In Wild Rose Time

Dil woke Dan, and gave him his meal, as two babies were asleep and the other sat on the floor munching a crust.

Bess slept late. Poor Dil went about her work in a strange maze. Owny slipped out of a great many things, and told lies about them, and this morning he had been very “cute.” Dil sighed. She could not have done it. She would have blundered and betrayed herself. And yet she had told a lie about the book. It had not saved the book, but perhaps it had saved her and Bess from something more terrible.

It was a sad day for both of them. The babies were cross. One had a bad cold and a croupy sound in his voice. There was not even a glint of sunshine at noon now; the high houses kept it out of the court. But the day wore to an end. Mrs. Quinn did not go out at all in the evening. Owen was very jaunty, and pretended to study.

Mrs. Quinn’s reformation lasted two or three days. She had “taken her oath she would niver step fut inside o’ Mrs. MacBride’s dure;” but Mrs. MacBride had no notion of losing so good a customer. To be sure, Mrs. Quinn was getting rather quarrelsome and overbearing, but she was good company for the most part.

Winter had fairly set in with December. There was much talk of dull times, and the babies fell off after Monday and Tuesday. Owen and his mother seemed continually on the warpath. He was a big, stout boy of his age; and, when he thought it was safe, played hookey, put in coal, ran errands, sold papers, and did whatever his hands found to do with all his might, even to snivyin’ on the corner grocer. Dan was pretty shrewd and sharp, though not so daring, but could swear and smoke cigar ends with the worst of them.

There was an occasional religious visitor in the court besides the sisters and the priests. But Dil never mentioned them to her mother now. Besides, she did not want to leave Bess for even an hour or two at the Mission School; she hated to spend a moment away from her. Since the loss of the book and the picture they clung closer to each other. There was only one anticipation now, waiting for spring and John Travis.

And as other things failed, their faith seemed to centre about this. They lived on the hope of heaven with the fervor of saints who had known and loved the Lord, and were counting all the appointed days, as if the glories had already been revealed, and they were walking by faith.

VIII—BESS

But Dil’s poor head ached a good deal now, and she had restless nights when it seemed as if she would burn up. As she listened to Bess’s beautiful thoughts and strange visions, she felt discouraged with her own stupidness. She was so physically worn out that her brain was inert.

“I wisht I knew what Christmas was all about,” sighed Bess. “An’ Santa Claus! Mammy says there ain’t no such thing, an’ he couldn’t come down a chimbly. But he gives a norful lot of things to some folks. An’, Dil, we used to hang up our stockings. What’s it for, anyway?”

Dil gave a long sigh, and the wrinkles of perplexity deepened and strayed over her short nose.

“Johnny Dike’s goin’ to see the cradle in the manger on Christmas Eve. An’ he’s goin’ to take a present, some money he’s been savin’ up. What makes Christ get born agen? ’Tain’t the Lord Jesus, though; for he’s a big man now, if he can carry children in his arms.”

“We might ast Johnny or Misses Murphy,” suggested Dil.

“They’re Catholics. An’ there’s such curis things, with people tellin’ you diff’rent. I don’t see how he can be born every Christmas. I b’lieve I like Santa Claus best. You don’t have to give him nothin’ when you ain’t got even a penny. O Dil,” pausing to rest a moment, “don’t you wisht he was here! He’d know all about it. Rich folks have chances, an’ get to know everything. He’s a long way off. When mammy was clever t’other night, I ast her ’bout comin’ crost the oshin, ’Lantic Oshin, ’tis; an’ she said you sailed an’ sailed two whole weeks. An’ if he don’t start ’till April, there’ll be two weeks more. I keep countin’ thim up.”

Dil had been warming some broth.

“I wisht you’d take a little of this,” she said. “The ’Spensary doctor said you must have it. An’ you ain’t eat nothin’ but the pear an’ the piece of norange.”

“They was so good and juicy. My throat’s hot, an’ kinder dry an’ sore. Things don’t taste good.”

“I wisht I could get some more of that nice medicine. The ’Spensary stuff ain’t no good. I might ast Patsey to lend me some money; but how’d I ever get any to pay him back?”

They looked at each other in wonderment. Then the child’s feverish eyes sparkled.

“O Dil, I know he’d help us pay it back, for mammy was so cross to the lady he sent that she won’t come no more. An’ ’twouldn’t been no use to give mammy the money. O Dil, we’ve had ten whole dollars. Wasn’t it lovely? An’ I wisht the time would spin round an’ round, faster’n ever. I get so tired waitin’. Seems sometimes ’s if I jes’ couldn’t draw another breath.”

“Oh, you must! you must!” cried Dil in affright. “For when people stop breathin’, they die.”

“An’ I wanter live, so’s we can get started for heaven. I’ll be better when it’s all nice an’ warm out o’ doors, an’ sunshiny. I’d jes’ like to live in sunshine. You see, when the babies cry, it makes me feel all roughened up like. An’ I’m that feared o’ mammy when she an’ Owny hev scrimmiges. There’s a lump comes in my throat ’n’ chokes me. But I’m gonter live. Don’t you know how las’ winter I was so poor an’ measlin’? An’ I crawled out in the spring. Owny was readin’ in his lesson ’bout some things doin’ that way;” and Bess gave a pitiful ghost of a laugh.

“Won’t you lay me down?” she asked presently. “My poor back’s so tired.”

“You must eat some broth first.”

She did not want it, and the effort she made to please Dil was heroic.

She often asked to be laid down now. When the babies cried, it seemed as if knives were being thrust into her head. She had so many queer fancies, but she tried not to tell the bad ones to Dil. One moment she seemed out of doors, with the cold rasping her skin everywhere, going down her back like a stream of ice-water. Then she was scorched with heat, her skin crisping up and cracking. When she was pillowed up, it seemed as if she would fall to pieces; when she was laid down, the poor bones ached.

And in that land of “pure delight” there was no pain, no sickness, no chilling winds! And perhaps the babies didn’t cry,—maybe there were no babies. They mightn’t be big enough to go, and they would be scared at the giants.

Monday night began badly. A neighbor came in and made a complaint about Owen, and threatened to have him arrested. He had broken a pane of glass and kicked her dog. Mrs. Quinn was tired with a big wash; and this made her furious, though she went at the woman in no gentle terms.

Owen had not been so much to blame. The miserable little cur had snapped at him, and he had kicked it away. Then, as it ran yelping along, it was too good a mark for a boy to miss. He shied a piece of oyster shell; but, as bad luck would have it, he missed the dog, and the missile bounded down to a basement window.

“I’ll put that lad in the ’form school this blissid week! A pore woman can’t take care o’ sich a lot o’ brats, an’ they fuller ’n an egg of diviltry. I’ll jist see—”

She began to hunt around for the end of a stout trunk-strap. Dil trembled in every limb. If Owny would only stay away! But he didn’t. He came up the stairs whistling gayly; for he had earned a quarter, and he was saving money to have a regular Christmas blow-out.

