CONTAINING SOME DESCRIPTION OF A SUPPER PARTY

"Oh!" said Hermione, as she caught sight of Ravenslee's tall figure, "you've come then, Mr. Geoffrey? I've been hoping and praying you wouldn't! I mean—" she added hastily, in answer to his look, "I mean I have only two miserable little chops for supper."

"S' all right, Hermy!" cried Spike. "I told you not to worry about the eats. Look what's here—stand out o' the light, Geoff, so she can see the table!"

"Why—why—what's all this?" she exclaimed, staring at the numerous well-filled dishes with blue eyes very wide. "Oh, goodness gracious—me!" and she turned to look at Mr. Ravenslee, who, meeting that wondering glance, actually found himself stammering again.

"The fact is, Miss Hermione—er—I say the fact is we—Arthur and I—are giving a little supper to-night in honour of—of—er—my birthday."

"You bet we are, Hermy!" added Spike. "Will you pipe the turk'?"

"We have been waiting for you," continued Ravenslee, placing a chair for her, "you see—er—you are to be our guest of honour—if you will?"

"Sure you are!" nodded Spike, "and I'm head-waiter, eater-in-chief t' the turk' while she lasts, an' chief mourner when she's gone—so now I'll go an' make th' tea, only don't begin without me—a fair start an' all together, see?" and he vanished into the kitchen.

"But—a whole turkey!" said Hermione, viewing it with feminine, knowledgeful eyes, "and then all this ham and tongue and—Mr. Geoffrey, how extravagant of you!" And she shook her shapely head at him reprovingly but with a smile curving her red lips; and lo! there was the shining curl above her eyebrow again, more wantonly alluring than usual. "Whatever made you buy so much?"

"Mr. Pffeffenfifer!" answered Ravenslee, staring at the radiant curl, whereupon she, becoming aware of it, would have sent it into immediate retirement among its many fellows but that he stayed her humbly.

"Please don't!" he said.

"But it—tickles!"

"Well, let it!"

"But—why should I?"

"For—Arthur's sake."

"Arthur's!" she laughed. "Oh, Mr. Geoffrey, as if he would ever notice!"

"Well, then, for the—er—turkey's sake!"

"The turkey!" she laughed. "I'm afraid I'm dreadfully untidy to sit down at such a luxurious feast."

"Are you?"

"Well—am I not? Look at this poor old gown!"

"I'm afraid I didn't notice your—er—gown."

"What did I tell you, Hermy?" said Spike, entering with the teapot. "Geoff ain't—I mean, isn't—that kind o' guy—I mean mutt—no, I mean feller. Y' see, Geoff, a girl always thinks a feller's got his lamps—I mean eyes—on their rags—clo'es, I mean. 'S' funny, ain't it? Gee, but I'm hungry!"

"So am I!" said Hermione.

"So am I!" said Ravenslee.

"Why, then," quoth Spike, "I'll tell you what—let's all sit down and eat! I guess I'm full o' brilliant ideas t'night, but this ain't no time for talk—not with that turkey starin' us in the face, it ain't—isn't, I mean. So quit chewin' d' rag an' let's chew d' turk' instead—an' Gee, but that's some brilliant too, I guess!"

So down they sat, and while Hermione presided over the cups and saucers, Ravenslee carved.

"Light or dark meat, Miss Hermione?" he enquired.

"Herm; likes th' light, but a drumstick for mine—an' please don't forget th' stuffin', Geoff!"

"Tea, Mr. Geoffrey?"

"Thanks!" he answered, pausing to watch the curve of her shapely neck as she bent to pour the tea, and to note how her white hand grasped the battered teapot, little finger delicately poised.

"Say, Geoff—get busy!" said Spike wistfully. "I know the teapot's a bit off on looks, but I broke the best one and—"

"I didn't even notice the teapot, Spike," said Ravenslee, meeting Hermione's quick, upward glance.

"Oh, cheese it, Geoff, here you've sat with your fork in th' turk' an' your knife in th' air, starin' at that teapot a whole minute."

"No, Spike, no! I was only thinking that tea never tastes quite right unless poured out by a woman's hand—and the fairer the hand the better the tea!"

"Which means—just what, Mr. Geoffrey?" laughed Hermione.

"Why, that Spike and I are about to drink the most delicious tea in the world, of course."

"I'd rather be eatin' that turk' when you've sawed me off a leg," sighed Spike. "I say—when you have!"

"Ah, to be sure!" said Ravenslee, turning his attention to his carving again, while Hermione bowed her golden head above the teacups.

"Gee, but she cuts tender!" quoth Spike; "that bird sure has the Indian sign on me!"

"Sugar, Mr. Geoffrey?"

"Two lumps, please."

"Milk, Mr. Geoffrey?"

"Thank you!"

"Geoff," said Spike wearily, "I cracked that milk jug last night, but you don't have to sit starin' at it that way, an' me dyin' of hunger by inches!"

"My humble apologies!" said Ravenslee, wresting his gaze from a certain curl and fixing it upon the turkey again. "I'm a little—er—distracted to-night, it seems."

"Oh, Gee!" said Spike in a hopeless tone, "now Hermy's gone an' filled my cup with milk."

"Why, boy dear, so I have!" she confessed, with a rueful laugh, and her cheeks were very pink as she rectified her mistake.

"Are you distracted too, then?" demanded Spike.

