No word of comfort occurred to the boy.

"So," sighed the Dog-faced Man, "I guess I better die. And the quicker the better."

To change the distressful drift of the conversation, the boy inquired concerning the Mexican Sword Swallower.

"Hush!" implored Mr. Poddle, in a way so poignant that the boy wished he had been more discreet. "Them massive proportions! Them socks! 'Her Fate a Tattooed Man,'" he pursued, in gentle melancholy. "Don't ask me! 'Nearing the Fateful Hour.' Poor child!' Wedded To A Artificial Freak.'"

"Is she married?"

"No—not yet," Mr. Poddle explained. "But when the dragon's tail is finished, accordin' to undenigeable report, the deed will be did. 'Shackled For Life.' Oh, my God! He's borrowed the money to pay the last installment; and I'm informed that only the scales has to be picked out with red. But why should I mourn?" he asked. "'Adored From Afar.' Understand? That's what I got to do. 'His Love a Tragedy.' Oh, Richard," Mr. Poddle concluded, in genuine distress, "that's me! It couldn't be nothing else. Natural phenomens is natural phenomens. 'Paid the Penalty of Genius.' That's me!"

The boy's mother called to him.

"Richard," said Mr. Poddle, abruptly, "I'm awful sick. I can't last much longer. Git me? I'm dyin'. And I'm poor. I ain't got a cent. I'm forgot by the public. I'm all alone in the world. Nobody owes me no kindness." He clutched the boy's hand. "Know who pays my rent? Know who feeds me? Know who brings the doctor when I vomit blood? Know who sits with me in the night—when I can't sleep? Know who watches over me? Who comforts me? Who holds my hand when I git afraid to die? Know who that is, Richard?"

"Yes," the boy whispered.

"Who is it?"

"My mother!"

"Yes—your mother," said the Dog-faced Man. He lifted himself on the pillow. "Richard," he continued, "listen to me! I'll be dead, soon, and then I can't talk to you no more. I can't say no word to you from the grave—when the time she dreads has come. Listen to me!" His voice rose. He was breathing in gasps. There was a light in his eyes. "It is your mother. There ain't a better woman in all the world. Listen to me! Don't you forget her. She loves you. You're all she's got. Her poor heart is hungry for you. Don't you forget her. There ain't a better woman nowhere. There ain't a woman more fit for heaven. Don't you go back on her! Don't you let no black-and-white curick teach you no different!"

"I'll not forget!" said the boy.

Mr. Poddle laid a hand on his head. "God bless you, Richard!" said he.

The boy kissed him, unafraid of his monstrous countenance—and then fled to his mother....

For a long time the Dog-faced Man lay alone, listening to the voices across the hall: himself smiling to know that the woman had her son again; not selfishly reluctant to be thus abandoned. The door was ajar. Joyous sounds drifted in—chatter, soft laughter, the rattle of dishes.... Presently, silence: broken by the creaking of the rocking-chair, and by low singing.... By and by, voices, speaking gravely—in intimate converse: this for a long, long time, while the muttering of the tenement ceased, and quiet fell.... A plea and an imploring protest. She was wanting him to go to bed. There followed the familiar indications that the child was being disrobed: shoes striking the floor, yawns, sleepy talk, crooning encouragement.... Then a strange silence—puzzling to the listener: not accountable by his recollection of similar occasions.

There was a quick step in the hall.

"Poddle!"

The Dog-faced Man started. There was alarm in the voice—despair, resentment. On the threshold stood the woman—distraught: one hand against the door-post, the other on her heart.

"Poddle, he's——"

Mr. Poddle, thrown into a paroxysm of fright by the pause, struggled to his elbow, but fell back, gasping.

"What's he doin'?" he managed to whisper.

"Prayin'!" she answered, hoarsely.

Mr. Poddle was utterly nonplussed. The situation was unprecedented: not to be dealt with on the basis of past experience.

"'Religion In Haste,'" he sighed, sadly confounded. "'Repent At Leisure.'"

"Prayin'!" she repeated, entering on tiptoe. "He's down on his knees—prayin'!" She began to pace the floor—wringing her hands: a tragic figure. "It's come, Poddle!" she whimpered, beginning now to bite at her fingernails. "He's changed. He never seen me pray. I never told him how. Oh, he's—different. And he'll change more. I got to face it. He'll soon be like the people that—that—don't understand us. I couldn't stand it to see that stare in his eyes. It'll kill me, Poddle! I knew it would come," she continued, uninterrupted, Mr. Poddle being unable to come to her assistance for lack of breath. "But I didn't think it would be so—awful soon. And I didn't know how much it would hurt. I didn't think about it. I didn't dare. Oh, my baby!" she sobbed. "You'll not love your mother any more—when you find her out. You'll be just like—all them people!" She came to a full stop. "Poddle," she declared, trembling, her voice rising harshly, "I got to do something. I got to do it—quick! What shall I do? Oh, what shall I do?"

Mr. Poddle drew a long breath. "Likewise!" he gasped.

She did not understand.

"Likewise!" Mr. Poddle repeated. "'Fought the Devil With Fire.' Quick!" He weakly beckoned her to be off. "Don't—let him know—you're different. Go and—pray yourself. Don't—let on you—never done it—before."

She gave him a glad glance of comprehension—and disappeared...

The boy had risen.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, brightly. "You got through, didn't you, dear?"

He was now sitting on the edge of the bed, his legs dangling—still reluctant to crawl within. And he was very gravely regarding her, a cloud of anxious wonder in his eyes.