His mother fell on him. There was a tremendous battle. Owen kicked and scratched and swore, and his mother’s language was not over choice. He managed to wriggle away, and reached the door, crying out, as he sprang down the stairs, that he’d “niver darken the dure agin, if he lived a hundred years;” and added to it an imprecation that made Dil turn faint and cold.

Bess went into a hysteric.

“Drat the young un! Shet yer head, er you’ll get some, ye bag o’ bones! Ye shud a ben in yer grave long ago. Take her in t’other room, Dil. I can’t bide the sight uv her!”

Dil uttered not a word, though the room spun round. She poured her mother a cup of tea, and had a dish of nicely browned sausage, and some baked potatoes. Mrs. Quinn ate, and threatened dire things about Owny. Then she put on her shawl, throwing it over her head, which meant an hour or two or three at Mrs. MacBride’s, though she started to look for Owen.

Dil brought the wagon back, and nursed and soothed Bess.

“I wouldn’t ever come back, if I was Owny,” she said in her spasmodic tone, for the nervous fright was still strong upon her. “An’ if I had two good legs, we’d run away too. Dil, I think she’d jes’ be glad to have me die.”

Dilsey Quinn shuddered. Just a few months longer—

Mrs. Murphy came in to borrow a “bit o’ tay,” and to learn what the rumpus was about. Dan told the story, putting Owny in the best light, and declaring valiantly that “Owny wasn’t no chump.”

“Misses Murphy,” said Dil, as soon as she could get a chance, “what is it ’bout Christmas? an’ what makes Christ be born ivery year?”

“Shure, dear, I do be havin’ so many worries that I disremember. What wid th’ babby bein’ sick, an’ pore ol’ Mis’ Bolan not sittin’ up a minnit, an’ bein’ queer like in her mind, an’ me hardly airnin’ enough to keep body an’ sowl togither, I hardly mind ’bout the blissed day. But I do be thinkin’ he isn’t born reely, for ye see the blissid Virgin’s his mother, an’ she’s in hivin wid th’ saints. I do be a bad hand at tellin’ things straight; but I niver had any larnin’, fer I wint in a mill whin I was turned o’ six years. An’ whin ye can’t rade, it’s hard gettin’ to know much. But I’ll ast the praist. Ah, dear,” with a furtive glance at Dil, “If ye’d only let me ast him to come—”

“Oh, no, no!” protested Dil. “Mother’d kill us; an’ she don’t b’leve in priests an’ such. You know how she went on ’bout the man who came an’ sang.”

“Ah, yis, dear; it wouldn’t do.” And she shook her head, her eyes still fixed sorrowfully on Bess. “But I have me beads, an’ I go to confission wanst a month, an’ that’ll be Friday now, an’ I’ll ast Father Maginn an’ tell ye all. Oh, you poor childer! An’ it’ll be a sad Christmas fer many a wan, I’m thinkin’. There’s poor Mis’ Bolan—”

Mrs. Murphy paused. Was Dil so blind? She could not suggest Mrs. Bolan’s death when the great shadow seemed so near them.

“Dear,” she added, with sympathetic softness, “if ye should be wantin’ any one suddint like, run up fer me.”

“Yer very kind, Misses Murphy. I sometimes wisht there would be nights a whole week long, I’m so tired.”

Owen did not come home that night nor the next. Dil devoutly hoped he would not come at all. She had a secret feeling that he would go to Patsey, and she comforted Bess with it. The house was so much quieter, and Dan was better alone.

Even in Barker’s Court there were people who believed in Christmas, though some of them had ideas quite as vague as Dilsey Quinn’s. But there was a stir in the very air, and penny trumpets began to abound. Still, there were many who had no time for Christmas anticipations, who were driven to do their six days’ work in five, who stitched from morning to midnight, who did not even have time to gossip with a neighbor.

Poor Bess! she could not eat, and she was so restless. The pears and the oranges were gone, and, saddest of all, their bank was empty. If Patsey would only come!

Dil took Bess up and laid her down, gave her sips of water, caressed her tenderly, bathed her head with cologne, and even that was running low. The babies were left on the floor to cry, if Dil caught the faintest sound that was like desire. Bess often just held up her spindling arms and, drawing Dil down, kissed her with eager fervor.

She was so glad to have night come and see the last baby taken away. Mrs. Quinn was working at a grand house where they were to have a Christmas feast. She was to go again to-morrow; and, as it was late, she did not go out, but just tumbled into bed, with not an anxiety on her mind.

Dil sat and crooned to her little sister, who seemed a part of her very life. When Mrs. Quinn snored, it was safe to indulge in a little freedom. And though Dil was so worn and weary, she ministered as only love can. Everybody had been so used to Bess’s weakness, and they thought that the end would be a great relief. But Dil never dreamed of the end they saw so plainly.

It was past midnight when Dil laid her down for the last time.

“O Dil, I feel so nice an’ easy all of a suddent,” she cried, with an eager joyousness that thrilled the heavy heart. “Nothin’ pains me. I’m quite sure I’ll be better to-morrow. An’ when Patsey comes, we’ll just ast him to help us get that nice medicine. He’s so good to us, Dil; ’n’ if he had lots of money he’d give us anything.”

“He just would,” said Dil. “An’ if Owny’s gone to him, he’ll be all right.”

The thought comforted her immeasurably.

“O Dil, dear,” murmured the plaintive voice, “do you remember the big bowl of wild roses, an’ how sweet they were, an’ how pritty, with their soft pink leaves an’ baby buds? I can almost smell them. It’s so sweet all around. Dil, are there any wild roses?”

“No, dear,” said the gentle, tired voice.

“Well—then I’m dreamin’; an’ they’re so lovely. Just like he told us, you know; ’bout that place where they growed. Oh, you dear, sweet, lovely Dil! I want to see the picture he put you in. You were pritty, I know; folks always are pritty in pictures. An’ we’ll ast him to let us be taken over agen, for when we get on the way to heaven we’ll both be so full of joy. An’ he’ll help us clear to the pallis.”

She stopped to breathe. It came so quick and short now, hardly going below her chest.

“Sit here an’ hold my two hands. Dil, dear, I’m as much trouble as the babies; but I most know I’ll be better to-morrow. And when I go fast asleep, you run right to bed, an’ it’ll be all right. I feel so light an’ lovely, ’most ’s if I was a wild rose—a soft, pink, satiny wild rose.”

There was a little pleasant gurgle that did duty for a laugh. Dil kissed her and crooned sleepily. As she held the hands, the fever seemed to go out of them. The little golden head had such a restful poise. The breath came slowly, easily.

Dil kissed her with the long, yearning, passionate kisses that take one’s whole soul, that leave some souls bankrupt indeed. All her own being was in a strange quiver. Oh, did it mean that Bess would be better to-morrow? She believed it in some strange, undefined way, and was at peace.

Perhaps she drowsed. She started, feeling stiff and chilly. Bess slept tranquilly. There was no pain to make her moan unconsciously. Why, it was almost a foretaste of that blessed land.