"No, I—I don't think so—no, no—of course I'm not! I—I was just—thinking, that's all!"

"Not about tea, I reckon! Say, what's gettin' you two, anyway?"

"Arthur," said she serenely, as she passed his tea, "please fetch some more hot water."

Spike sighed, rose, and taking the jug, went upon his mission.

"And how do you like Mulligan's, Mr. Geoffrey?" enquired Hermione, regarding him with her calm, level eyes.

"Very much," he answered, "I like it better and better. I think—no, I'm sure I would rather be in Mulligan's than anywhere else in the world."

"Oh! Why?"

Down went carving knife and fork, and leaning toward her he answered: "Because in Mulligan's, among many other wonders, I have found something more beautiful and far more wonderful than I ever dreamed of finding."

"In Mulligan's?" she asked, looking her amazement.

"In Mulligan's," he answered gravely. Now here, all at once, her glance wavered and sank before his.

"What do you mean?" she enquired, staring into her cup.

"Shall I tell you?"

"Yes—no!" she murmured hastily and a little breathlessly, as Spike reentered, and paused, jug in hand, to stare.

"What—haven't you served Hermy—yet?" he enquired in an injured tone.

"Certainly I have," answered Ravenslee, "here it is, you see—all ready!"

"Only you forgot t' hand it t' her, and she forgot t' take it. Well, say—for hungry folks you two are the limit!"

"'Man doth not live by bread alone,' boy; we were talking," said Ravenslee, handing Hermione her plate.

"You said you liked milk and sugar, didn't you, Mr. Geoffrey?"

"Holy Gee!" murmured Spike.

"Milk and sugar, thank you," said Ravenslee, heedful of her deepened colour.

"Geoff," enquired Spike gently, "if I was to hang on to that drumstick, d' ye suppose you might be able to hack it off for me—some day?"

"My Arthur," said Ravenslee, plying knife and fork energetically, "'tis done—behold it!"

"But surely," said Hermione, glancing up suddenly, "surely you don't—like Mulligan's, Mr. Geoffrey?"

"Like it, Miss Hermione? I—abominate it!"

"Oh!"

"Say, Geoff," mourned Spike, "don't I get any stuffin' after all?"

"Mr. Geoffrey, I've been wondering how you and Arthur met—and where, and—"

"Gee, Hermy!" Spike exclaimed, "you sure do talk! If you go on asking poor old Geoff s' many questions, he'll forget t' serve himself this week. Look at his plate!"

"Why, Mr. Geoffrey, do serve yourself, please, and—oh, my gracious! I've forgotten to give you your tea; I'm so sorry!"

Here Spike, having once again staved off the inevitable explanation, grew hilarious, and they laughed and talked the while they ate and drank with youthful, healthy appetites. And what a supper that was! What tongue could tell the gaiety and utter content that possessed them all three? What pen describe all Hermione's glowing beauty, or how her blue eyes, meeting eyes of grey would, for no perceptible reason, grow sweetly troubled, waver in their glance, and veil themselves beneath sudden, down-drooping lashes? What mere words could ever describe all the subtle, elusive witchery of her?

And Spike—ate, of course, in a blissful silence for the most part and whole-heartedly, his attention centred exclusively upon his plate; thus how should he know or care how often, across that diminished turkey, grey eyes looked into blue? As for Ravenslee, he ate and drank he knew and cared not what, content to sit and watch her when he might—the delicious curves of white neck and full, round throat, the easy grace of movement that spoke her vigorous youth; joying in the soft murmurs of her voice, the low, sweet ring of her laughter, and thrilling responsive to her warm young womanhood.

"But Mr. Geoffrey," she enquired suddenly, "if you hate Mulligan's as much as I do, whatever made you choose to live here?"

"A thrice blessed fate," he answered, "I came because—er—"

"You were a poor, lonely guy," added Spike hastily.

"Precisely, Spike! Compared to my sordid poverty Lazarus was rich, and as for the loneliness of my existence the—er—abomination of desolation was a flowery garden!"

"And how did you happen to meet Ar—"

A plate crashed to pieces on the floor, and turning, she beheld Spike very red and rueful of visage.

"'Fraid I've bent a plate, Hermy," he explained, and winking desperately at Ravenslee, he stooped to gather up the fragments.

"Oh, Arthur, and we have so few—"

"Yes, I know—but it's only the old cracked one, Hermy."

"You've broken an awful lot of things lately, boy dear," she sighed. "Never mind—get on with your supper, dear."

"Oh, I'm all right, but what about you? Gee, Hermy, you sure do talk!"

"Do I, dear?"

"Well, I guess! You keep on at poor old Geoff so he don't get a chance for a real proper chew."

"But then you see," said Ravenslee, "I would much rather talk than eat—sometimes."

"But say, Geoff—"

"Miss Hermione, you were asking how I met—"

"Hey, Geoff!" said Spike hoarsely.

"How I met your brother," continued Ravenslee, silencing the boy with a look. "Miss Hermione, I'll tell you full and freely." Here Spike took a gulp of tea and choked, also his brow grew clammy, and he stared with dilating eyes at Ravenslee, who began forthwith:

"Once upon a time, Miss Hermione, that is to say upon a certain dark night, a man sat alone, physically and mentally alone, and very wretched because his life was empty of all achievement—because, having been blessed with many opportunities, he had never done anything worth while. And as he sat there, looking back through the wasted years, this miserable fool was considering, in his wretched folly, the cowardly sin of self-destruction, because he was sick of the world and all things in it—especially of his own useless self! But I hope I don't—er—bore you, do I?"