"Who taught you to," she hesitated, "do it—that way?" she pursued, making believe to be but lightly interested. "The curate? Oh, my!" she exclaimed, immediately changing the thought. "Your mother's awful sleepy." She counterfeited a yawn. "I never kneel to—do it," she continued. In a sharp glance she saw the wonder clearing from his eyes, the beginnings of a smile appear about his lips; and she was emboldened to proceed. "Some kneels," she said, "and some doesn't. The curate, I suppose, kneels. That's his way. Now, I don't. I was brought up—the other way. I wait till I get in bed to—say mine. When you was a baby," she rattled, "I used to—keep it up—for hours at a time. I just love to—do it. In bed, you know. I guess you never seen me kneel, did you? But I think I will, after this, because you—do it—that way."

His serenity was quite restored. Glad to learn that his mother knew the solace of prayer, he rolled back on the pillows. She tucked him in.

"Now, watch me," she said.

"And I," said he, "will pray all over again. In bed," he added; "because that's the way you do it."

She knelt. "In God's name!" she thought, as she inclined her bead, "what can I do? I've lost him. Oh, I've lost him.... What'll I do when he finds out? He'll not love me then. Love me!" she thought, bitterly. "He'll look at me like them people in the church. I can't stand it! I got to do something.... It won't be long. They'll tell him—some one. And I can't do nothing to help it! But I got to do something.... My God! I got to do something. I'll dress better than this. This foulard's a botch." New fashions in dress, in coiffures, multiplied in her mind. She was groping, according to her poor enlightenment. "The pompadour!" she mused, inspired, according to the inspiration of her kind. "It might suit my style. I'll try it.... But, oh, it won't do no good," she thought, despairing. "It won't do no good.... I've lost him! Good God! I've lost my own child...."

She rose.

"It took you an awful long time," said the boy.

"Yes," she answered, absently. "I'm the real thing. When I pray, I pray good and hard."



A CHILD'S PRAYER

The boy's room was furnished in the manner of the curate's chamber—which, indeed, was severe and chaste enough: for the curate practiced certain monkish austerities not common to the clergy of this day. It was a white, bare little room, at the top of the house, overlooking the street: a still place, into which, at bedtime, no distraction entered to break the nervous introspection, the high, wistful dreaming, sadly habitual to the child when left alone in the dark. But always, of fine mornings, the sun came joyously to waken him; and often, in the night, when he lay wakeful, the moon peeped in upon the exquisite simplicity, and, discovering a lonely child, companionably lingered to hearten him. The beam fell over the window-sill, crawled across the floor, climbed the bare wall.

There was a great white crucifix on the wall, hanging in the broad path of the moonlight. It stared at the boy's pillow, tenderly appealing: the head thorn-crowned, the body drawn tense, the face uplifted in patient agony. Sometimes it made the boy cry.

"They who sin," he would repeat, "crucify the dear Lord again!"

It would be very hard, then, to fall asleep....

So did the crucifix on the wall work within the child's heart—so did the shadows of the wide, still house impress him, so did the curate's voice and gentle teaching, so did the gloom, the stained windows, the lofty arches, the lights and low, sweet music of the Church of the Lifted Cross favour the subtle change—that he was now moved to pain and sickening disgust by rags and pinched faces and discord and dirt and feverish haste and all manner of harshness and unloveliness, conceiving them poignant as sin....

Mother and son were in the park. It was evening—dusk: a grateful balm abroad in the air. Men and women, returning from church, idled through the spring night.

"But, dear," said his mother, while she patted his hand, "you mustn't hate the wicked!"

He looked up in wonder.

"Oh, my! no," she pursued. "Poor things! They're not so bad—when you know them. Some is real kind."

"I could not love them!"

"Why not?"

"I could not!"

So positive, this—the suggestion so scouted—that she took thought for her own fate.

"Would you love me?" she asked.

"Oh, mother!" he laughed.

"What would you do," she gravely continued, "if I was—a wicked woman?"

He laughed again.

"What would you do," she insisted, "if somebody told you I was bad?"

"Mother," he answered, not yet affected by her earnestness, "you could not be!"

She put her hands on his shoulders. "What would you do?" she repeated.

"Don't!" he pleaded, disquieted.

Again the question—low, intense, demanding answer. He trembled. She was not in play. A sinful woman? For a moment he conceived the possibility—vaguely: in a mere flash of feeling.

"What would you do?"

"I don't know!"

She sighed.

"I think," he whispered, "that I'd—die!"

That night, when the moonlight had climbed to the crucifix on the wall, the boy got out of bed. For a long time he stood in the beam of soft light—staring at the tortured Figure.

"I think I'd better do it!" he determined.

He knelt—lifted his clasped hands—began his childish appeal.

"Dear Jesus," he prayed, "my mother says that I must not hate the wicked. You heard her, didn't you, dear Jesus? It was in the park, to-night, after church—at the bench near the lilac bush. You must have heard her.... Mother says the wicked are kind, and not so bad. I would like very much to love them. She says they're nice—when you know them. I know she's right, of course. But it seems queer. And she says I ought to love them. So I want to do it, if you don't mind.... Maybe, if you would let me be a little wicked for a little while, I could do it. Don't you think, Jesus, dear, that it is a good idea? A little wicked—for just a little while. I wouldn't care very much, if you didn't mind. But if it hurts you very much, I don't want to, if you please.... But I would like to be a little wicked. If I do, please don't forget me. I would not like to be wicked long. Just a little while. Then I would be good again—and love the wicked, as my mother wants me to do. Good-bye. I mean—Amen!"

The child knew nothing about sin.