Dil wrapped herself in an old shawl and dropped down on her little cot. In all the glad wide world there was no one to come in and comfort her, and so God sent his angel—kindly sleep. The night breath that he breathed over her had the fragrance of wild roses.

The alarm clock roused her. It was dark now when her day began. Bess was quiet; and she drew the blanket more closely around her, for the morning felt bitterly cold. She stirred the fire, made her mother’s coffee, and broiled a bit of steak. The windows were all ice, which seldom happened.

“It’s enough to kill one to go out in the cold,” declared Mrs. Quinn. “I’ll not be home airly the night, for I promised cook to stay a bit an’ gev her a hand wid th’ fancy fixin’s. Foine doin’s they’re to be havin’. An’ if that thafe of the world Owny comes in, ye be soft spoken jist as if nothin’ had happened. I’ll settle wid him. I’ll gev him some Christmas!”

With that she was off. Then Dan came for his breakfast.

“I do miss Owny so,” he half whimpered. “Ther’ ain’t a boy in the street who could think up such roarin’ fun.”

“Whisht!” Dil said softly. “Bess is asleep, an’ I won’t have her worrited. She had a bad time yist’day with the babies. I do hope there won’t be no such crowd to-day. Seven babies an’ that was thirty-five cents. Mother might be given Bess an’ me some Christmas.”

Dan laughed at that.

Dil sighed. She drank a little coffee, but she could not eat. Two sleepy babies came. She washed the dishes, and spread up her mother’s bed, putting the babies in there. It was dark, with no ventilation but the door, and kept warm easily.

Another and another baby, one crying for its mother. When Dil had hushed it she took a vague glance at Bess, whose fair head lay there so restful. The frost was melting off the window-panes, and she put out the lamp. With a baby in her arms she sat down and rocked.

A curious sense of something, not quite anxiety, came over her presently. She went to Bess and raised the blanket, peering at the small white face that seemed almost to light the obscurity of the room. The eyes were half-closed. The lips were parted with a smile, and the little white teeth just showed. One hand seemed to hold up the chin.

Dil stooped and kissed her. O God! what was it? What was it? For Bess was marble cold.

“O Bess, Bess!” she cried in mortal terror. “Wake up, my darlin’! Wake up an’ get warm.”

As she seized the hand, a startling change came over the child. The chin dropped. The pretty smile was gone. The eyes looked out with awesome fixedness. Her heart stood still as if she were frozen.

Then, moved by horror, she flew up-stairs, her breath almost strangling her.

“O Misses Murphy!” she shrieked, “there’s somethin’ strange come over Bess. She’s never been like this—an’ cold—”

“Yis, dear. I’ll jist look at poor Mis’ Bolan. She do be goin’ very fast. All night she was that res’les’ talkin’ of the beautiful hymn the man sung, an’ beggin’ him to sing it agen; an’ then hearin’ angels an’ talkin’ ’bout green fields an’ flowers, an’ where there do be no night. They do be mostly so at the last, rememberin’ beautiful things.”

An awful terror clutched Dil at the heart, as she recalled Bess’s talk of the wild roses. So cruel a fear smote her that her very tongue seemed paralyzed.

“You don’t mean”—she cried wildly.

Mrs. Murphy’s thoughts were running on Mrs. Bolan.

“She’ll not last the day through. Pore dear, there’s not much pleasure to the’r ould lives. But she did be so longin’ to have that man come agen—”

She had taken Dil’s hand, and they were going down-stairs. A baby had rolled off the lounge and bumped his head, and was screaming. But Dil hardly heard him. They went through to the tiny room.

“Ah, pore dear! Pore lamb! She’s gone, an’ she’s outen all her mis’ry. She’ll niver suffer any more. An’ she’s safe—”

Mrs. Murphy paused, not quite sure she could give that comfort. There was purgatory, and the poor thing had never been christened. She was extremely ignorant of her own church doctrine; but she felt the bitter injustice of condemning this poor soul to everlasting torment for her mother’s neglect.

“No, Misses Murphy,” cried Dil in the accent of utter disbelief, “she can’t be—Oh, hurry an’ do somethin’ for her. She’s jes fainted! Le’s get her warm agen. Bring her out to the fire, an’ I’ll run for the ’Spensary doctor. Oh, no, she isn’t—she wouldn’t—’cause we was goin’ to heaven together in the spring, an’ she couldn’t leave me without a word—don’t you see?”

Oh, the wild, imploring eyes that pierced Mrs. Murphy through! the heart-breaking eyes that entreated vainly, refusing the one unalterable fiat!

“Ah, dear, they’sen don’t hev any ch’ice. O Dil, Dilly Quinn!” and she clasped the child to her heart. “You mustn’t take on so, dear! Shure, God knows best. Mebbe he’s better’n folks an’ the things they say. She won’t suffer any more, pore dear. I’ve seen it for weeks, an’ knowed what must come.”

Dil gave a few long, dry, terrible sobs; then she lay helpless in Mrs. Murphy’s arms. The kind soul placed her on the cot, sprinkled water on her face, chafed her hands; but Dil lay as one dead.

Then she ran down-stairs.

“O Mrs. Minch! have ye iver a bit of camphire? I used the last o’ mine this mornin’ for the pore old craythur. Bessy Quinn’s gone at last, an’ is cold, an’ Dil’s that overcome she’s gone in an norful faint. Come up a bit, do. An’ that haythen woman’ll not care more’n if it was a kitten. She do be the hardest!”

Mrs. Minch laid down her work, looked up the “camphire,” and plied her caller with inquiries.

All their efforts were unavailing, though Dil opened her eyes once, and at intervals a shudder ran through her frame.

“Yes, the poor dear’s dead and cold, and it’s God’s mercy, Mrs. Murphy. How she’s lived so long’s a mystery; but Dil’s been more watchful than most any mother. She was the sweetest and patientest, and loved her beyond all things. Mrs. Quinn hasn’t any human feeling in her, and there’s plenty like her, more’s the shame. When you bring helpless little ones in the world, it’s not their fault. And when they are bruised and banged and made helpless, as that poor little one, a mother’s heart should have pitied her.”

“Oh, dear, it’s the rum that takes out all the nateral feelin’. An’ one ’ud think she’d had enough of it in her husband, not to be goin’ the same way. An’ pore Dil carin’ for them babies an’ doin’ a woman’s work, a-stuntin’ her an’ makin’ her old afore her time. An’, if ye’ll stay, I’ll go fer th’ ’Spensary doctor. Sorra a Christmas it’ll be in the court. Mr. Sheehan is dyin’, an’ Mrs. Neefus’s baby went yes’tday, an’ the ould woman—but they do be dyin’ all the time, some wan.”

Mrs. Minch bent over Dil with pitying eyes. She had seen better times, and lived in a nicer neighborhood than Barker’s Court. But poverty had driven her down step by step. She had her old deaf father to care for, and a son growing up; and the three rooms, such as they were, proved cheaper than anything she had seen, though she was on the lookout all the time. She had not made much intimacy with her neighbors, except that through her pity for Mrs. Bolan she had come to know good-hearted Mrs. Murphy quite well, and she had been interested in Dilsey and Bess. But most of the people in the court were afraid of Mrs. Quinn’s tongue.