"No," she answered a little breathlessly, gazing at him with eyes deep and tender; "go on—please go on!"

"Well," continued Ravenslee gravely, "Destiny, or Heaven, or the Almighty, taking pity on this sorry fool, sent to him an angel in the shape of—your brother."

"Of—Arthur?" she exclaimed, while Spike's rigid attitude relaxed, and he drew a sudden, deep breath.

"Of Arthur!" nodded Ravenslee. "And Arthur lifted him out of the Slough of Despond and taught him that life might be a useful thing after all, if he could but find some object to help him—one who might inspire him to nobler things. And so he came here, hoping to find this object."

"An object?" she enquired softly.

"The Definite Object!" he answered, "with capital letters. One who might make life truly worth while. One who, teaching him to forget himself, should lift him to better things. An object to live for, work for, and if necessary to—die for!"

Here Spike, finding himself utterly forgotten again, sighed in deep and audible relief, and taking up knife and fork, fell to with renewed appetite, while Hermione, chin rested on folded hands, gazed into Ravenslee's grave face.

"Do you think he will ever—find his Object?"

"Oh, yes!"

"You seem very—confident."

"I am! You see, she's found."

"She?" exclaimed Hermione, her eyes beginning to waver.

"With a capital S," said he, leaning nearer. "The Woman! And it's right here that his difficulties begin, because in the first place he is so humble and she is so proud and—"

"Proud?" said she, glancing up swiftly.

"And so very beautiful!" he continued.

"Oh!" said she, and this time she did not look at him.

"Say," quoth Spike, "I think I could go another drumstick, Geoff."

"And in the second place, he is so unworthy and she so—"

"An' a bit more stuflin', Geoff," sighed Spike.

"Can she—help him?" enquired Hermione, stirring her tea absently.

"She is the only one who can—help me."

"Oh!" said Hermione again, very softly this time, stirring a little faster; and, conscious of his glance, flushed deliciously and was silent awhile. As for Spike, he glanced from one rapt face to the other and—unostentatiously helped himself to more turkey.

"But," said Hermione at last, "how can—she help?"

"By constant association," answered Ravenslee, "by affording me the daily example of her sweet self-forgetfulness and blameless life."

"Are you sure she is so—very good?"

"I am sure she is braver and nobler than any woman I have ever known!"

Once more Spike glanced from the flushed beauty of his sister's half-averted face to Ravenslee's shining eyes, and boldly helped himself to more seasoning.

"Have you known her very long, Mr. Geoffrey?"

"Long enough to know she is—the only woman!"

"Say, Geoff," sighed Spike, "I guess old Pffeff was right about this bird; she kind o' melts—'n' say—she's meltin' fast! If you two don't stop chewin' d' rag an' get busy you'll be too late for this bird, because this bird is sure a bird of passage and—Holy Gee!" he broke off, as a knock sounded on the outer door, "who's this, I wonder?"

Before he could rise, Hermione had vanished into the passage.

"Say, Geoff," he whispered, "how if it's Bud?"

Ravenslee frowned and pushed back his chair, but in that moment they heard Hermione's glad welcome: "Why, Ann, you dear thing, you're just in time for the turkey—come right in."

"Turkey, my dear!" spoke the harsh voice of Mrs. Trapes. "Turkey—land sakes! But I only jest stepped over t' ask if you'd happened to find that lodger o' mine anywheres—why, Lord bless me!" she broke off, halting in the doorway as she beheld Ravenslee. "Lordy Lord, if he ain't a-settin' there, cool as ever was! If he ain't a-eatin' an' drinkin' an' me cookin' him at this moment the loveliest mutton chop you ever see! A mutton chop wiv a kidney, as he ordered most express—Lord, Mr. Geoffrey!"

"Why, to be sure," said Ravenslee, rising. "I forgot all about that chop, Mrs. Trapes."

"Didn't you order it most express—cut thick—an' wiv a kidney?"

"I did," said Ravenslee penitently.

"Well—there it is, cooked to a turn, an' nobody t' eat it! An' kidneys is rose again—kidneys is always risin'. Lord, Mr. Geoffrey!"

"Why, you see, Mrs. Trapes, we—that is, I had a birthday not long ago, and we're celebrating."

"And so shall you, Ann," said Hermione, "sit down, dear!"

"An' me in me oldest apron?" said Mrs. Trapes, squaring her elbows, "my dear, I couldn't—an' I wouldn't! But, oh! Mr. Geoffrey, what about that beautiful chop? I might warm it over for your breakfast?"

"Heaven forbid!"

"Then I must eat it myself, I suppose, though it do seem a shame to waste such a lovely chop on Ann Angelina Trapes! But, Hermy dear, I just been down to see Mrs. Bowker, an' her little Hazel's very bad—her poor little hip again, an' she's coughin' too, somethin' dreadful."

"Poor little Hazel! Did she ask for me, Ann?"

"Well, my dear, she did, an' Mrs. Bowker did ask if you'd go an' look at her—but I do hate t' disturb ye, that I do!"

"Oh, it's all right, Ann. Tell Mrs. Bowker I'll be right down."