MR. PODDLE'S FINALE

Of a yellow, balmy morning, with a languid breeze stirring the curtains in the open windows of the street, a hansom cab, drawn by a lean gray beast, appeared near the curate's door. What with his wild career, the nature of his errand, the extraordinary character of his fare, the driver was all elbows and eyes—a perspiring, gesticulating figure, swaying widely on the high perch.

Within was a lady so monstrously stout that she completely filled the vehicle. Rolls of fat were tucked into every nook, jammed into every corner, calked into every crevice; and, at last, demanding place, they scandalously overflowed the apron. So tight was the fit—so crushed and confined the lady's immensity—that, being quite unable to articulate or stir, but desiring most heartily to do both, she could do little but wheeze, and faintly wave a gigantic hand.

Proceeding thus—while the passenger gasped, and the driver gesticulated, and the hansom creaked and tottered, and the outraged horse bent to the fearful labour—the equipage presently arrived at the curate's door, and was there drawn up with a jerk.

The Fat Lady was released, assisted to alight, helped across the pavement; and having waddled up three steps of the flight, and being unable without a respite to lift her massive foot for the fourth time, she loudly demanded of the impassive door the instant appearance of Dickie Slade: whereupon, the door flew open, and the boy bounded out.

"Madame Lacara!" he cried.

"Quick, child!" the Fat Lady wheezed. "Git your hat. Your mother can't stay no longer—and I can't get up the stairs—and Poddle's dyin'—and git your hat!"

In a moment the boy returned. The Fat Lady was standing beside the cab—the exhausted horse contemplating her with no friendly eye.

"Git in!" said she.

"Don't you do it," the driver warned.

"Git in!" the Fat Lady repeated.

"Not if he knows what's good for him," said the driver. "Not first."

The boy hesitated.

"Git in, child!" screamed the Fat Lady.

"Don't you do it," said the driver.

"Child," the Fat Lady gasped, exasperated, "git in!"

"Not first," the driver repeated. "There ain't room for both; and once she lets her weight down——"

"Maybe," the Fat Lady admitted, after giving the matter most careful consideration, "it would be better for you to set on me."

"Maybe," the boy agreed, much relieved, "it would."

So Madame Lacara entered, and took the boy in her arms; and off, at last, they went towards the Box Street tenement, swaying, creaking, wheezing, with a troop of joyous urchins in the wake....

It was early afternoon—with the sunlight lying thick and warm on the window-ledge of Mr. Poddle's room, about to enter, to distribute cheer, to speak its unfailing promises. The sash was lifted high; a gentle wind, clean and blue, blowing from the sea, over the roofs and the river, came sportively in, with a joyous little rush and swirl—but of a sudden failed: hushed, as though by unexpected encounter with the solemnity within.

The boy's mother was gone. It was of a Saturday; she had not dared to linger. When the boy entered, Mr. Poddle lay alone, lifted on the pillows, staring deep into the wide, shining sky: composed and dreamful. The distress of his deformity, as the pains of dissolution, had been mitigated by the woman's kind and knowing hand: the tawny hair, by nature rank and shaggy, by habit unkempt, now damp with sweat, was everywhere laid smooth upon his face—brushed away from the eyes: no longer permitted to obscure the fast failing sight.

Beside him, close—drawing closer—the boy seated himself. Very low and broken—husky, halting—was the Dog-faced Man's voice. The boy must often bend his ear to understand.

"The hirsute," Mr. Poddle whispered, "adornment. All ready for the last appearance. 'Natural Phenomonen Meets the Common Fate.' Celebrities," he added, with a little smile, "is just clay."

The boy took his hand.

"She done it," Mr. Poddle explained, faintly indicating the unusual condition of his deforming hair, "with a little brush."

"She?" the boy asked, with significant emphasis.

"No," Mr. Poddle sighed. "Hush! Not She—just her."

By this the boy knew that the Mexican Sword Swallower had not relented—but that his mother had been kind.

"She left that there little brush somewheres," Mr. Poddle continued, with an effort to lift his head, but failing to do more than roll his glazed eyes. "There was a little handkerchief with it. Can't you find 'em, Richard? I wish you could. They make me—more comfortable. Oh, I'm glad you got 'em! I feel easier—this way. She said you'd stay with me—to the last. She said, Richard, that maybe you'd keep the hair away from my eyes, and the sweat from rollin' in. For I'm easier that way; and I want to see," he moaned, "to the last!"

The boy pressed his hand.

"I'm tired of the hair," Mr. Poddle sighed. "I used to be proud of it; but I'm tired of it—now. It's been admired, Richard; it's been applauded. Locks of it has been requested by the Fair; and the Strong has wished they was me. But, Richard, celebrities sits on a lonely eminence. And I been lonely, God knows! though I kept a smilin' face.... I'm tired of the hair—tired of fame. It all looks different—when you git sight of the Common Leveller. 'Tired of His Talent.' Since I been lyin' here, Richard, sick and alone, I been thinkin' that talent wasn't nothin' much after all. I been wishin', Richard—wishin'!"

The Dog-faced Man paused for breath.

"I been wishin'," he gasped, "that I wasn't a phenomonen—but only a man!"

The sunlight began to creep towards Mr. Poddle's bed—a broad, yellow beam, stretching into the blue spaces without: lying like a golden pathway before him.

"Richard," said Mr. Poddle, "I'm goin' to die."

The boy began to cry.

"Don't cry!" Mr. Poddle pleaded. "I ain't afraid. Hear me, Richard? I ain't afraid."

"No, no!"

"I'm glad to die. 'Death the Dog-faced Man's Best Friend.' I'm glad! Lyin' here, I seen the truth. It's only when a man looks back that he finds out what he's missed—only when he looks back, from the end of the path, that he sees the flowers he might have plucked by the way.... Lyin' here, I been lookin' back—far back. And my eyes is opened. Now I see—now I know! I have been travellin' a road where the flowers grows thick. But God made me so I couldn't pick 'em. It's love, Richard, that men wants. Just love! It's love their hearts is thirsty for.... And there wasn't no love—for me. I been awful thirsty, Richard; but there wasn't no water anywhere in all the world—for me. 'Spoiled In the Making.' That's me. 'God's Bad Break.' Oh, that's me! I'm not a natural phenomonen no more. I'm only a freak of nature. I ain't got no kick comin'. I stand by what God done. Maybe it wasn't no mistake; maybe He wanted to show all the people in the world what would happen if He was in the habit of gittin' careless. Anyhow, I guess He's man enough to stand by the job He done. He made me what I am—a freak. I ain't to blame. But, oh, my God! Richard, it hurts—to be that!"

The boy brushed the tears from the Dog-faced Man's eyes.

"No," Mr. Poddle repeated. "I ain't afraid to die. For I been thinkin'—since I been lyin' here, sick and alone—I been thinkin' that us mistakes has a good deal——"

The boy bent close.

"Comin' to us!"

The sunlight was climbing the bed-post.

"I been lookin' back," Mr. Poddle repeated. "Things don't look the same. You gits a bird's-eye view of life—from your deathbed. And it looks—somehow—different."

There was a little space of silence—while the Dog-faced Man drew long breaths: while his wasted hand wandered restlessly over the coverlet.

"You got the little brush, Richard?" he asked, his voice changing to a tired sigh. "The adornment has got in the way again."

The boy brushed back the fallen hair—wiped away the sweat.

"Your mother," said Mr. Poddle, faintly smiling, "does it better. She's used—to doing it. You ain't—done it—quite right—have you? You ain't got—all them hairs—out of the way?"

"Yes."

"Not all," Mr. Poddle gently persisted; "because I can't—see—very well."

While the boy humoured the fancy, Mr. Poddle lay musing—his hand still straying over the coverlet: still feverishly searching.

"I used to think, Richard," he whispered, "that it ought to be done—in public." He paused—a flash of alarm in his eyes. "Do you hear me, Richard?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Sure?"

"Oh, yes!"

Mr. Poddle frowned—puzzled, it may be, by the distant sound, the muffled, failing rumble, of his own voice.

"I used to think," he repeated, dismissing the problem, as beyond him, "that I'd like to do it—in public."

The boy waited.

"Die," Mr. Poddle explained.

A man went whistling gaily past the door. The merry air, the buoyant step, were strangely not discordant; nor was the sunshine, falling over the foot of the bed.

"'Last Appearance of a Famous Freak!'" Mr. Poddle elucidated, his eyes shining with delight—returning, all at once, to his old manner. "Git me, Richard?" he continued, excitedly. "'Fitting Finale! Close of a Curious Career! Mr. Henry Poddle, the eminent natural phenomonen, has consented to depart this life on the stage of Hockley's Musee, on Sunday next, in the presence of three physicians, a trained nurse, a minister of the gospel and a undertaker. Unparalleled Entertainment! The management has been at unprecedented expense to git this unique feature. Death Defied! A Extraordinary Educational Exhibition! Note: Mr. Poddle will do his best to oblige his admirers and the patrons of the house by dissolving the mortal tie about the hour of ten o'clock; but the management cannot guarantee that the exhibition will conclude before midnight.'" Mr. Poddle made a wry face—with yet a glint of humour about it. "'Positively,'" said he, "'the last appearance of this eminent freak. No return engagement.'"

Again the buoyant step in the hall, the gaily whistled air—departing: leaving an expectant silence.

"Do it," Mr. Poddle gasped, worn out, "in public. But since I been lyin' here," he added, "lookin' back, I seen the error. The public, Richard, has no feelin'. They'd laugh—if I groaned. I don't like the public—no more. I don't want to die—in public. I want," he concluded, his voice falling to a thin, exhausted whisper, "only your mother—and you, Richard—and——"

"Did you say—Her?"

"The Lovely One!"

"I'll bring her!" said the boy, impulsively.

"No, no! She wouldn't come. I been—in communication—recent. And she writ back. Oh, Richard, she writ back! My heart's broke!"

The boy brushed the handkerchief over the Dog-faced Man's eyes.

"'Are you muzzled,' says she, 'in dog days?'"

"Don't mind her!" cried the boy.

"In the eyes of the law, Richard," Mr. Poddle exclaimed, his eyes flashing, "I ain't no dog!"

The boy kissed his forehead—there was no other comfort to offer: and the caress was sufficient.

"I wish," Mr. Poddle sighed, "that I knew how God will look at it—to-night!"

Mr. Poddle, exhausted by speech and emotion, closed his eyes. By and by the boy stealthily withdrew his hand from the weakening clasp. Mr. Poddle gave no sign of knowing it. The boy slipped away.... And descending to the third floor of the tenement, he came to the room where lived the Mexican Sword Swallower: whom he persuaded to return with him to Mr. Poddle's bedside.

They paused at the door. The woman drew back.

"Aw, Dick," she simpered, "I hate to!"

"Just this once!" the boy pleaded.

"Just to say it!"

The reply was a bashful giggle.

"You don't have to mean it," the boy argued. "Just say it—that's all!"

They entered. Mr. Poddle was muttering the boy's name—in a vain effort to lift his voice. His hands were both at the coverlet—picking, searching: both restless in the advancing sunshine. With a sob of self-reproach the boy ran quickly to the bedside, took one of the wandering hands, pressed it to his lips. And Mr. Poddle sighed, and lay quiet again.

"Mr. Poddle," the boy whispered, "she's come at last."

There was no response.

"She's come!" the boy repeated. He gave the hand he held to the woman. Then he put his lips close to the dying man's ear. "Don't you hear me? She's come!"

Mr. Poddle opened his eyes. "Her—massive—proportions!" he faltered.

"Quick!" said the boy.

"Poddle," the woman lied, "I love you!"

Then came the Dog-faced Man's one brief flash of ecstasy—expressed in a wondrous glance of joy and devotion: but a swiftly fading fire.

"She loves me!" he muttered.

"I do, Poddle!" the woman sobbed, willing, now, for the grotesque deception. "Yes, I do!"

"'Beauty,'" Mr. Poddle gasped, "'and the Beast!'"

They listened intently. He said no more.... Soon the sunbeam glorified the smiling face....



HIS MOTHER

While he waited for his mother to come—seeking relief from the melancholy and deep mystification of this death—the boy went into the street. The day was well disposed, the crowded world in an amiable mood; he perceived no menace—felt no warning of catastrophe. He wandered far, unobservant, forgetful: the real world out of mind. And it chanced that he lost his way; and he came, at last, to that loud, seething place, thronged with unquiet faces, where, even in the sunshine, sin and poverty walked abroad, unashamed.... Rush, crash, joyless laughter, swollen flesh, red eyes, shouting, rags, disease: flung into the midst of it—transported from the sweet feeling and quiet gloom of the Church of the Lifted Gross—he was confused and frightened....

A hand fell heartily on the boy's shoulder. "Hello, there!" cried a big voice. "Ain't you Millie Blade's kid?"

"Yes, sir," the boy gasped.

It was a big man—a broad-shouldered, lusty fellow, muscular and lithe: good-humoured and dull of face, winning of voice and manner. Countenance and voice were vaguely familiar to the boy. He felt no alarm.

"What the devil you doing here?" the man demanded. "Looking for Millie?"

"Oh, no!" the boy answered, horrified. "My mother isn't—here!"

"Well, what you doing?"

"I'm lost."

The man laughed. He clapped the boy on the back. "Don't you be afraid," said he, sincerely hearty. "I'll take you home. You know me, don't you?"

"Not your name."

"Anyhow, you remember me, don't you? You've seen me before?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, my name's Jim Millette. I'm an acrobat. And I know you. Why, sure! I remember when you was born. Me and your mother is old friends. Soon as I seen you I knew who you was. 'By gad!' says I, 'if that ain't Millie Slade's kid!' How is she, anyhow?"

"She's very well."

"Working?"

"No," the boy answered, gravely; "my mother does not work."

The man whistled.

"I am living with Mr. Fithian, the curate," said the boy, with a sigh. "So my mother is having—a very good—time."

"She must be lonely."

The boy shook his head. "Oh, no!" said he. "She is much happier—without me."

"She's what?"

"Happier," the boy repeated, "without me. If she were not," he added, "I would not live with the curate."

The man laughed. It was in pity—not in merriment. "Well, say," he said, "when you see your mother, you tell her you met Jim Millette on the street. Will you? You tell her Jim's been—married. She'll understand. And I guess she'll be glad to know it. And, say, I guess she'll wonder who it's to. You tell her it's the little blonde of the Flying Tounsons. She'll know I ain't losing anything, anyhow, by standing in with that troupe. Tell her it's all right. You just tell her I said that everything was all right. Will you?"

"Yes, sir."

"You ain't never been to a show, have you?" the man continued. "I thought not. Well, say, you come along with me. It ain't late. We'll see the after-piece at the Burlesque. I'll take you in."

"I think," said the boy, "I had better not."

"Aw, come on!" the acrobat urged.

"I'm awful glad to see you, Dick," he added, putting his arm around the boy, of kind impulse; "and I'd like to give you a good time—for Millie's sake."

The boy was still doubtful. "I had better go home," he said.

"Oh, now, don't you be afraid of me, Dick. I'll take you home after the show. We got lots of time. Aw, come on!"

It occurred to the boy that Providence had ordered events in answer to his prayer.

"Thank you," he said.

"You'll have a good time," the acrobat promised. "They say Flannigan's got a good show."

They made their way to the Burlesque. Flannigan's Forty Flirts there held the boards. "Girls! Just Girls! Grass Widows and Merry Maids! No Nonsense About 'Em! Just Girls! Girls!" The foul and tawdry aspect of the entrance oppressed the child. He felt some tragic foreboding....

Within it was dark to the boy's eyes. The air was hot and foul—stagnant, exhausted: the stale exhalation of a multitude of lungs which vice was rotting; tasting of their very putridity. A mist of tobacco smoke filled the place—was still rising in bitter, stifling clouds. There was a nauseating smell of beer and sweat and disinfectants. The boy's foot felt the unspeakable slime of the floor: he tingled with disgust.

An illustrated song was in listless progress. The light, reflected from the screen, revealed a throng of repulsive faces, stretching, row upon row, into the darkness of the rear, into the shadows of the roof—sickly and pimpled and bloated flesh: vicious faces, hopeless, vacuous, diseased. And these were the faces that leered and writhed in the boy's dreams of hell. Here, present and tangible, were gathered all his terrors. He was in the very midst of sin.

The song was ended. The footlights flashed high. There was a burst of blatant music—a blare: unfeeling and discordant. It grated agonizingly. The boy's sensitive ear rebelled. He shuddered.... Screen and curtain disappeared. In the brilliant light beyond, a group of brazen women began to cavort and sing. Their voices were harsh and out of tune. At once the faces in the shadow started into eager interest—the eyes flashing, with some strangely evil passion, unknown to the child, but acutely felt.... There was a shrill shout of welcome—raised by the women, without feeling. Down the stage, her person exposed, bare-armed, throwing shameless glances, courting the sensual stare, grinning as though in joyous sympathy with the evil of the place, came a woman with blinding blonde hair.