“The poor thing!” she sighed. “She is a little old woman already. She has never had leave to grow as children should. Oh, why are they brought into the world to suffer?”

She had once thought herself full of trust and love to God, but so many questions had come to the surface with her years of hard experience. Why this little Bess should have suffered four years—but both parents had given her a good constitution, that in some positions in life might have made her a useful factor instead of mere waste material.

Then she took up one of the crying babies. Another was clamoring loudly, “Bed, bed,” and opening wide his mouth to show her how empty it was.

“Oh, how ever did she look after them all?” she cried in despair as Mrs. Murphy entered.

“She had a rare way with childers, that she had.” Mrs. Murphy cut a chunk from the loaf of bread and gave the hungry baby. “An’ the docthor will be in as soon as he kin, but there’s a sight o’ folks waitin’. I have heerd say a grane Christmas made fat graveyards, but this is cold enough to be black. An’ how’s the poor gurl?”

“She seems—asleep somehow, and you can notice her breathin’.”

“I’ll look after Mrs. Bolan, an’ kem down agen,” said Mrs. Murphy, disappearing.

IX—DILSEY

“The Lord took the little ones in his arms and said, ‘Forbid them not,’ and I guess he won’t mind the christenin’. And this child’s been patient and cheerful beyond common. I think she’s had a lot of Christian grace unbeknownst. She’d look up with her sweet smile that almost broke your heart, when Dil would be takin’ her out. And how she stood everything—”

“Mrs. Quinn’s been not so savage as she used. ’Tain’t nat’rel for mothers to be so cruel. But ’twas last March, if I don’t disremember—you were not here then, Mrs. Minch—she made such a nawful ’ruction that the neighbors called in de cop, and nothin’ but her beggin’ off an’ sayin’ the children wud starve, an’ promisin’ on her bended knees, which she never uses fer a bit o’ prayer, saved her. An’ she don’t bang ’em about quite so bad since.”

“There was an awful time the other night.”

“Yes; that Owny’s too smart, an’ mebbe he would er banged her in a fair fight; but he cut stick, an’ hasn’t shown hide ner hair sence.”

Mrs. Murphy leaned over Dil, and uttered a benison in her ignorant Christianity.

“’Pears like they jist oughten to go togither. She looks like a ghost, poor thing.” Then she lifted Bess from the shabby wagon that had been her home so long, and brought her out on the lounge.

“Will ye look at them poor legs?” she said with a cry. “They do make yer heart bleed. She was a smart little thing, goin’ to school, whin it happened. The father oughter been hung fer it; fer it was he that did it, murderin’ by inches. An’ he beat Mrs. Quinn to a jelly. Wudden’t ye think now she’d had enough o’ rum, not to be goin’ the same road?”

Mrs. Minch sighed.

“It’s stuck everywhere, right in a body’s way, Mrs. Murphy. They’re taxin’ people for prisons and ’sylums and homes for orphans, when they haven’t the sense to shut up the saloons and gin-mills. Look at that Mrs. MacBride, smilin’ and making it pleasant for a hard-workin’ woman, havin’ a nice warm room for gossipin’ and such, and bein’ clever enough to make them run up a score, and get her money once a week. There’s no dancin’ nor carousin’; but it takes in the decentish sort of women, and turns ’em out as bad as the men. It’s the poor families that’s pinched and starved and set crazy. When I think of my boy growin’ up in it—but where’ll poor folks go? Saloons are all over. They fight for the chance to ruin folks.”

“Thrue for ye, Mrs. Minch. An’ sorra indade it is whin ye do be sad that they come into the world, an’ rej’ice whin they go out of it young. They’re spared a dale o’ pain an’ care. Yet it do seem wrong some way. Childers should be a blessin’ an’ comfort to yer ould age. Things is changed in the world. One gits that confused with thinkin’—”

They had prepared some water, but the poor little body was clean and sweet. It was heart-breaking to see it.

Mrs. Murphy went into the bedroom for some clothing.

“Will ye look at the sort o’ bury Dil made out o’ boxes an’ covered. She’s that handy an’ full o’ wit. An’ them clo’es is like snow, and all mended nate. I don’t see how she cud do it wid all the babies. An’ I do be thinkin’ it was Dil’s love that kep’ the little wan alive so long. It was like medicine; her warm arms an’ cheery smile, her patience an’ thinkin’ what wud pleasure Bess. If there don’t be a straight road to hiven fer thim both—an’ purgatory ought to be saved fer the ither kind. Now, it don’t look a bit sinsible that little lamb shud suffer whin she’s suffered so much a’ready! Sometimes I most think the church has mistook whin they save the rumsellers an’ the great wicked men wid their money, cause they kin pay fer prayers.”

“She’s in heaven, if there is any heaven.” Sometimes Mrs. Minch doubted.

“An’ oh, Mrs. Minch, if there wasn’t any hiven to rest us at last, how cud we live through the cruel world?”

Such a pathetic cry as it was!

The doctor came. He looked at Bess, and asked a few questions, made a note or two in his book, cutting short Mrs. Murphy’s explanations.

“Yes, yes; I’ve seen the child. She’s been strung on fine steel wires, or they’d given way long ago. And the old woman? Strange how they go on living when they had a hundred times better be dead, and the people of some account go out like the snuff of a candle! Where’s the girl?” glancing around.

“In there.” Mrs. Murphy nodded towards the room.

Dil lay motionless, but for the faint breathing. The doctor listened with his ear down on her heart, felt her pulse, and seemed in a study.

“Let her sleep as long as she can. She has worn herself out. She used to wheel this one round,” nodding. “Have in some fresh air; the room is stifling. How any one lives—”

Dil roused without opening her eyes.

“Was it you, Bess? Oh, is it morning?”

“No, no; go to sleep again. The night’s just begun. She’s dead tired out,” to the women. “Let the mother come round when she can, and get rid of these young ones before the girl wakes. If there’s anything else wanted, send round. Are these people very poor?”

“Mrs. Quinn goes out washing. And the babies are taken in by the day. I don’t know”—doubtfully.

“The mother will settle that. And the old lady—the city must bury her, I suppose?”

“’Deed an’ it must. She’s had nothin’ but her pinshin, an’ has no folk.”

They found Bess’s nice white frock pinned up in a cloth, beautifully ironed and laid away in anticipation of the journey—the very journey she had taken so unknowingly. They put it on, and smoothed down the poor little legs with tender hands. Then they laid her on her mother’s bed until Dil should rouse.

Mrs. Minch brought up her sewing, while Mrs. Murphy went to her own room to look after Mrs. Bolan. Mrs. Carr, another neighbor, came in and helped with the babies, and wondered how Dilly Quinn had ever been able to do as much work as a hearty, grown woman, and she not bigger than a ten-year-old child!