"I will so, but it's a dratted shame as you should shoulder everybody's troubles, that it is."

"Oh, Ann—as though I do! And then how about yourself, dear—what of the Baxters and the Ryders, and Mrs. Tipping's baby and—"

"My land!" cried Mrs. Trapes, "that chop'll be a cinder!" and she hurried away.

"Poor little Hazel," said Hermione, coming to a small corner cupboard. "She's such a dear, quaint little person! You must have seen her on the stairs, Mr. Geoffrey."

"I see so many on the stairs, Miss Hermione, and they are always small and generally quaint."

"Hazel's got a game leg, Geoff," said Spike, "an' she hops around on a little crutch. She told me yesterday she thought you was—I mean were—a fairy prince, because you always bow an' tip your lid to her when she says 'good morning.' So now she waits for you every morning, Geoff—says it makes her feel like she was a real fairy princess in a story-book. Sounds kind o' batty to me, though."

Hermione was standing on tiptoe endeavouring to reach a certain bottle upon the top shelf where were ranged many others of various shapes and sizes, when Ravenslee's big hand did it for her; but when she would have taken it, he shook his head.

"I should like to go with you, if I may," he said, "to be—er—formally introduced to the princess."

"But—" began Hermione, hesitating.

"Also I could carry the bottle for you."

"Why, if you will do all that—" she smiled.

"Thanks!" he answered, and putting the bottle in his pocket, he opened the door.

"Hey, Geoff," Spike called after him, "you've forgot to kiss the turkey good-by!"

"Why then, you can do it for me, Spike!" he answered, and followed Hermione out upon the landing.

Side by side they descended the stair, in the doing of which her soft shoulder met him once, and once he thrilled to feel her hand touch his in the shadow, but this hand was hastily withdrawn; also, though the light was dim, he saw that she was frowning and biting her red underlip.

"These stairs are rather—narrow, aren't they?" said she, drawing to the wall.

"Delightfully!" he answered, drawing to the rail; and so they went down very silently with the width of the stairs between them.

WHEREIN MAY BE FOUND SOME PARTICULARS OF THE BEAUTIFUL CITY OF PERHAPS

Mrs. Bowker was a small woman, worn and faded like her carpets and curtains and the dress she wore, but, like them, she was very clean and neat.

"'T is real good of you to come, Miss Hermy," said this small, faded woman, and Ravenslee thought her very voice sounded faded, so repressed and dismally soft was it. "I wouldn't have had the face t' send for you, Miss Hermy, only Hazel calls an' calls, like she's doin' now—listen!"

And sure enough from somewhere near by a small voice reached them, pitifully faint and thin: "Hermy dear, come t' me—oh, Hermy dear!"

"She allus lays an' calls like that lately when her poor hip's worse 'n usual," sighed Mrs. Bowker. "And your gentleman friend—would he like t' see her too?"

"Thank you, I should," answered Ravenslee in his soft, pleasant voice.

"Oh, Mrs. Bowker, this is Mr. Geoffrey," said Hermione a trifle hurriedly, "he came with me to—to—"

"Be presented to the princess, if she will honour me," he added.

"Ah!" said Mrs. Bowker, looking up at him with a faded smile, "Hazel told me you had a pretty voice, sir, an' I guess I know what she meant. She sets out on the stairs when she's well enough an' has often seen ye."

"Hermy, dear, come t' me—oh, Hermy dear!" called the little voice.

"Yes, go in, my dear, you know y' way, I guess," sighed Mrs. Bowker, passing a small, worn hand across her faded eyes. "There's five dozen more collar-bands I must stitch an' buttonhole t'night—so go your ways, my dear." So saying, Mrs. Bowker went back to her labour, which was very hard labour indeed, while Hermione led the way into a tiny room, where, on a small, neat truckle-bed covered by a faded quilt, a small, pale child lay fading fast. But at sight of her visitors, two big, brown eyes grew bigger yet, and her pale, thin little cheeks flushed eagerly.

"Oh, Hermy dear!" she cried, clasping frail hands, "oh, Hermy, you've brought him—you've brought me our fairy prince at last!"

Now what was there in these childish words to cause Hermione's eyes to droop so suddenly as she took the bottle from Ravenslee's hand, or her rounded cheek to flush so painfully as she stooped to meet the child's eager kiss, or, when she turned away to measure a dose of the medicine, to be such an unconscionable time over it? Observing all of which, Ravenslee forthwith saluted the small invalid with a grave bow, battered hat gracefully flourished.

"It is truly an honour to meet you, princess!" said he, and lifting the child's frail little hand, he touched it to his lips. Thereafter, obeying the mute appeal of that hand, he seated himself upon the narrow bed, while Hermione, soft-voiced and tender, bent above the invalid, who, having obediently swallowed her medicine, leaned back on her pillow and smiled from one to the other.

"And now," said she, drawing Hermione down at her other side and snuggling between, "now please let's all tell some more fairy tale; an' please, you begin, Hermy, just where you had t' leave off last time."

"Why, I—I'm afraid I've forgotten, dear," said Hermione, bending to smooth the child's pillow.

