," she said desperately, to Jim, "God will know! Let go of me—or I'll—"

Jim interrupted.

"Yer'll scream!" he chuckled, and there was cruel mirth in the chuckle. "Yer'll scream, an' God will take care o' yer! Well—scream! I don't believe as God can help yer. God ain't never been in this tenement—as far as I know!"

Despite her weight of fear and loathing, Rose-Marie was suddenly sorry for Jim. There was something pitiful—something of which he did not realize the pathos—in his speech. God had never been in the tenement—God had never been in the tenement! All at once she realized that Jim's wickedness, that Jim's point of view, was not wholly his fault. Jim had not been brought up, as she had, in the clean out-of-doors; he—like many another slum child—had grown to manhood without his proper heritage of fresh air and sunshine. One could not entirely blame him for thinking of his home—the only home that he had ever known—as a Godless place. She stopped struggling and her voice was suddenly calm and sweet as she answered Jim's statement.

"God," she said slowly, "is in this tenement. God is everywhere, Jim—everywhere! If I call on Him, He will help me!"

All at once Jim had swung her away from him, until he was holding her at arm's length. He looked at her, from between narrowed lids, and there was bitter sarcasm in his eyes.

"Call on Him, then," he taunted, "call on Him! Lotta good it'll do yer!" The very tone of his voice was a sacrilege, as he said it.

Rose-Marie's eyes were blurred with tears as she spoke her answer to his challenge. She was remembering the prayers that she had said back home—in the little town. She was remembering how her aunts had taught her, when she was a wee girl, to talk with God—to call upon Him in times of deep perplexity. She had called upon Him, often, but she had never really needed Him as she did now. "Help me, God!" she said softly, "Help me, God!"

The Volsky flat was still, for a moment. And then, with surprising quickness, the door to the inner room swung open. Jim, who was standing with his back to the door, did not see the tiny, golden-haired figure that stood in the opening, but Rose-Marie caught her breath in a kind of a sob.

"I had forgotten Lily—" she murmured, almost to herself.

Jim, hearing her words, glanced quickly back over his shoulder. And then he laughed, and there was an added brutality in the tone of his laughter.

"Oh—Lily!" he laughed. "Lily! She won't help yer—not much! I was sort of expectin' this God that yer talk about—" The laughter died out of his face and he jerked her suddenly close—so close that she lay trembling in his arms. "Lily can't hear," he exulted, "'r see, 'r speak. I'll take my kiss—now!"

It was then that Rose-Marie, forgetting herself in the panic of the moment, screamed. She screamed lustily, twisting her face away from his lips. And as she screamed Lily, as silently as a little wraith, started across the room. She might almost have heard, so straight she came. She might almost have known what was happening, so directly she ran to the spot where Rose-Marie was struggling in the arms of Jim. All at once her thin little hands had fastened themselves upon the man's trouser leg, all at once she was pulling at him, with every bit of her feeble strength.

Rose-Marie, still struggling, felt an added weight of apprehension. Not only her own safety was at stake—Lily, who was so weak, was in danger of being hurt. She jerked back, with another cry.

"Oh, God help me!" she cried, "God help us!"

Silently, but with a curious persistence, the child clung to the man's trouser leg. With an oath he looked back again over his shoulder.

"Leave go of me," he mouthed. "Leave go o' me—y' little brat! 'r I'll—"

And "Let go of him, Lily," sobbed Rose-Marie, forgetting that the child could not hear. "Let go of him, or he'll hurt you!"

The child lifted her sightless blue eyes wistfully to the faces above her—the faces that she could not see. And she clung the closer.

Jim was swearing, steadily—swearing with a dogged, horrible regularity. Of a sudden he raised his heavy foot and kicked viciously at the child who clung so tenaciously to his other leg. Rose-Marie, powerless to help, closed her eyes—and opened them again almost spasmodically.

"You brute," she screamed, "you utter brute!"

Lily, who had never, in all of her broken little life, felt an unkind touch, wavered, as the man's boot touched her slight body. Her sightless eyes clouded, all at once, with tears. And then, with a sudden piercing shriek, she crumpled up—in a white little heap—upon the floor.



XVIII

AND A MIRACLE

For a moment Rose-Marie was stunned by the child's unexpected cry. She hung speechless, filled with wonderment, in Jim's arms. And then, with a wrench, she was free—was running across the floor to the little huddled bundle that was Lily.

"You beast," she flung back, over her shoulder, as she ran. "You beast! You've killed her!"

Jim did not attempt to follow—or to answer. He had wheeled about, and his face was very pale.