It was three o’clock when Dil roused. Mrs. Minch sat quietly at her sewing. The wagon was pushed clear up to the window, empty.

“O Mrs. Minch, what has happened?” She sprang out, wild-eyed and quivering.

“My dear,” Mrs. Minch took her in her arms, “Bess is better off. She is in heaven with the good God, who will be tenderer of her than any human friend. She will have no more pain. She will be well and strong, and a lovely angel. You would not wish her back—”

“Yes, I do, I do. We was goin’ to heaven together in the spring; we had it all planned. And Bess wouldn’t ’a’ gone without me—oh, I know she wouldn’t. Where is she? What have you done with her?”

“She is in there.”

Dil flew to her mother’s room. The ironing-board lay on the bed, and a strange, still shape imperfectly outlined under the sheet.

“She looks like an angel,” said Mrs. Minch.

Dilsey Quinn stared, bereft of her senses for some moments. Slowly the incidents of the morning came over her—of last night, when Bess seemed so improved, so hopeful. She had seen dead people. Death was no stranger in Barker’s Court. There were “wakes,” and quiet, hurried burials. They died and were taken away, that was all. With a curious, obstinate unreason she knew Bess had died like all the rest; yet she had been so sure Bess could not die. But she had not gone to heaven. The breath had gone out of her body, but a breath couldn’t go to heaven. She had left her body here; the poor hurted legs the Lord Jesus would have mended. They could never be mended now, for they would be put in the ground.

She stood so still that Mrs. Minch raised the sheet. The pinched look was going out of the face, as it often does after death. The eyes were closed; the long bronze lashes were beautiful; the thin lips had been pressed rather tightly, as if in fear that they might betray their secret. Yet it had a strange, serene beauty.

Dil did not cry or utter a sound. A great solitude enveloped her, as if she were alone in a wide desert. She would never have any one to love or caress; a thick darkness settled all about her, as if now she and Bess were shut out of heaven forever. For what would the palace be, and the angels innumerable, if Bess was not there?

She turned and went to her own room, began to pick up the things and tidy it, spread the cot, shook the cushion of the poor dilapidated wagon, carefully laid over it the blanket she had taken so much pains to make.

“Mrs. Minch,” she said, “will you please bring Bess in here. Mammy wouldn’t like her there. An’ I want her here—on my bed.”

Mrs. Minch looked at her in surprise. The face was rigid and unresponsive, but there was an awesome, chilling sorrow in every line. She reverently obeyed Dil’s behest.

“You are very good. You see, no one cared ’bout her but jes’ me an’ Patsey an’”—Ah, what would John Travis say? “An’ I want to keep her here.”

“My dear, dear child—”

She put away the kindly hands, not ungently, but as if she could not quite bear them—as if she was too sore for any human touch.

“How did I come to sleep so long?” she asked, in a strained, weary tone.

“You were so tired, poor dear. The doctor was in, and he said it was the best thing for you. Mrs. Murphy has been in and out, and Mrs. Carr.”

“You took care of the babies?” Her lips quivered, and a few big tears rolled down her cheeks. She could suffer, if the time to sorrow had not yet come.

“Yes, dear. I don’t see how you get along so with them. And do you feel better?”

The kind eyes studied her with concern.

“I’m well. I never do get sick.”

“Do you know where your mother is?”

“Not the street. No, ma’am. The people have a queer long name. An’ she’ll be late th’ night.”

Mrs. Murphy looked in the door.

“Ah, yer up, an’ ye do look better. Hev ye had anything to ate? Do ye mind if I have Mrs. Minch come up-stairs just a bit?”

“Oh, no.” Dil did not notice the strain in the eyes, the awesomeness of facing death.

“I cudden’t be alone. She’s roused, but she’s almost gone; fightin’ fer life, one may say, at the very end,” she whispered as they went up the stairs.

The babies were amusing themselves. Dil uncovered the face of her dead, and looked long and earnestly, as if she knew there was a great mystery she ought to solve. Ah, how sweet she was! Dil’s heart swelled with a sense of triumph. She had always been so proud of Bess’s beauty.

But what was dead? It happened any time, and to anybody, to babies mostly, and made you cold and still, useless. Then you were taken away and buried. It was altogether different from going to heaven. What strange power had taken Bess, and kept her from that blessed journey? Why did the Lord Jesus let any one do it? John Travis couldn’t have been so mistaken, and Christiana, and the children.

She was so glad they had put on her best dress, bought with John Travis’s money. Ah, if they only had started that day and risked all! Here was her blue sash and the blue bows for her sleeves. She hardly had the courage to touch the beloved form.

How strangely cold the little hands were. She kissed them, and then she no longer felt afraid. She raised the frail figure, and passed the ribbon round the waist. Almost it seemed as if Bess breathed.

She brought the brush and comb, and curled the hair in her own flowing fashion, picking out the pretty bang in rings, kissing the cold cheeks, the shell-like eyelids. Why, surely Bess was only asleep. She must, she would waken, to-morrow morning perhaps. A sudden buoyant hope electrified her. She had her again, and the horrible thought of separation vanished. Dil was too ignorant to formulate any theories, but every pulse stirred within her own body.

Two of the mothers came for babies, but she uttered no word of what had happened. Then she fed the others, and fixed the fire, and Dan peered in fearfully. She gave him a slice of bread, and he was glad to be off.

Up-stairs they had watched the breath go out of the poor body.

“Pore thing! God rist her sowl wheriver it is,” and Mrs. Murphy crossed herself.

“Has she no friends?”

“Not a wan, I belayve. She used to talk of some nevys whin she first come, that’s nigh two years ago. But she’d lost track of them. I’m sure I’ve taken good care of the pore ould craythur, an’ I hope some wan will do the same to me at the last.”

“You’re a kindly woman, Mrs. Murphy, and God grant it. We don’t know where nor when the end will come.”

Mrs. Minch stopped as she went down-stairs.

“Poor old Mrs. Bolan has gone to the better land. She and Bess will have a Christmas with the angels. They will not want to come back here.”

Dil had no courage to argue. But she knew to the very farthest fibre of her being, that nothing could so change Bess that she would desire to stay anywhere without her.

Mrs. Garrick had heard the tidings before she came in for her baby, and was profuse in her sympathies.

“But it’s the Lord’s mercy, for she were a poor sufferer, and was jist waitin’. How did it happen? Was it in the night, whilst ye were all asleep? An’ to think yer poor mother whint away knowin’ nothin’.”

“I can’t talk about it. I—I don’t know.”

“An’ old Mis’ Bolan. Well, I’ll run up-stairs a bit, an’ see Mrs. Murphy.”

She was rewarded for her trouble here; the strange curiosity of some, as if the dead face could answer the mystery.

“She’s a moighty quare girl, that Dilsey Quinn. Niver to be askin’ one to look at the corpse; an’ if Bess hadn’t been so peaked, she would have been a pritty child. She had such iligant hair.”