"Forgotten—oh, Hermy! But I 'member quite well; you got where poor Princess Nobody was climbing the mountain very tired an' sad an' carrying her heavy pack, an' all at once—along came the Prince an' took her heavy bundle and said he'd love to carry it for her always if she'd let him. An' poor Nobody knew he was the real Prince at last—the Prince she'd dreamed of an' waited for all her life, 'cos he'd got grey eyes so brave an' true—an' he was so big an' strong an' noble. So he helped her to the top of the mountain, an' then she thought at last she could see the beautiful City of Perhaps. That's where you got to—don't you 'member, Hermy dear?"

Now why should Hermione's shapely head have drooped and drooped until at last her face was hidden on the pillow? And why should Geoffrey Ravenslee reach to touch the child's hair with hand so light and tender?

"The beautiful City of Perhaps," said he gently, "why, Princess, where did you learn about that?"

"From dear Princess Nobody, oh, Prince!"

"And who is she?"

"Why, she's Hermy, Prince—and I'm Princess Somebody. And oh, Hermy dear, you do 'member where you left off now, don't you?"

"Yes, I remember; but I—don't feel like telling fairy stories now, dear."

"Oh! are y' sick?" cried the child anxiously, touching Hermione's golden hair with loving fingers, "is it a headache like my mumsey gets?"

"N-no, dear, only I—I don't feel like telling any more of our story—to-night—somehow, dear."

"Princess," said Ravenslee, "do you know much about the wonderful City of Perhaps?"

"Oh, yes—an' I dream about it sometimes, Prince—such beautiful dreams!"

"Why, of course," nodded Ravenslee, "because it is the most beautiful City that ever happened, I guess!"

"Oh, it is!" cried the child, "shall I tell you?"

"Please do, Princess."

"Well, it's all made of crystal an' gold, an' every one's happy there and never sick—oh, never! An' all the children can have ices an' cream sodas whenever they want an' lovely doll-carriages with rubber on the wheels an'—an' everything's just lovely. Of course every one's daddy's got lots an' heaps an' piles of money, so they never get behind with the rent an' never have to set up all night stitching an' stitching like mumsey an' Hermy have to sometimes. An' I'm Princess Somebody, an' Hermy's Princess Nobody, an' we're on our ways through the valley of gloom, trying to find the beautiful City of Perhaps—but oh, it's awful hard to find!" she ended, with a weary little sigh.

"And yet, Princess, I'm sure we shall find it."

"We? Oh, are you coming too, Prince?" cried the child joyfully.

"To be sure I am!" nodded Ravenslee.

"Oh, goody, I'm glad—so glad, 'cause I know we shall find it now!"

"Why?"

"Well," answered the child, looking at him with her big, wistful eyes, "'cause you look like you could find it, somehow. You see, Prince, you've got grey eyes so brave an' true—an' you're big an' strong an' could carry me an' Hermy over the thorny places when we get very, very tired—couldn't you?"

"I could!" answered Ravenslee almost grimly, "and I—surely will!"

"When we get there, Prince, I want first—a doll-carriage an' a doll with lovely blue eyes that wink at you, an' a big box of candy, an' a new dress for my mumsey, an' no more work, an' I want lots an' lots of flowers for my daddy 'cause he loves flowers—oh, an' I want my leg t' be made well. What d' you want, Hermy?"

"Well, dear, I want to—say good-by to my sewing-machine for ever and ever and ever!"

"Why, Hermy!" exclaimed the child, "last time you said you wanted some one who could give you your heart's desire!"

"Perhaps that is my heart's desire, little Hazel," said Hermione, rising and taking up the medicine bottle.

"An' what do you want, Prince?"

"I want a great deal," answered Ravenslee, smiling down into the big, soft eyes. "I want some one who—is my heart's desire now and for ever and ever. Good night, dear little Princess!"

"You'll come again, Prince?" she pleaded, holding up her face to be kissed, "you'll come again soon?"

"As soon as—Princess Nobody will bring me."

"Good night, Hermy dear; you'll bring our Prince again soon?"

"If you wish, dear," said Hermione, stooping to kiss her in turn.

"Why, Hermy—what makes your cheeks so hot to-night?"

"Are they?" said Hermione, making pretence to test them with the back of her hand.

"Why, yes," nodded the child, "an' they look so red an'—"

"Of course you believe in fairies, don't you, Princess?" enquired Ravenslee rather hurriedly.

"Oh, yes, Prince, I often see them in my dreams. They just wait till I'm asleep, an' then they come an' show themselves. Do you ever see any?"

"Well, your highness, I fancy I have lately, and when fairies are around, things are sure to happen; wishes get the habit of coming true. So, little Princess, just go on wishing and dreaming and—watch out!"

Then Ravenslee turned and followed Hermione out upon the dingy landing; but as he climbed the stair, there went with him the memory of a little face, very thin and pale, but radiant and all aglow with rapturous hope. Silently as they had come they mounted the stairs, until, reaching the topmost landing, they paused as by mutual consent.

"Poor little Hazel!" said Hermione very gently, "if only there were real fairies to spirit her away to where the air is sweet and pure and flowers grow for little hands to gather—the doctor told me it was her only chance."

"Why, then of course she must have her chance!" said Ravenslee with a sleepy nod.

"But, Mr. Geoffrey—how?"

"Well—er—the fairies—you said something about fairies spiriting—"

"The fairies!" said Hermione a little bitterly, "I guess they are too busy over their own affairs to trouble about a poor, little, sick child; besides, what fairy could possibly live five minutes in—Mulligan's?"

"Which leaves us," said Ravenslee thoughtfully, "which leaves us the beautiful City of Perhaps. It is a wonderful thought, that!"