It was the boy's mother.

"Millie!" the acrobat ejaculated.

The boy had not moved. He was staring at the woman on the stage. A flush of shame, swiftly departing, had left his face white. Presently he trembled. His lips twitched—his head drooped. The man laid a comforting hand on his knee. A tear splashed upon it.

"I didn't know she was here, Dick!" the acrobat whispered. "It's a shame. But I didn't know. And I—I'm—sorry!"

The boy looked up. He called a smile to his face. It was a brave pretense. But his face was still wan.

"I think I'd like to go home," he answered, weakly. "It's—time—for tea."

"Don't feel bad, Dick! It's all right. She's all right."

"If you please," said the boy, still resolutely pretending ignorance, "I think I'd like to go—now."

The acrobat waited for a blast of harsh music to subside. The boy's mother began to sing—a voice trivially engaged: raised beyond its strength. A spasm of distress contorted the boy's face.

"Brace up, Dick!" the man whispered. "Don't take it so hard."

"If you please," the boy protested, "I'll be late for tea if I don't go now."

The acrobat took his hand—guided him, stumbling, up the aisle: led him into the fresh air, the cool, clean sunlight, of the street.... There had been sudden confusion on the stage. The curtain had fallen with a rush. But it was now lifted, again, and the dismal entertainment was once more in noisy course.

It was now late in the afternoon. The pavement was thronged. Dazed by agony, blinded by the bright light of day, the boy was roughly jostled. The acrobat drew him into an eddy of the stream. There the child offered his hand—and looked up with a dogged little smile.

"Good-bye," he said. "Thank you."

The acrobat caught the hand in a warm clasp. "You don't know your way home, do you?" he asked.

"No, sir."

"Where you going?"

The boy looked away. There was a long interval. Into the shuffle and chatter of the passing crowd crept the muffled blare of the orchestra. The acrobat still held the boy's hand tight—still anxiously watched him, his face overcast.

"Box Street?" he asked.

"No, sir."

"Aw, Dick! think again," the acrobat pleaded. "Come, now! Ain't you going to Box Street?"

"No, sir," the boy answered, low. "I'm going to the curate's house, near the Church of the Lifted Cross."

They were soon within sight of the trees in the park. The boy's way was then known to him. Again he extended his hand—again smiled.

"Thank you," he said. "Good-bye."

The acrobat was loath to let the little hand go. But there was nothing else to do. He dropped it, at last, with a quick-drawn sigh.

"It'll come out all right," he muttered.

Then the boy went his way alone. His shoulders were proudly squared—his head held high....

Meantime, they had revived Millie Slade. She was in the common dressing-room—a littered, infamous, foul, place, situated below stage. Behind her the gas flared and screamed. Still in her panderous disguise, within hearing of the rasping music and the tramp of the dance, within hearing of the coarse applause, this tender mother sat alone, unconscious of evil—uncontaminated, herself kept holy by her motherhood, lifted by her love from the touch of sin. To her all the world was a temple, undefiled, wherein she worshipped, wherein the child was a Presence, purifying every place.

She had no strength left for tragic behaviour. She sat limp, shedding weak tears, whimpering, tearing at her finger nails.

"I'm found out!" she moaned. "Oh, my God! He'll never love me no more!"

A woman entered in haste.

"You got it, Aggie?" the mother asked.

"Yes, dear. Now, you just drink this, and you'll feel better."

"I don't want it—now."

"Aw, now, you drink it! Poor dear! It'll do you lots of good."

"He wouldn't want me to."

"Aw, he won't know. And you need it, dear. Do drink it!"

"No, Aggie," said the mother. "It don't matter that he don't know. I just don't want it. I can't do what he wouldn't like me to."

The glass was put aside. And Aggie sat beside the mother, and drew her head to a sympathetic breast.

"Don't cry!" she whispered. "Oh, Millie, don't cry!"

"Oh," the woman whimpered, "he'll think me an ugly thing, Aggie. He'll think me a skinny thing. If I'd only got here in time, if I'd only looked right, he might have loved me still. But he won't love me no more—after to-day!"

"Hush, Millie! He's only a kid. He don't know nothing about—such things."

"Only a kid," said the mother, according to the perverted experience of her life, "but still a man!"

"He wouldn't care."

"They all care!"

Indeed, this was her view; and by her knowledge of the world she spoke.

"Not him," said Aggie.

The mother was infinitely distressed. "Oh," she moaned, "if I'd only had time to pad!"

This was the greater tragedy of her situation: that she misunderstood.



NEARING THE SEA

It was Sunday evening. Evil-weather threatened. The broad window of top floor rear looked out upon a lowering sky—everywhere gray and thick: turning black beyond the distant hills. An hour ago the Department wagon had rattled away with the body of Mr. Poddle; and with the cheerfully blasphemous directions, the tramp of feet, the jocular comment, as the box was carried down the narrow stair, the last distraction had departed. The boy's mother was left undisturbed to prepare for the crucial moments in the park.

She was now nervously engaged before her looking-glass. All the tools of her trade lay at hand. A momentous problem confronted her. The child must be won back. He must be convinced of her worth. Therefore she must be beautiful. He thought her pretty. She would be pretty. But how impress him? By what appeal? The pathetic? the tenderly winsome? the gay? She would be gay. Marvellous lies occurred to her—a multitude of them: there was no end to her fertility in deception. And she would excite his jealousy. Upon that feeling she would play. She would blow hot; she would blow cold. She would reduce him to agony—the most poignant agony he had ever suffered. Then she would win him.

To this end, acting according to the enlightenment of her kind, she plied her pencil and puffs; and when, at last, she stood before the mirror, new gowned, beautiful after the conventions of her kind, blind to the ghastliness of it, ignorant of the secret of her strength, she had a triumphant consciousness of power.

"He'll love me," she thought, with a snap of the teeth. "He's got to!"

Jim Millette knocked—and pushed the door ajar, and diffidently intruded his head.

"Hello, Jim!" she cried. "Come in!"

The man would not enter. "I can't, Millie," he faltered. "I just got a minute."

"Oh, come on in!" said she, contemptuously. "Come in and tell me about it. What did you do it for, Jim? You got good and even, didn't you? Eh, Jim?" she taunted. "You got even!"

"It wasn't that, Millie," he protested.

"Oh, wasn't it?" she shrilled.

"No, it wasn't, Millie. I didn't have no grudge against you."

"Then what was it? Come in and tell me!" she laughed. "You dassn't, Jim! You're afraid! come in," she flashed, "and I'll make you lick my shoes! And when you're crawling on the floor, Jim, like a slimy dog, I'll kick you out. Hear me, you pup? What you take my child in there for?" she cried. "Hear me? Aw, you pup!" she snarled. "You're afraid to come in!"

"Don't go on, Millie," he warned her. "Don't you go on like that. Maybe I will come in. And if I do, my girl, it won't be me that'll be lickin' shoes. It might be you!"

"Me!" she scorned. "You ain't got no hold on me no more. Come in and try it!"

The man hesitated.

"Come on!" she taunted.

"I ain't coming in, Millie," he answered. "I didn't come up to come in. I just come up to tell you I was sorry."

She laughed.

"I didn't know you was there, Millie," the man continued. "If I'd knowed you was with the Forty Flirts, I wouldn't have took the boy there. And I come up to tell you so."

Overcome by a sudden and agonizing recollection of the scene, she put her hands to her face.

"And I come up to tell you something else," the acrobat continued, speaking gently. "I tell you, Millie, you better look out. If you ain't careful, you'll lose him for good. He took it hard, Millie. Hard! It broke the little fellow all up. It hurt him—awful!"

She began to walk the floor. In the room the light was failing. It was growing dark—an angry portent—over the roofs of the opposite city.

"Do you want him back?" the man asked.

"Want him back!" she cried.

"Then," said he, his voice soft, grave, "take care!"

"Want him back?" she repeated, beginning, now, by habit, to tear at her nails. "I got to have him back! He's mine, ain't he? Didn't I bear him? Didn't I nurse him? Wasn't it me that—that—made him? He's my kid, I tell you—mine! And I want him back! Oh, I want him so!"

The man entered; but the woman seemed not to know it. He regarded her compassionately.

"That there curate ain't got no right to him," she complained. "He didn't have nothing to do with the boy. It was only me and Dick. What's he sneaking around here for—taking Dick's boy away? The boy's half mine and half Dick's. The curate ain't got no share. And now Dick's dead—and he's all mine! The curate ain't got nothing to do with it. We don't want no curate here. I raised that boy for myself. I didn't do it to give him to no curate. What right's he got coming around here—getting a boy he didn't have no pain to bear or trouble to raise? I tell you I got that boy. He's mine—and I want him!"

"But you give the boy to the curate, Millie!"

"No, I didn't!" she lied. "He took the boy. He come sneaking around here making trouble. I didn't give him no boy. And I want him back," she screamed, in a gust of passion. "I want my boy back!"

A rumble of thunder—failing, far off—came from the sea.

"Millie," the acrobat persisted, "you said you wasn't fit to bring him up."

"I ain't," she snapped. "But I don't care. He's mine—and I'll have him."

The man shrugged his shoulders.

"Jim," the woman said, now quiet, laying her hands on the acrobat's shoulders, looking steadily into his eyes, "that boy's mine. I want him—I want him—back. But I don't want him if he don't love me. And if I can't have him—if I can't have him——"

"Millie!"

"I'll be all alone, Jim—and I'll want——"

He caught her hands. "Me?" he asked. "Will you want me?"

"I don't know."

"Millie," he said, speaking hurriedly, "won't you want me? I've took up with the little Tounson blonde. But she wouldn't care. You know how it goes, Millie. It's only for business. She and me team up. That's all. She wouldn't care. And if you want me—if you want me, Millie, straight and regular, for better or for worse—if you want me that way, Millie——"

"Don't, Jim!"

He let her hands fall—and drew away. "I love you too much," he said, "to butt in now. But if the boy goes back on you, Millie, I'll come—again. You'll need me then—and that's why I'll come. I don't want him to go back on you. I want him to love you still. It's because of the way you love him that I love you—in the way I do. It ain't easy for me to say this. It ain't easy for me to want to give you up. But you're that kind of a woman, Millie. You're that kind—since you got the boy. I want to give you up. You'd be better off with him. You're—you're—holier—when you're with that child. You'd break your poor heart without that boy of yours. And I want you to have him—to love him—to be loved by him. If he comes back, you'll not see me again. I've lived a life that makes me—not fit—to be with no child like him. But so help me God!" the man passionately declared, "I hope he don't turn you down!"

"You're all right, Jim!" she sobbed. "You're all right!"

"I'm going now," he said, quietly. "But I got one more thing to say. Don't fool that boy!"

She looked up.

"Don't fool him," the man repeated. "You'll lose him if you do."

"Not fool him? It's so easy, Jim!"

"Ah, Millie," he said, with a hopeless gesture, "you're blind. You don't know your own child. You're blind—you're just blind!"

"What you mean, Jim?" she demanded.

"You don't know what he loves you for."

"What does he love me for?"

The man was at the door. "Because," he answered, turning, "you're his mother!"

It was not yet nine o'clock. The boy would still be in the church. She must not yet set out for the park. So she lighted the lamp. For a time she posed and grimaced before the mirror. When she was perfect in the part, she sat in the rocking-chair at the broad window, there to rehearse the deceptions it was in her mind to practice. But while she watched the threatening shadows gather, the lights on the river flash into life and go drifting aimlessly away, her mind strayed from this purpose, her willful heart throbbed with sweeter feeling—his childish voice, the depths of his eyes, the grateful weight of his head upon her bosom. Why had he loved her? Because she was his mother! A forgotten perception returned to illuminate her way—a perception, never before reduced to formal terms, that her virtue, her motherly tenderness, were infinitely more appealing to him than the sum of her other attractions.

She started from the chair—her breast heaving with despairing alarm. Again she stood before the mirror—staring with new-opened eyes at the painted face, the gaudy gown: and by these things she was now horrified.

"He won't love me!" she thought. "Not this way. He—he—couldn't!"

It struck the hour.

"Nine o'clock!" she cried. "I got to do something!"

She looked helplessly about the room. Why had he loved her? Because she was his mother! She would be his mother—nothing more: just his mother. She would go to him with that appeal. She would not seek to win him. She would but tell him that she was his mother. She would be his mother—true and tender and holy. He would not resist her plea.... This determined, she acted resolutely and in haste: she stripped off the gown, flung it on the floor, kicked the silken heap under the bed; she washed the paint from her face, modestly laid her hair, robed herself anew. And when again, with these new, seeing eyes, she looked into the glass, she found that she was young, unspoiled—still lovely: a sweetly wistful woman, whom he resembled. Moreover, there came to transform her, suddenly, gloriously, a revelation: that of the spiritual significance of her motherhood.

"Thank God!" she thought, uplifted by this vision. "Oh, thank God! I'm like them other people. I'm fit to bring him up!"

It thundered ominously.



THE LAST APPEAL

She sat waiting for him at the bench by the lilac bush. He was late, she thought—strangely late. She wondered why. It was dark. The night was close and hot. There was no breath of air stirring in the park. From time to time the lightning flashed. In fast lessening intervals came the thunder. Presently she caught ear of his step on the pavement—still distant: approaching, not from the church, but from the direction of the curate's home.

"And he's not running!" she thought, quick to take alarm.

They were inexplicable—these lagging feet. He had never before dawdled on the way. Her alarm increased. She waited anxiously—until, with eyes downcast, he stood before her.

"Richard!" she tenderly said.

"I'm here, mother," he answered; but he did not look at her.

She put her arms around him. "Your mother," she whispered, while she kissed him, "is glad—to feel you—lying here."

He lay quiet against her—his face on her bosom. She was thrilled by this sweet pressure.

"Have you been happy?" she asked.

"No."

"Nor I, dear!"

He turned his face—not to her: to the flaming cross above the church. She had invited a question. But he made no response.

"Nor I," she repeated.

Still he gazed at the cross. It was shining in a black cloud—high in the sky. She felt him tremble.

"Hold me tight!" he said.

She drew him to her—glad to have him ask her to: having no disquieting question.

"Tighter!" he implored.

She rocked him. "Hush, dear!" she crooned. "You're safe—with your mother. What frightens you?"

"The cross!" he sobbed.

God knows! 'twas a pity that his childish heart misinterpreted the message of the cross—changing his loving purpose into sin. But the misinterpretation was not forever to endure....

The wind began to stir the leaves—tentative gusts: swirling eagerly through the park. There was a flash—an instant clap of thunder, breaking overhead, rumbling angrily away. Two men ran past. Great drops of rain splashed on the pavement.

"Let us go home," the boy said.

"Not yet!" she protested. "Oh, not yet!"

He escaped from her arms.

"Don't go, Richard!" she whimpered. "Please don't, dear! Not yet. I—I'm—oh, I'm not ready to say good-night. Not yet!"

He took her hand. "Come, mother!" he said.

"Not yet!"

He dropped her hand—sprang away from her with a startled little cry. "Oh, mother," he moaned, "don't you want me?"

"Home?" she asked, blankly. "Home—with me?"

"Oh, yes, mother! Let me go home. Quick I Let us go.... The curate says I know best. I went straight to him—yesterday—and told him. And he said I was wiser than he.... And I said good-bye. Don't send me back. For, oh, I want to go home—with you!"

She opened her arms. At that moment a brilliant flash of lightning illuminated the world. For the first time the child caught sight of her face—the sweet, real face of his mother: now radiant, touched by the finger of the Good God Himself.

"Is it you?" he whispered.

"I am your mother."

He leaped into her arms—found her wet eyes with his lips. "Mother!" he cried.

"My son!" she said.

He turned again to the flaming cross—a little smile of defiance upon his lips. But the defiance passed swiftly: for it was then revealed to him that his mother was good; and he knew that what the cross signified would continue with him, wherever he went, that goodness and peace might abide within his heart. Hand in hand, while the thunder still rolled and the rain came driving with the wind, they hurried away towards the Box Street tenement....

Let them go! Why not? Let them depart into their world! It needs them. They will glorify it. Nor will they suffer loss. Let them go! Love flourishes in the garden of the world we know. Virtue is forever in bloom. Let them go to their place! Why should we wish to deprive the unsightly wilderness of its flowers? Let the tenderness of this mother and son continue to grace it!



THE END