The neighbors began to make calls of condolence. Two deaths in a house was an event rather out of the common order of things.

Dil awed them by her quiet demeanor, and answered apathetically, busying herself with the supper.

“What hev ye done wid her?” asked one. “Shure, she’s not bin tuk away?”

“No; she’s in ther’, in my room. An’—an’ she’s mine.”

For to Dil there seemed something sacred about Bess, and she kept guard rigorously. It was not simply a dead body to gloat over. They could go up-stairs and look at Mrs. Bolan.

It was nine o’clock when her mother came home laden with budgets, and Dan following in a vaguely frightened manner. He had been hanging about Mrs. MacBride’s, waiting for her. She had gone in and taken her “sup o’ gin,” and heard the news, also the complaints.

“Whiniver did it happen, Dil?” throwing down her budgets. “She’s been no good to hersilf nor no wan else this long while. An’ she cudden’t iver git well, an’ was a sight o’ trouble. But I’m clear beat. Week after week I thought she’d be sure to go, but when you’re lookin’, the thing niver comes. An’ it’s took me so suddent like, that I had no breath left at all. Was it true—did ye find her dead, an’ faint clear away?”

She looked rather admiringly at Dil.

“Yes—she were cold,” said Dil briefly. “An’ then I don’t know what happened.”

“Ye pore colleen! Ye’ll be better widout her, an’ ye’ll be gittin well an’ strong agin. It’s bin a hard thing, an’ yer divil of a father shud a had his own back broke. But he’s fast enough, and I hope they’ll kape him there. Any word of Owny?”

“No.” Oh, what would Owny say—an’ Patsey.

“Who kem an’ streeked her? Let’s see.”

She took the lamp and went in. It seemed to Dil as if she would even now shake her fist at Bess, and the child stood with bated breath.

“She were a purty little thing, Dil,” the mother said with a softened inflection. “Me sister Morna had yellow hair an’ purplish eyes, and was that fair an’ sweet, but timid like. I believe me mother had some such hair, but the rest of us had black. She looks raile purty, an’ makes a better corpse than I iver thought. Why didn’t ye lit thim see her, Dil? Ye’s needn’t a been shamed of her.”

Dil was saved from answering by the advent of a throng of neighbors. The room seemed so warm, and there was such a flurry, she dropped on the lounge faint and breathless.

“Go to bed, Dan,” said his mother.

Dil rose again and opened the door. The cold air, close and vile as it was, felt grateful.

“Go up-stairs a bit in Mrs. Murphy’s;” and though the permission was a command, Dil went gratefully.

Mrs. Murphy sat sewing to make up for lost time. Her little girl was asleep in the cradle. She had improved since cooler weather had set in. The door of one room was shut. The old chintz-covered Boston rocker was empty.

“I couldn’t stay to see them all lookin’ at her,” she exclaimed tremulously, as she almost tottered across the room.

“No, dear.” Mrs. Murphy took her in her arms. “Ye look like a ghost. But Bess is main pritty, an’ it’s a custom. Will ye sit here?”

Dil shuddered as she looked at the empty chair where Mrs. Bolan used to sit.

“No; I’ll take the stool. I just want to be a bit still like an’ think. I couldn’t talk ’bout her, you know.”

“Yes, dear,” with kindly sympathy.

Dil dropped on a box stool, leaning her folded arms on a chair. Mrs. Murphy took up her sewing again. She longed to comfort, but she was sore afraid the two lorn souls were wandering about purgatory. She had a little money of Mrs. Bolan’s that she meant to spend in masses. But who would pay for a mass for Bessy Quinn’s soul? And she had never been baptized. The ignorant, kindly woman was sore distressed.

Dil seemed to look through the floor and see the picture down-stairs. All her sense of possession rose in bitter revolt. Yet now she was helpless to establish her supreme right. Her mother had grudged Bess the frail, feeble spark of life; she alone had cared for her, loved her, protected her, and she was shut out, sent away. Now that Bess needed no care and lay there quiet, they could come and pity her.

Presently more tranquil thoughts came. Even her mother could not do anything to hurt Bess. She was safe at last.

There had been so much repression and self-control in Dil’s short life, that it made her seem apathetic now. And yet, slowly as the poor pulses beat, there was a strange inward fire and stir, as if she must do something. A curious elusiveness shrouded the duty or work, and yet it kept hovering before her. Oh, what was it?

Did she fall asleep, and was it a vision, a vague remembrance of something she had heard? Bess was not dead, but in a strange, strange sleep. Once there had been a little girl in just this sleep, and One had come—yes, she would get up—about midnight these strange charms worked.

She would get up and go softly over to Bess. She would take the little hand in hers; she would kiss the pale, still lips, and say, “Bess, my darling, wake up. I can’t live without you. You have had such a nice long rest. Open your eyes an’ look at me. Bess, dear, you remember we are to go to heaven in the spring. He will be waitin’ for us, an’ wonderin’ why we don’t come. He is goin’ to fight the giants, to show us the way, an’ row us over the river to the pallis.”

Then the eyes would open blue as the summer sky, the lips would smile, the little hands reach out and grow warm. There would be a strange quiver all through the body, and Bess would sit up and be alive once more. Oh, the glad cry of joy! Oh, the wordless, exquisite rapture of that moment! And Bess, in some mysterious way, would be better, stronger, and the days would fly by until the blessed spring came.

Mrs. Murphy touched her, and roused her from this trance of delight. She heard her mother’s voice and started.

“It’s a nice sleep ye’ve had,” said Mrs. Murphy’s kindly voice. “An’ it’s full bedtime, an’ past. They’ve all gone, an’ yer mother wants ye.”

Dil groped her way down-stairs. There was a vicious smell of beer and kerosene-smoke in the warm room.

“It’s time ye were in bed,” said her mother. “Ye kin sleep in there,” indicating her own room with a nod; “fer I’ll not sleep the night with me child lyin’ dead in the house. Bridget Malone has kem to stay wid me. We’ll jist sit up.”

“O mother,” cried Dil, aghast, “let me sleep in my own room! I’d rather be there with Bess.”

“Is the colleen’s head turned wid grafe? Sleepin’ wid a corpse! Who iver heerd of sich a thing? Indade ye’ll not, miss! Go to bed at wunst, an’ not a word outen you.”

Her first impulse was to defy the woman looming up so tall and authoritative. But the shrewd sense that comes early to the children of poverty restrained her. She would be worsted in the end, so she went reluctantly. Had she dreamed? No, it must be true. She could waken Bess. Again the uplifting hope took possession of her. She seemed wafted away to a beautiful country with Bess. So absorbing was the vision that it filled her with a certainty beyond the faintest doubt. She did not even take off her dress, but lay there wide-eyed and rapturous.

After a while the chatter ceased and the snoring began. How still it was everywhere! But Dil was not afraid.

X—IN THE DESERT ALONE

The silence, for that impressed her, in spite of snoring in different keys, and the weird aspect, made the room instinct with supernatural life. Dil did not understand this, but she felt it, and was filled and possessed by that exaltation of mysterious faith. She walked softly but fearlessly across the room,—if she could open the door without Bridget hearing.

John Travis should have seen her at that moment, with the unearthly radiance on her face, the uplifted confident eyes.

Her small hand was on the knob. She opened the door—a moment more—

Alas! Bridget had an impression, and sprang up. Seeing the figure she uttered a wild shriek.

“A banshee! A banshee!” she cried in a spasm of terror.

Dil stood rooted to the spot. Mrs. Quinn sprang across the room.

“Hould yer murtherin’ tongue!” she cried. “Why—it’s Dil,” seizing her by the shoulder. “Whativer are ye doin’, walkin’ in yer slape an’ rousin’ the house? An’ yer’ a fool, Bridget!”

Bridget Malone stared at the small grayish figure, unconvinced.

“Wake up, ye omadhoun!” and the mother shook Dil fiercely. “Ye can’t do nothin’ fer the child. Let her rist in peace; she’s better off nor she’s been this many a day.”

“O Mrs. Quinn, don’t be hard on the poor gurrul. She’s bin dreamin’ af the little wan, bein’ so used to tindin’ on her all hours af the night. But I thought sure it was Bess’s ghost, bein’ but half awake mesilf.”

“Wid no legs to walk on!” was the sarcastic rejoinder.

“As af a ghost had need of legs! An’ I won’t be sittin’ there by the dure—”

“Git back to yer bed, Dil, an’ we won’t have no more sich capers in the dead o’ night, frightin’ folks out of their sinsis.”

She led Dil roughly back to her bed. Then for safe keeping she slipped the chair back just under the knob, and Dil was a prisoner in a black hole, a small improvement on that of Calcutta.

A whirlwind of passion swept over Dilsey Quinn—a pitiful, helpless passion. She could have screamed, she could have torn the bed-clothes to pieces, or stamped in that uncontrollable rage and disappointment. But she knew her mother would beat her, and she was too sore and helpless to be banged about.

Her mother would not let her bring Bess back to life if she knew. And she could not explain—there was nothing to be put in words. You just went and did it. Oh, it seemed as if something might have helped her, some great, strong power that made people rich and happy, and gave them so many lovely things. Bess was only such a little out of all the big world!

And now she would never, never come back. An awful, cold despair succeeded the passion. They could never go to heaven together. Bess was dead, just like Mrs. Bolan, like the people who died in the court. They would take her out and bury her. That was all!

An indescribable horror fell upon Dil. The horror of the solitude that comes of doubt and darkness, the ghost of that final solitude that seems watching at the gates of death. Bess had gone off, been swallowed up in it, and there was nothing, nothing!

The morning dawned at last. Dil, half-stifled with bad air, and racked with that fearful mental inquisition, collapsed. She seemed shrunken and old, as old as Mrs. Bolan. There was nothing more for her.

Bridget Malone was to stay. The two women had a cup of coffee together, then Mrs. Quinn went to see the ’Spensary doctor. When she came back they spread a sheet over the small table, and brought out the body of the dead child.

“Folks’ll be comin’ in to see it,” she said with some pride. “An’ she looks that swate no one need be ashamed of her! She’d been a purty girl but for the accidint, for that stopped her growin’. I’ve had a long siege wid her, the Lord knows! An’ now I must run up to Studdemyer’s an’ tell ’em of the sorrow an’ trouble, an’ mebbe I’ll get lave to do somethin’ to-morrow. But I’ll be back afore the men kim in.”

Dil moved about silently, and went frequently into her own room. The intense fervor and belief of the night had vanished. The court children straggled in and stared, half-afraid. The women said she was better off and out of her trouble; and now and then one spoke of her being in heaven.

She was not in heaven, Dil knew. And how could she be better off in the cold, hateful ground than in her warm, loving arms?

One gets strangely accustomed to the dear dead face. Dil paid it brief visits when no one else was by. A little change had come over it,—the inevitable change; but to Dil it seemed as if Bess was growing sorry that she had died; that the little shrinking everywhere meant regret.

Mrs. Quinn came back with a gift from her sympathetic customer, who imagined she had found heroic motherly devotion in this poor woman who had four children to care for. There were numberless visitors who gossiped and were treated to beer—there was quite a dinner, with an immense steak to grace the feast.

Presently a man came in and took the measure of the body, and then went up-stairs. An hour later a wagon stopped before the court, and two men shouldered a coffin. The small one went into the Quinns’. It was of stained wood with a muslin lining, and the little body was laid in its narrow home. Then the attendant went up-stairs, and some of the women followed. There was a confusion of voices, then the two men came lumbering down the winding stairs with their load, slid it into the wagon, while a curious throng gathered round in spite of the chill blast. They came up again, one man with a screwdriver in his hand.

“Take a look at her, Dil. Poor dear, she’s gone to her long rest.”

Mrs. Quinn pushed her forward. The women fell back a little. The man put down the coffin lid,—it was all in one piece,—and began to screw it down.

Dil gave a wild shriek as it closed over the pretty golden head, and would have dropped to the floor, but some one caught her. The man completed his task, picked up the burthen, it was so light; and when Dil came out of her faint Bess, with two other dead bodies, was being jolted over the stones to a pauper’s grave.

“Come now,” began Mrs. Quinn, “it’s full time ye wer sensible. She’s dead, an’ it’s a blissid relase, an’ she’s got no more suf’frin’ to go tru wid. It’s bin a hard thrial, an’ she not able to take a step this four year. Ye’d better go to bed an’ rist, for ye look quare ’bout the eyes. Ye kin have my bed if ye like.”

Dil shook her head, and tottered to her own little cot. “O Bess! Bess!” she cried in her heart, but her lips made no sound. How could people die who were not old nor sick? For she wanted to die, but she did not know how.

There were people around until after supper. Then two or three of them went down to Mrs. MacBride’s. Mrs. Murphy promised to stay with Dil.

“Shure,” said some one, “there’ll be a third goin’ out prisintly. It’s bad luck when more than wan corpse goes over the trashold to wunst. An’ that Dil don’t look like long livin’. She’s jist worn hersilf out wid that other poor thing.”

In the evening Patsey came rushing up-stairs with some Christmas for the two girls. He was shocked beyond measure. He hardly dared go in and see Dil, but she called him in a weak, sad tone.

“O Dil!” That was all he said for many minutes, as he sat on the side of the cot, holding her hand. The strange look in her face awed him.

“Have ye seen Owny?” he whispered.

“Not since the night mother beat him.”

“Owny—he’s safe. He’ll do well. Don’t bodder yees poor head ’bout him. He’s keepin’ out o’ der way, ’cause he’s ’fraid de old woman’ll set de cop on him. He ain’t comin’ back no more, but don’t you worry. But he’ll feel nawful! O Dil, I never s’posed she’d go so soon, if she was ’pindlin’ an’ weakly. Seemed when she’d lived so long—”

Patsey broke down there.

“O Patsey, I didn’t s’pose she could die, jes’ common dyin’ like other folks. They’ve taken her away an’ put her with dead people—I don’t know where. You’ll tell him. An’—an’ mebbe ’twould be better if he didn’t come back. Mother’d beat him nawful, and ’pears ’s if I couldn’t see any more beatin’s. Don’t tell me an’ then I won’t know. But you’ll see an’ keep him safe.”

“Poor Dil! I’m jist as sorry’s I kin hold. I loved you an’ Bess, for I didn’t never hev any folks,” said the boy brokenly.

“An’, Patsey, d’ye mind the wild roses ye brought in the summer? They was so sweet. She ’most went crazy over ’em with pure joy. An’ that night she talked of thim, an’ smelled thim, an’ it was a bad sign. If I’d knowed, I might a done somethin’, or had the doctor. An’ she talked so beautiful—”

Dil was choked with sobs.

“Ye did iverything. Ye were like an angel. She wouldn’t a lived half so long, but for yous. O Dil, I wisht I could bring her back. There was a boy tellin’ ’bout some one—he heerd it at the Mission School—that jist took a man outen his coffin, an’ made him alive. I’ll ask him how it was, an’ tell yous.”

“Ye’s so good, Patsey,” with a weary sigh.

“An’ I’ll be droppin’ in an’ bring ye news. An’ ye mustn’t git sick, fer whin spring opens we’ll spring a trap that’ll s’prise ye. O Dil dear!”

He bent over and kissed her, his face all wet with tears. He had often kissed little Bess, though he was not “soft on gals.” It was a solemn caress. Dil seemed so far away, as if he might lose her too.

The next morning the Christmas chimes rang out, and there were houses full of happy children making merry over Christmas gifts. The mission schools were crowded, the Christmas-trees and the feasts thronged. There were hundreds of poor children made happy, even if they could not take in the grand truth that eighteen hundred years ago a Saviour had been born to redeem the world. “Why is it not redeemed?” cried the cavillers, looking on. “If the truth is powerful, why has it not prevailed?” But the children amid their pleasures asked no questions.

Churches were full of melody, homes were full of joy and gladness, the streets in a tumult of delight; but Bessy Quinn was in her small grave, and Dil bitterly alone.

John Travis thought of them both this morning. “I hope Miss Nevins has planned a nice Christmas for them,” he said to himself, since his Christmas in a foreign land was not as hopeful as he could wish. Perhaps Miss Nevins had found a way to Mrs. Quinn’s heart. Women could sometimes do better than men.

Dilsey Quinn could not die; and if she was miserable and forlorn she had not the morbid brain to consider suicide, though she knew people had killed themselves. But the utter dreariness of the poor child’s soul was overwhelming.

Still, she rose on Monday morning, did her work, and cared for the babies as usual. It seemed so cruelly lonesome with only her and Dan. Mrs. Murphy was very good to her, and begged her to go to the priest; but she listened in a weary, indifferent manner. If Bess was in purgatory, then she would like to go too. But in her heart she knew Bess wasn’t. She was just dead, and couldn’t be anywhere but in the ground.

She had never known any joyous animal life. Hers had been all work and loving service. There was nothing to buoy her up now, nothing to which she could look forward. She was too old, too experienced, to be a child, to share a child’s trivial joys.

Her mother questioned her closely about Owen. Hadn’t he never sneaked in for some clothes? Didn’t Patsey know where he was?

“I’ll ast him if he comes agen,” she said, as if even Owen was of no moment to her. “He hasn’t been here sence—sence that night.”

“Ye’s not half-witted, Dil Quinn, an’ you grow stupider every day! Sometime I’ll knock lightnin’ outen yer! An’ if ye dast to keep it from me that he kem’d home, I’d break yer neck, yer sassy trollope. He’ll be saunterin’ in some night, full o’ rags, an’ no place to go, an’ there be a pairty, now, I tell ye!”

But Owny knew when he was well off. Dan went to school regularly, and was much improved.

After the holidays the winter was hard. Work fell off, and babies were slow coming in. Mrs. Murphy’s little one took a severe cold, and was carried off with the croup. She gave up her rooms and went out to service. So poor Dil lost another friend.

One Sunday during the latter part of January, Dil summoned up pluck enough to go out for a walk. There had been three or four lovely days that suggested spring, bland airs and sunshine, and the indescribable thrill in the air that stirs with sudden longing.

Dil wandered over to Madison Square. Some one had given her mother a good warm cloak, quite modern. How Bess would have enjoyed seeing her dressed in it! But though the sun shone so gloriously, she was cold in body and soul, as if she could never be warm again. The leafless branches were full of swallows chirping, but the flowers were gone, the fountain silent. No one noted the solitary little figure sitting just where she had sat that happy afternoon.

“Oh,” she cried softly, while her heart swelled to breaking, and her eyes wandered southward, “do you know that Bess is dead, an’ we can’t never go to heaven together as we planned? I d’know’s I want to now. I jes’ want to die an’ be put in the ground. I wisht I could be laid ’long-side of her, an’ I’d stretch out my arms, an’ she’d come creepin’ to them, jes’ as she used. She’d know how to find me. An’ when you come back you can’t see her no more. Oh, ’f we only could ’a’ started that day! An’ mammy burned up Christiana an’ my beautiful picture, so I’m all alone. There ain’t nothin’ left,” and she sighed drearily.

Where was he? “’Crost the ’Lantic Oshin,” as Bess had said. She had no more idea of the Atlantic Ocean than she had of the location of heaven; not as much, for it seemed as if heaven might be over beyond the setting sun. But John Travis was still in the world. And as she sat there it seemed as if she must live to tell him about Bess, and an aim brightened her dreary life. Two months and a little more. She would come over often when the weather grew pleasanter. Already she began to feel better.

But she could not take the heartfelt glow back to Barker’s Court. The loneliness settled down like a pall. The long, long evenings were intolerable. Sometimes she crept down and spent an hour with Mrs. Minch; but she was afraid her mother might come home inopportunely.

Mrs. Quinn was growing much worse in her habits; and she lost her best place, which did not improve her temper. Dil’s apathetic manner angered her as well; yet the house was kept cleaner than ever, her mother’s clothes were always in order, and there was nothing to find fault about, except the lack of babies, which Dil could not help.

One night in February there was quite a carouse at Mrs. MacBride’s. It was midnight when Mrs. Quinn returned. Poor Dil should have been in bed, out of harm’s way; but she had been living over that fateful night, believing with the purest and most passionate fervor that she might have called Bess back to life if she could have gone to her.

A man helped Mrs. Quinn up the stairs, and tumbled her in the door. Dil sprang up in affright.

Mrs. Quinn stared at Dil with bleared eyes.

“What yer doin’ up this time o’ night? Yees do be enough to set wan crazy wid yer mewlin’, pinched-up mug that’s humbly as a stun! Why d’n’ ye laugh an’ hev a good time, an’ make the house decent, stead er like a grave? I’m not goin’ to stan’ it—d’y hear?”