"But only a thought!" she sighed.

"Is it? Are you quite sure?"

"Well, isn't it?" she questioned wistfully.

"No!" he answered gravely, "the City of Perhaps is very, very real."

"What do you mean?"

Once again their hands touched in the shadow, but this time his fingers closed upon her hand, the hand that held the medicine bottle, drawing her nearer in the dimness of that dingy landing.

"I mean," he answered, "that for every one of us there is a City of Perhaps waiting to open its gates to our coming, and I am sure we shall reach it sooner or later, all three of us—the Princess and you and I—yes, even I, when I have done something worth while. And then, Hermione, then—nothing shall keep me from—my heart's delight—nothing, Hermione!" As he ended, she felt an arm about her in the dimness; an arm fierce and strong that gripped and swept her close—then, as suddenly, loosed her. For a breathless moment he stood with head bowed in seeming humility, then, stooping, he crushed her hand, medicine bottle and all, to lips that burned with anything but humility.

"Good night, dear Princess Nobody!" he said, and watched her turn away, nor moved until the door had closed upon her. That night he smoked many pipes, weaving him fancies of the beautiful City of Perhaps, and dreamed dreams of what might be, and his eyes glowed bright and wide, and his mouth grew alternately grim and tender. And, that night, long after he lay asleep, Hermione's golden head was bowed above her work, but, more than once she stayed her humming sewing-machine to look at one white hand with eyes shy and wistful—the hand that had held the medicine bottle, of course.

OF A TEXT, A LETTER, AND A SONG

Ravenslee opened his eyes to find his small chamber full of a glory of sun which poured a flood of radiance across his narrow bed; it brought out the apoplectic roses on the wall paper and lent a new lustre to the dim and faded gold frame that contained a fly-blown card whereon was the legend:

And with his gaze upon this time-honoured text, Ravenslee smiled, and leaping out of bed proceeded to wash and shave and dress, pausing often to glance glad-eyed from his open window upon the glory of the new day. And indeed it was a morning of all-pervading beauty, one such that even Mulligan's, its dingy bricks and mortar mellowed by the sun, seemed less unlovely than its wont, and its many windows, catching a sunbeam here and there, winked and twinkled waggishly.

So Ravenslee washed and shaved and dressed, glancing now and then from this transfigured Mulligan's to the fly-blown text upon the wall, and once he laughed, though not very loudly to be sure, and once he hummed a song and so fell to soft whistling, all of which was very strange in Geoffrey Ravenslee.

The sun, it is true, radiates life and joy; before his beneficence gloom and depression flee away, and youth and health grow strong to achieve the impossible; even age and sickness, bathed in his splendour, may forget awhile their burdens and dream of other days. Truly sunshine is a thrice blessed thing. And yet, as Ravenslee tied the neckerchief about his brawny throat, was it by reason of the sun alone that his grey eyes were so bright and joyous and that he whistled so soft and merrily?

Having brushed his hair and settled his vivid-hued neckerchief to his liking, he turned, and stooping over his humble bed, slipped a hand beneath the tumbled pillow and drew thence a letter; a somewhat crumpled missive, this, that he had borne about with him all the preceding day and read and reread at intervals even as he proceeded to do now, as, standing in the radiant sunbeams, he unfolded a sheet of very ordinary note paper and slowly scanned these lines written in a bold, flowing hand:

Truly the sun is a thrice-blessed thing—and yet—! Having read this over with the greatest attention, taking preposterous heed to every dot and comma, having carefully refolded it, slipped it into the envelope and hidden it upon his person, he raised his eyes to the spotted text upon the wall.

"You're right," quoth he, nodding, "an altogether wise precept and one I have had by heart ever since she blessed my sight. I must introduce you to her at the earliest—the very earliest opportunity."

Then he fell to whistling softly again, and opening the door, stepped out into the bright little sitting room. Early though it was, Mrs. Trapes was already astir in her kitchen, and since sunshine is indubitably a worker of wonders, Mrs. Trapes was singing, rather harshly to be sure, yet singing nevertheless, and this was her song:

The song ended abruptly as, opening the door, she beheld her lodger.

"Lordy Lord, Mr. Geoffrey," she exclaimed a little reproachfully, "whatever are you a-doin' of, up an' dressed an' not half-past five yet?"

"Enjoying the morning, Mrs. Trapes, and yearning for my breakfast."

"Ah, that's just like a man; they're almighty good yearners till they get what they yearns for—then they yearns for somethin' else—immediate!"

"Well, but I suppose women yearn too, sometimes, don't they?"

"Not they; women can only hope an' sigh an' languish an' break their hearts in silence, poor dears."

"What for?"

"Would a couple o' fresh eggs an' a lovely ham rasher soot ye?" enquired Mrs. Trapes.

"They will suit."

"Then I'll go and fry' em!"

"And I'll come and look on, if I may," said he, and followed her into her neat kitchen.

"And how," said Mrs. Trapes, as she prepared to make the coffee, "how's the peanut trade, Mr. Geoffrey?"

"Flourishing, thanks."

"The idea of you a-sellin' peanuts!"

"Well, I've only been guilty of it four days so far, Mrs. Trapes."

"Anyway, you've disgusted Hermy!"

"Ah, so you told her, did you?"

"O' course I did!"

"And what did she say?"