"God!" he said, in a tense whisper, "God!" It was the first time that the word, upon his lips, was neither mocking nor profane.

Rose-Marie, with tender hands, gathered the child up from the hard floor. She was not thinking of the miracle that had taken place—she was not thinking of the sound that had come, so unexpectedly, from dumb lips. She only knew that the child was unconscious, perhaps dying. Her trembling fingers felt of the slim wrist; felt almost with apprehension. She was surprised to feel that the pulse was still beating, though faintly.

"Get somebody," she said, tersely, to Jim. "Get somebody who knows—something!"

Jim's face was still the colour of ashes. He did not stir—did not seem to have the power to stir.

"Did yer hear her?" he mouthed thickly. "She yelled. I heard her. Did yer hear—"

Rose-Marie was holding Lily close to her breast. Her stern young eyes looked across the drooping golden head into the scared face of the man.

"It was God, speaking through her," she said. "It was God. And you—you had denied Him—you beast!"

All at once Jim was down upon the floor beside her. The mask of passion had slipped from his face—his shoulders seemed suddenly more narrow—his cruel hands almost futile. Rose-Marie wondered, subconsciously, how she had ever feared him.

"She yelled," he reiterated, "did yer hear her—"

Rose-Marie clutched the child tighter in her arms.

"Get some one, at once," she ordered, "if you don't want her to die—if you don't want to be a murderer!"

But Jim had not heard her voice. He was sobbing, gustily.

"I'm t'rough," he was sobbing, "t'rough! Oh—God, fergive—"

It was then that the door opened. And Rose-Marie, raising eyes abrim with relief, saw that Ella and Mrs. Volsky and Bennie stood upon the threshold.

"What's a-matter?" questioned Mrs. Volsky—her voice sodden with grief. "What's been a-happenin'?" But Ella ran across the space between them, and knelt in front of Rose-Marie.

"Give 'er t' me!" she breathed fiercely; "she's my sister. Give 'er t' me!"

Silently Rose-Marie handed over the light little figure. But as Ella pillowed the dishevelled head upon her shoulder, she spoke directly to Bennie.

"Run to the Settlement House, as fast as ever you can!" she told him. "And bring Dr. Blanchard back with you. Hurry, dear—it may mean Lily's life!" And Bennie, with his grimy face tear-streaked, was out of the door and clattering down the stairs before she had finished.

Ella, her mouth agonized and drawn, was the first to speak after Bennie left the room. When she did speak she asked a question.

"Who done this t' her?" she questioned. "Who done it?"

Rose-Marie hesitated. She could feel the eyes of Mrs. Volsky, dumb with suffering, upon her—she could feel Jim's rat-like gaze fixed, with a certain appeal, on her face. At last she spoke.

"Jim will tell you!" she said.

If she had expected the man to evade the issue—if she had expected a downright falsehood from him—she was surprised. For Jim's head came up, suddenly, and his eyes met the burning dark ones of his sister.

"I done it," he said, simply, and he scrambled up from the floor, as he spoke. "I kicked her. She come in when I was tryin' t' kiss"—his finger indicated Rose-Marie, "her. Lily got in th' way. So I kicked out hard—then—she," he gulped back a shudder, "she yelled!"

Ella was suddenly galvanized into action. She was on her feet, with one lithe, pantherlike movement—the child held tight in her arms.

"Yer kicked her," she said softly—and the gentleness of her voice was ominous. "Yer kicked her! An' she yelled—" For the first time the full significance of it struck her. "She yelled?" she questioned, whirling to Rose-Marie; "yer don't mean as she made a sound?"

Rose-Marie nodded dumbly. It was Jim's voice that went on with the story.

"She ain't dead," he told Ella, piteously. "She ain't dead. An'—I promise yer true—I'll never do such a thing again. I promise yer true!"

Ella took a step toward him. Her face was suddenly lined, and old. "If she dies," she told him, "if she dies..." she hesitated, and then—"Much yer promises mean," she shrilled, "much yer promises—"

Rose-Marie had been watching Jim's face. Almost without meaning to she interrupted Ella's flow of speech.

"I think that he means what he says," she told Ella slowly. "I think that he means ... what he says."

For she had seen the birth of something—that might have been soul—in Jim's haggard eyes.

The child in Ella's arms stirred, weakly, and was still again. But the movement, slight as it was, made the girl forget her brother. Her dark head bent above the fair one.

"Honey," she whispered, "yer goin' ter get well fer Ella—ain't yer? Yer goin' ter get well—"

The door swung open with a startling suddenness, and Rose-Marie sprang forward, her hands outstretched. Framed in the battered wood stood Bennie—the tears streaking his face—and behind him was the Young Doctor. So tall he seemed, so capable, so strong, standing there, that Rose-Marie felt as if her troubles had been lifted, magically, from her shoulders. All at once she ceased to be afraid—ceased to question the ways of the Almighty. All at once she felt that Lily would get better—that the Volskys would be saved to a better life. And all at once she knew something else. And the consciousness of it looked from her wide eyes.

"You!" she breathed. "You!"

And, though she had sent for him, herself, she felt a glad sort of surprise surging through her heart.

The Young Doctor's glance, in her direction, was eloquent. But as his eyes saw the child in Ella's arms his expression became impersonal, again, concentrated, and alert. With one stride he reached Ella's side, and took the tiny figure from her arms.

"What's the matter here?" he questioned sharply.

Rose-Marie was not conscious of the words that she used as she described Lily's accident. She glossed over Jim's part in it as lightly as possible; she told, as quickly as she could, the history of the child. And as she told it, the doctor's lean capable hands were passing, with practiced skill, over the little relaxed body. When she told of the child's deaf and dumb condition she was conscious of his absolute attention—though he did not for a moment stop his work—when she spoke of the scream she saw his start of surprise. But his only words were in the nature of commands. "Bring water"—he ordered, "clean water, in a basin. A clean basin. Bring a sponge"—he corrected himself—"a clean rag will do—only it must be clean"—this to Mrs. Volsky, "you understand? Where," his eyes were on Ella's face, "can we lay the child? Is there a clean bed, anywhere?"

Ella was shaking with nervousness as she opened the door of the inner room that she and Lily shared. Mrs. Volsky, carrying the basin of water, was sobbing. Jim, standing in the center of the room, was like a statue—only his haunted eyes were alive. The Young Doctor, glancing from face to face, spoke suddenly to Rose-Marie.

"I hate to ask you," he said simply, "but you seem to be the only one who hasn't gone to pieces. Will you come in here with me?"

Rose-Marie nodded, and she spoke, very softly. "Then you think that I'll be able—to help?" she questioned.

The Young Doctor was remembering—or forgetting—many things.

"I know that you will!" he said, and he spoke as softly as she had done. "I know that you will!"

They went, together, with Lily, into the inner room. And as the Young Doctor closed the door, Rose-Marie knew a very real throb of triumph. For he had admitted that her help was to be desired—that she could really do something!

But, the moment that the door closed, she forgot her feeling of victory, for, of a sudden, she saw Dr. Blanchard in a new light. She saw him lay the little figure upon the bed—she saw him pull off his coat. And then, while she held the basin of water, she saw him get to work. And as she watched him her last feeling of doubt was swept away.

"He may say that he's not interested in people," she told herself joyously, "but he is. He may think that he doesn't care for religion—but he does. There's love of people in every move of his hands! There's something religious in the very way his fingers touch Lily!"

Yes, she was seeing the Young Doctor in a new light. As she watched him she knew that he had quite forgotten her presence—had quite forgotten the little quarrels that had all but ruined their chance at friendship. She knew that his mind was only on the child who lay so still under his hands—she knew that all the intensity of his nature was concentrated upon Lily. As she watched him, deftly obeying His simple directions, she gloried in his skill—in his surety.

And then, at last, Lily opened her eyes. She might have been waking from a deep slumber as she opened them—she might have been dreaming a pleasant dream as she smiled faintly. Rose-Marie had a sudden feeling—a feeling that she had experienced before—that the child was seeing visions, with her great sightless eyes, that other, normal folk could not see. All at once a great dread clutched at her soul.

"She's not dying—?" she whispered, gaspingly. "Her smile is so very—wonderful. She's not dying?"

The Young Doctor turned swiftly from the bed. All at once he looked like a knight to Rose-Marie—an armourless, modern knight who fought an endless fight against the dragons of disease and pain.

"Bless your heart, no!" he answered. "She isn't dying! We'll bring her around in a few minutes. And now"—a great tenderness shone out of his eyes, "tell me all about it. You were very sketchy," his gesture indicated the other room, "out there! How did the child really get hurt—and how did you come to be here? How—Why, Rose-Marie.... Sweetheart!"

For Rose-Marie had fainted very quietly—and for the first time in all of her strong young life.



XIX

AND THE HAPPY ENDING

They were sitting together at the luncheon table—the Superintendent, Rose-Marie, and the Young Doctor. The noontime sunshine slanted across the table—dancing on the silver, touching softly Rose-Marie's curls, finding an answering sparkle in the Young Doctor's smile. And silence—the warm silence of happiness—lay over them all.

It was the Young Doctor who spoke first.

"Just about a month ago, it was," he said reflectively, "that I saw Lily for the first time. And now"—he paused teasingly—"and now—"

Rose-Marie laid down the bit of roll that she was buttering. Her face was glowing with eagerness.

"They've come to some decision," she whispered, in a question that was little more than a breath of sound, "the doctors at the hospital have come to some decision?"

The Superintendent was leaning forward and her kind soul shone out of her tired eyes. "Tell us at once, Billy Blanchard!" she ordered, "At once!"

Quite after the maddening fashion of men the Young Doctor did not answer—not until he had consumed, and appreciatively, the bit of roll that he had been buttering. And then—"The other doctors agree with my diagnosis," he told them simply. "It's an extraordinary case, they say; but a not incurable one. The shock—when Jim kicked her—was a blessing in disguise. Not, of course, that I'd prescribe kicks for crippled children! But"—the term that he used was long and technical—"but such things have happened. Not often, of course. The doctors agree with me that, if her voice comes back—as I believe it will—there may be a very real hope for her hearing. And her eyes "—his voice was suddenly tender—"well—thousands of slum kiddies are blind—and thousands of them have been cured. If Lily is, some day, a normal child—if she can some day speak and see, and hear, it will be—"

The Superintendent's voice was soft—

"It is already a miracle!" she said simply. "It is already a miracle. Look at Jim—working for a small salary, and liking it! Look at Bennie—he was the head of his class in school, this month, he told me. And Ella—"

The Young Doctor interrupted.

"Ella and her mother went to church with us last Sunday," he said. "Rose-Marie and I were starting out, together, and they asked if they might go along. I tell you"—his eyes were looking deep, deep, into the eyes of Rose-Marie and he spoke directly to her, "I tell you, dear—I've learned a great many lessons in the last few weeks. Jim isn't the only one—or Bennie. Lily isn't the only nearly incurable case that has found new strength...."

Rose-Marie was blushing. The Superintendent, watching the waves of colour sweep over her face, spoke suddenly—reminiscently.

"Child," she said—and laughter, tremulous laughter, was in her voice, "your face is ever so pink! I believe," she was quoting, "'that you have a best beau'!"

The Young Doctor was laughing, too. Strangely enough his laughter had just the suggestion of a tremor in it.

"I'll say that she has!" he replied, and his words, though slangy, were very tender. "I'll say that she has!" And then—"Are we going back to the little town, Rose-Marie," he questioned. "Are we going back to the little town to be married?"

The blush had died from Rose-Marie's face, leaving it just faintly flushed. The eyes that she raised to the Young Doctor's eyes were like warm stars.

"No," she told him, "we're not! I've thought it all out. We're going to be married here—here in the Settlement House. I'll write for my aunts to come on—and for my old pastor! I couldn't be married without my aunts.... And my pastor; he christened me, and he welcomed me into the church, and"—all at once she started up from the table, "I'm going up-stairs to write, now," she managed. "I want to tell them that we're going to start our home here"—her voice broke, "here, on our own Island...." Like a flash she was out of the door.

The Young Doctor was on his feet. Luncheon was quite forgotten.

"I think," he said softly, and his face was like a light, "I think that I'll go with her—and help her with the letter!" The door closed, sharply, upon his hurrying back.

* * * * *

The Superintendent, left alone at the table, rang for the maid. Her voice was carefully calm as she ordered the evening meal. But her eyes were just a bit misty as she looked into the maid's dull face.

"Mrs. Volsky," she said suddenly, "love must have its way! And love is—"

The maid looked at her blankly. Obviously she did not understand. But, seeing her neat apron, her clean hands, her carefully combed hair, one could forgive her vague expression.

"What say?" she questioned.

The Superintendent laughed wearily, "Anyway," she remarked, "Ella likes her work, doesn't she? And Jim? And Bennie is going to be a great man, some day—isn't he? And Lily may be made well—quite well! You should be a glad woman, Mrs. Volsky!"

Pride flamed up, suddenly, in the maid's face—blotting out the dullness.

"God," she said simply and—marvel of marvels—her usually toneless voice was athrob with love—"God is good!" She went out, with a tray full of dishes.

Her chin in the palm of her hand, the Superintendent stared off into space. If she was thinking of a little blond child—lying in a hospital bed—if she was thinking of a man with sleek hair, trying to make a new start—if she was thinking of a girl with dark, flashing eyes, and a small, grubby-fingered boy, her expression did not mirror her thought. Only once she spoke, as she was folding her napkin. And then—

"They're both very young," she murmured, a shade wistfully. Perhaps she was remembering the springtime of her own youth.

THE END