"Laughed at first."

"She has a beautiful laugh!" said Ravenslee musingly.

"An' then she got thoughtful—"

"She's loveliest when she's thoughtful, I think," said Ravenslee.

"An' then she got mad at you an' frowned—"

"She's very handsome when she frowns!" said Ravenslee.

"Oh, shucks!" said his landlady, slapping the ham rasher into the pan.

"And she was very angry, was she?"

"I should say so!" snorted Mrs. Trapes, "stamped her foot an' got red in the face—"

"I love to see her flush!" said Ravenslee musingly again.

"Said she wondered at you, she did! Said you was a man without any pride or ambition—an' that's what I say too—peanuts!"

"They're very wholesome!" he murmured.

"Sellin' peanuts ain't a man's job, no more than grinding a organ is."

"There's money in peanuts!"

"Money!" said Mrs. Trapes, wriggling her elbow joints. "How much did you make yesterday—come?"

"Fifty cents."

"Fifty cents!" she almost screamed, "is that all?"

"No—pardon me! There were three pimply youths on Forty-second Street—they brought it up to seventy-five."

"Only seventy-five cents? But you sold out your stock; Tony told me you did."

"Oh, yes, trade was very brisk yesterday."

"And you sold everything for seventy-five cents?"

"Not exactly, Mrs. Trapes. You see, the majority of customers on my beat are very—er—small, and their pecuniary capabilities necessarily somewhat—shall we say restricted? Consequently, I have adopted the—er—deferred payment system."

"Land sakes!" said Mrs. Trapes, staring, "d'ye mean ter say—"

"That my method of business is strictly—credit."

"Now look-a-here, Mr. Geoffrey, I'm talkin' serious an' don't want none o' your jokes or jollying."

"Solemn as an owl, Mrs. Trapes!"

"Well, then, how d' you suppose you can keep a wife and children, maybe, by selling peanuts that way or any way?"

"Oh, when I marry I shall probably turn my—attention to—er—other things, Mrs. Trapes."

"What things?"

"Well—to my wife, in the first place."

"Oh, Mr. Geoffrey, you make me tired!"

"Alas, Mrs. Trapes, I frequently grow tired of myself."

Mrs. Trapes turned away to give her attention to the ham.

"Did ye see that b'y Arthur yesterday?" she enquired presently over her shoulder.

"Yes."

"How's he like his noo job?"

"Well, I can't say that he seems—er—fired with a passion for it."

"Office work, ain't it?"

"I believe it is."

"Well, you mark my words, that b'y won't keep it a week."

"Oh, I don't know," said Ravenslee, "he seemed quite content."

"You took him to the theayter las' night, didn't you? Wastin' your good money, eh?"

"Not very much, Mrs. Trapes," said her lodger humbly.

Mrs. Trapes sniffed. "Anyway, it's a good thing you had him safe out o' the way, as it happens."

"Why?"

"Because that loafer M'Ginnis was hanging around for him all the evenin'. Even had the dratted imperence to come in here an' ask me where he was."

"And what did you tell him?"

"Tell him?" she repeated. "What did I not tell him!" Her voice was gentle, but what words could convey all the quivering ferocity of her elbows! "Mr. Geoffrey, I told Bud M'Ginnis just exactly what kind o' a beast Bud M'Ginnis is. I told Bud M'Ginnis where Bud M'Ginnis come from an' where Bud M'Ginnis would go to. I told Bud M'Ginnis the character of his mother an' father, very plain an' p'inted."

"And what did he say?"

"He say! Mr. Geoffrey, I didn't give him a chance to utter a single word, of course. An' when I'd said all there was to say, I picked up my heaviest flatiron, as happened to be handy, an' ordered him out; and Mr. Geoffrey, Bud M'Ginnis—went!"

"Under the circumstances," said Ravenslee, "I'm not surprised that he did."

"Ah, but he'll come back again, Mr. Geoffrey; he'll find Arthur alone next time, an' Arthur'll go along with him, and then—good night! The b'y'll get drunk an' lose his job like he did last time."

"Why, then, he mustn't find Arthur alone."

"And who's t' stop him?"

"I."

"Mr. Geoffrey, you're big an' strong, but M'Ginnis is stronger—and yet—" Mrs. Trapes ran a speculative eye over Ravenslee's lounging form. "H'm!" said she musingly, "but even if you did happen to lick him, what about th' gang?"

"Echo, Mrs. Trapes, promptly answers, 'what'?"

"Well, Mr. Geoffrey, I can tell ye there's been more 'n one poor feller killed around here to my knowing—yes, sir!"

"But the police?"

"Perlice!" snorted Mrs. Trapes. "M'Ginnis an' his father have a big pull with Tammany, an' Tammany is the perlice. Anyways, Mr. Geoffrey, don't you go having no trouble with Bud M'Ginnis; leave him to some one as is as much a brute-beast as he is."

"But then—what of Spike?"

"Oh, drat him! If Arthur ain't got the horse sense to know who's his worst enemy, he ain't worth a clean man riskin' his life over—for it would be your life you'd risk, Mr. Geoffrey—mark my words!"

"Mrs. Trapes, your anxiety on my account flatters me, also I'm glad to know you think me a clean man. But all men must take risks—some for money, some for honour, and some for the pure love of it. Personally, I rather like a little risk—just a suspicion, if it's for something worth while."

"Mr. Geoffrey, what are you gettin' at?"

"Well, I would remind you that Spike has—a sister!"

"Ah!" said Mrs. Trapes, and her lined face took on a sudden anxious expression.

"Therefore, I've been contemplating—er—tackling Mr. M'Ginnis—at a proper and auspicious time, of course."

"An' what o' the gang?"

"Oh, drat the gang, Mrs. Trapes."

"But you don't mean as you'd fight M'Ginnis?"

"Well—er—the thought has occurred to me, Mrs. Trapes, though I'm quite undecided on the matter, and—er—I believe my breakfast is burning!"

"My land!" ejaculated Mrs. Trapes, turning to snatch the pan from the stove, "I'm afraid the fire's ketched it a bit, Mr. Geoffrey—"

"No matter."

"An' now there's the coffee b'ilin' over!"

"Let me help you," said Ravenslee, rising.

"Anyway, your breakfast's ready, so come an' eat it while it's good an' hot."

"On condition that you eat with me."

"What, eat wi' you, Mr. Geoffrey—in my best parlour—an' me in me workin' clo'es?"

"Ah, to be sure—not to be thought of, Mrs. Trapes; then we'll breakfast here in the kitchen."

"Would ye mind?"

"Should love it."

So down they sat together, and Ravenslee vowed the ham was all ham should be and the eggs beyond praise. And when his hunger was somewhat appeased, Mrs. Trapes leaned her bony elbows on the table and questioned him.

"You ain't ever spoke to Hermy, have you, Mr. Geoffrey?"

"Very often, lately."

"I mean—you ain't opened your 'eart to her—matrimonially, have you?"

"No!"

"Why, then, I'll tell you what—there's been times when I've been afraid that for the sake o' that b'y she'd sacrifice herself to Bud M'Ginnis."

"No, she would never do that, Mrs. Trapes."

"Oh, but she would."

"But, you see, she couldn't!"

"And why not?"

"Oh, well, because—er—I should kill him first."

"Land sakes, Mr. Geoffrey!" and Mrs. Trapes actually blenched before the glare in his eyes that was so strangely at odds with his soft, lazy tones.

"And that ends it!" he nodded. "Mrs. Trapes, I've made up my mind!"

"What about?"

"Mr. M'Ginnis. I'll begin to-day."

"Begin what?"

"To prepare myself to bestow on him the thrashing of his life!" So saying, Ravenslee stretched lazily and finally got up. "Good morning, Mrs. Trapes!" said he.

"But where are ye going?" she demanded.

"To my peanuts," he answered gravely. "'Man is born to labour,' you, know."

"But it's early yet."

"But I have much to do—and she laughed at me for being a peanut man, did she, Mrs. Trapes—she frowned and flushed and stamped her pretty foot at me, did she?"

"She did so, Mr. Geoffrey!"

"I'm glad!" he answered. "Yes, I'm very glad she frowned and stamped her foot at me. By the way, I like that text in my bedroom."

"Text?" said Mrs. Trapes, staring.

"'Love one another,'" he nodded. "It is a very—very beautiful sentiment—sometimes. Anyway, I'm glad she frowned and stamped at me, Mrs. Trapes; you can tell her I said so if you happen to think of it when she comes home." And Ravenslee smiled, and turning away, was gone.

"Well," said Mrs. Trapes, staring at the closed door, "of all the—well, well!" Then she sighed, shook her head, and fell to washing up the breakfast things.

WHICH INTRODUCES JOE AND THE OLD UN

The clocks were striking nine as, according to his custom of late, Geoffrey Ravenslee trundled his barrow blithely along Thirty-eighth Street, halting now and then at the shrill, imperious summons of some small customer, or by reason of the congestion of early traffic, or to swear whole-heartedly and be sworn at by some indignant Jehu. At length he came to Eleventh Avenue and to a certain quarter where the whistle of a peanut barrow was seldom heard, and peanuts were a luxury.

And here, in a dismal, small street hard by the river, behold Ravenslee halt his gaily painted pushcart, whereat a shrill clamour arises that swells upon the air, a joyous babel; and forth from small and dismal homes, from narrow courts and the purlieus adjacent, his customers appear. They race, they gambol, they run and toddle, for these customers are very small and tender and grimy, but each small face is alight with joyous welcome, and they hail him with rapturous acclaim. Even the few tired-looking mothers, peeping from windows or glancing from doorways, smile and nod and forget awhile their weariness in the children's delight, as Ravenslee, the battered hat cocked at knowing angle, proceeds to "business." Shrill voices supplicate him, little feet patter close around him, small hands, eagerly outstretched, appeal to him. Anon rise shrieks and infantile crowings of delight as each small hand is drawn back grasping a plump paper bag—shrieks and crowings that languish and die away, one by one, since no human child may shriek properly and chew peanuts at one and the same time. And in a while, his stock greatly diminished, Ravenslee trundles off and leaves behind him women who smile still and small boys and girls who munch in a rapturous silence.

On he went, his oven whistling soft and shrill, his long legs striding between the shafts, until, reaching a certain bleak corner, he halted again, though to be sure there were few people hereabouts and no children. But upon the opposite corner was a saloon, with a large annex and many outbuildings behind, backing upon the river, and Ravenslee, lounging on the handles of his barrow, examined this unlovely building with keen eye from beneath his hat brim, for above the swing doors appeared the words: