“Have you forgotten it? I wish you would sing it for me,” and his hand slipped over hers.

“Why—yes, dear. I go singing about the house for company when no one is here; but old voices are apt to get thin in places, you know.”

He did not say he had hunted up an old hymn-book, and read the words over and over. He was ashamed that the children’s talk had taken such hold of him. But presently he joined in, keeping his really fine tenor voice down to a low key, and they sang together.

Then there was the soft silence of a country afternoon—the hushed sweetness of innumerable voices that are always telling of God’s wonders.

“John,” she said, in her low, caressing sort of tone that she had kept from girlhood, “I think heaven won’t be quite perfect to me until I hear your voice among the multitude no man can number.”

That was all. She had let her life of seventy-four years do her preaching. But she still prayed for her sheaves.

How had he come to have so much courage on Saturday afternoon, and so little now? Of course he could not be quite sure. And there would be Austin’s incredulous laugh.

They went on to the Adirondacks. He made a sketch of Bess, and sent it to a photographer’s with instructions. He was delighted with the artist group. He was planning out his winter. He would take a studio with some one. He would see what he could do for the Quinn children, and paint his fine picture. She would see it when it was exhibited somewhere. There would be a curious satisfaction in it. And yet he was carrying around with him every day three faded, shrivelled wild-rose buds.

And then one day they brought in Austin Travis insensible—dead, maybe. There was a little blood stain on his face and his golden brown beard; and it was an hour before they could restore him to consciousness. Just by a miracle he had been saved. A bit of rock that seemed so secure, had been secure for centuries perhaps, split off, taking him down with it. He had the presence of mind to throw away his gun, but the fall had knocked him insensible. He had lain some time before the others found him. There were bruises, a dislocated shoulder, and three broken ribs. Surgery could soon mend those. But there was a puncture in the magnificent lungs, such a little thing to change all one’s life; and at first he rebelled with a giant’s strength. Life was so much to him, all to him. He could not go down into nothingness with his days but half told.

Out of all the plans and advice it was settled to try the south of France, and perhaps the Madeira Isles, to take such good care and have such an equable climate that the wound might heal. And John was to be his companion and nurse and friend for all the lighter offices. Austin had hardly allowed him to go out of his sight.

They had returned to New York. Everything was arranged. Austin was impatient to be off before cold weather. For three days John never had a moment; but Bess and Dil had not been out of his mind, and he could steal this afternoon; so, with book and picture, he set out for Barker’s Court, not much clearer about the way to heaven than he had been six weeks before.

Barker’s Court was not inviting to-day, with its piles of garbage, and wet clothes hanging about like so many miserable ghosts.

“Is it Misses Quinn ye want, or old Granny Quinn?” queried the woman he questioned. “Granny lives up to th’ end, an’ Misses Quinn’s is the third house, up-stairs.”

It was semi-twilight. He picked his way up and knocked gently.

So gently, Dil was sure of a customer for her mother. The babies were asleep. Bess was fixed in her wagon. Dil had some patches of bright colors that she was going to sew together, and make a new carriage rug.

She opened the door just a little way. He pushed it wider, and glanced in.

“Oh, have you forgotten me?” he exclaimed. “Did you think I would not come?”

Dil stood in a strange, sweet, guilty abasement. She had disbelieved him. Bess gave a soft, thrilling cry of delight, and stretched out her hands.

“I knew you would come,” and there was a tremulous exaltation in her weak voice.

“I’ve only been in town a few days. I have been staying with a cousin who met with a sad accident and is still ill. But I have run away for an hour or two; and I have brought Bess’s picture.”

He was taking a little survey of the room. The stove shone. The floor was clean. The white curtain made a light spot in the half gloom. The warmth felt grateful, coming out of the chilly air, though it was rather close. Dil did not look as well as on the summer day. Her eyes were heavy, with purple shadows underneath; the “bang” of the morning had left some traces. And Bess was wasted to a still frailer wraith, if such a thing was possible.

They both looked up eagerly, as he untied the package, and slipped out of an envelope a delicately tinted photograph.

“There, blue eyes, will it do for Dil?”

The child gave a rapturous cry. Dil stood helpless from astonishment.

“There ain’t no words good enough,” Dil said brokenly. “Leastways, I don’t know any. O Bess, he’s made you look jes’ ’s if you was well. O mister, will she look that way in heaven?” For Dil had a vague misgiving she could never look that way on earth.

“She will be more beautiful, because she will never be ill again.”

“Dil’s right—there ain’t no words to praise it,” Bess said simply. “If we was rich we’d give you hundreds and hundreds of dollars, wouldn’t we, Dil?”

Dil nodded. Her eyes were full of tears. Something she had never known before struggled within her, and almost rent her soul.

“And here is your book. You can read, of course?”

“I can read some. Oh, how good you are to remember.” She was deeply conscience stricken.

The tone moved him immeasurably. His eyelids quivered. There were thousands of poor children in the world, some much worse off than these. He could not minister to all of them, but he did wish he could put these two in a different home.

“I must go away again with my cousin, and I am sorry. I meant to”—what could he do, he wondered—“to see more of you this winter; but a friend of mine will visit you, and bring you a little gift now and then. You must have spent all your money long ago,” flushing at the thought of the paltry sum.

“We stretched it a good deal,” said Dil quaintly. “You see, I bought Bess some clo’es, there didn’t seem much comin’ in for her. An’ the fruit was so lovely. She’s been so meachin’.”

“Well, I am going to be—did you ever read Cinderella?” he asked eagerly.

“I ain’t had much time for readin’, an’ Bess couldn’t go to school but such a little while.”

“And no one has told you the story?”

There was a curious eagerness in the sort of blank surprise.

“Well, this little Cinderella did kitchen work; and sat in the chimney-corner when her work was done, while her sisters dressed themselves up fine and went to parties. One evening a curious old woman came, a fairy godmother, and touched her with a wand, a queer little stick she always carried, and turned her old rags into silks and satins, and made a chariot for her, and sent her to the ball at the king’s palace.”

“Oh,” interposed Dil breathlessly, “she didn’t have to come back to her rags, an’ chimney, an’ all, did she?”

“She did come back, because her fairy godmother told her to. But the king’s son sent for her and married her.”

“Oh, if she’d only come to us, Dil!” Bess had a quicker and more vivid imagination. She had not been so hard worked, nor had her head banged so many times. “We’d have the char—what did you call it? an’ go to heaven. Then you wouldn’t have to wheel me, Dil, an’ we’d get along so much faster.” She laughed with a glad, happy softness, and her little face was alight with joy. “Say, mister, you must think I’ve got heaven on the brain. But if you’d had hurted legs so long, you’d want to get to the Lord Jesus an’ have ’em made well. I keep thinkin’ over what you told us ’bout your Lord Jesus, an’ I know it’s true because you’ve come back.”

Such a little thing; such great faith! And he had been comparing claims, discrepancies, and wondering, questioning, afraid to believe a delusion. Was he truly his Lord Jesus? The simple belief of the children touched, melted him. It was like finding a rare and exquisite blossom in an arid desert. He wished he were not going away. He would like to care for little Bess until the time of her release came. Ah, would they be disillusioned when they came to know what the real pilgrimage was?

“There ain’t no fairies truly,” said Dil with pathetic gravity. “There ain’t much of anything for poor people.”

“I can’t take you to a palace; but when I come back I mean you shall have a nice, comfortable home in a prettier place—”

“Mother wouldn’t let Dil go on ’count of the babies. There ain’t but two to-day, ’n’ she was awful mad! ’N’ I wouldn’t go athout Dil. No one else ’d know how to take care of me.”

“We will have that all right. And while I am gone you must have some money to buy medicines and the little luxuries your mother cannot afford.”

“She don’t buy nothin’ ever. I ain’t no good, ’cause I’ll never walk, ’n’ only Dil cares about me,” Bess said, as if she had so long accepted the fact the sting was blunted.

“Yes, I care; and I will send a friend here to see you, a young lady, and you need not be afraid to tell her of whatever you want. And Dil may like to know—that I am going to put her in a picture, and the money will be truly her own.”

He was not sure how much pride or personal delicacy people of this class possessed.

“O Dil!” Bess was electrified with joy. “Oh, I hope you made Dil look—just as she’d look if we lived in one of them beautiful houses, ’n’ had a maid ’n’ pretty clo’es, ’n’ no babies to take care of. We never knowed any one like you afore. Patsey’s awful good to us, but he ain’t fine like an’ soft spoken. Are you very rich, mister?”

He laughed.

“Only middling, but rich enough to make life a little pleasanter for you when I come back.”

She seemed to be studying him.

“You look as if you lived in some of the fine, big houses. I’d like to go in wan. An’ you know so much! You must have been to school a good deal. Oh, how soft your hands are!”

She laughed delightedly as she enclosed one in both of hers, and then pressed it to her cheek.

He stooped and kissed her. No one ever did that but Dil and Patsey.

“You’ll surely come back in time to go to heaven, soon as it’s pleasant weather,” she said suddenly. “An’ Dil couldn’t be leaved behind. Mother threatens to put her in a shop, an’ she does bang her head cruel. But I wouldn’t want to be in a pallis an’ have everything, if I couldn’t have Dil. An’ you’ll get it all fixed so’s we can go?”

Ah, ah! before that time Bess would have been folded in the everlasting arms. There was a lump in his throat, and he began to untie the string of the book to evade a more decisive answer.

It was an illustrated edition, simplified for children’s reading. He turned some of the leaves and found one picture—Christiana ascending the palace steps amid a host of angels.

From this squalid place and poverty, to that—how could he explain the steps between? When he came back Bess would be gone—

        “Past  night,  past  day,”

and he would give Dil a new and better chance in spite of her mother.

Dil drew a long, long breath.

“Can we all get to the pallis?” she asked, with a soft awe in her tone.

“Yes, there are many things to do—you will see what Christiana and Mercy did. And if you love the Lord Jesus and pray to him—”

Poor Dil was again conscience smitten. Only this morning she had said praying wasn’t any good. She glanced up through tears,—

“’Pears as if I couldn’t ever get to understand. I wasn’t smart at school—”

“But you are smart,” interposed Bess. “An’ now we’ve got the book we’ll find just how Christiana went. There’s only six months left. You’ll surely be back by April?”

“I shall be back.” His heart smote him. He was a coward after all. Ah, could he ever undertake any of the Master’s business?

“Do you remember a hymn an old lady sang for you once?” he said, glad of even this faltering way out. “I have been learning the words.”

“’Bout everlasting spring?” and Bess’s eyes were alight. “Oh, do please sing it! I’m in such an awful hurry for spring to come. Sometimes my breath gets so short, as if I reely couldn’t wait.”

Dil raised her eyes with a slow, beseeching movement. He pushed a chair beside the wagon, and held Bess’s small hands, that were full of leaping pulses.

The sweet old hymn, almost forgotten amid the clash of modern music. Ah, there was some one who would love and care for Dil in her desolation—his grandmother. He would write to her. Then he began, and at the first note the children were enraptured:—

        “There  is  a  land  of  pure  delight,
        Where  saints  immortal  reign;
        Infinite  day  excludes  the  night,
        And  pleasures  banish  pain.
 
        Oh,  the  transporting,  rapturous  scene,
        That  dawns  upon  my  sight;
        Sweet  fields  arrayed  in  living  green,
        And  rivers  of  delight.
 
        There  everlasting  spring  abides,
        And  never-withering  flowers;
        Death,  like  a  narrow  sea,  divides
        This  heavenly  land  from  ours.
 
        No  chilling  winds  nor  poisonous  breath
        Can  reach  that  blessed  shore;
        Sickness  and  sorrow,  pain  and  death,
        Are  felt  and  feared  no  more.
 
        O’er  all  those  wide  extended  plains,
        Shines  one  eternal  day;
        There  Christ  the  Son  forever  reigns,
        And  scatters  night  away.
 
        Filled  with  delight,  my  raptured  soul
        Can  here  no  longer  stay;
        Though  Jordan’s  waves  around  me  roll,
        Fearless  I  launch  away.”

John Travis had a tender, sympathetic voice. Just now he was more moved by emotion than he would have imagined. Dil turned her face away and picked up the tears with her fingers. It was too beautiful to cry about, for crying was associated with sorrow or pain. A great inarticulate desire thrilled through her, a blind, passionate longing for a better, higher life, as if she belonged somewhere else. And, like Bess, an impatience pervaded her to be gone at once.

“Oh, please do sing it again!” besought Bess in a transport, her face spiritualized to a seraphic beauty. “Did they sing like that in the Mission School, Dil?”

Dil shook her head in speechless ecstasy.

There was a knock, and then the door opened softly. It was Mrs. Murphy, with her sick baby in her arms.

“Ah, dear,” she began deprecatingly, with an odd little old country courtesy, “I heard the singing, an’ I said to poor old Mis’ Bolan, ‘That’s never the Salvation Army, for they do make such a hullabaloo; but it must be a Moody an’ Sankey man that I wunst haird, with the v’ice of an angel.’ An’ the pore craythur is a hankerin’ to get nearer. Will ye lit her come down, plaise, or will ye come up?”

John Travis flushed suddenly. Dil glanced at her visitor aghast. Some finer instinct questioned whether he were offended. But he smiled. If it would give a poor old woman a pleasure—

Dil was considering a critical point. She had learned to be wise in evading the fury of a half-drunken woman. There were many things she kept to herself. But Mrs. Murphy would talk him over. A Moody and Sankey man,—she had not a very clear idea; but if Mrs. Murphy knew, it might be wisdom to have some one here who would speak a good word for her if it should be needed.

“Ye can bring her down,” she answered, still looking at John Travis with rising color.

She simply stepped into the hall; but the old woman was half-way down-stairs, and needed no further summons.

“Ah, dear, it’s the v’ice of an angel shure. An’ though I’m not given to them kind of maytins, on account of the praist, they do be beautiful an’ comfortin’ whiles they sing. Come in. It’s Dilly Quinn that’ll bid ye welcome. For it’s the Moody an’ Sankey man.”

“Yer very good, Dilly Quinn, very good, to ask in a poor old woman; though I’m main afeared of yer mother in a tantrum.” Her voice was shrill and shaky, though she was not seventy; but poverty and hardships age people fast. A bowed and shrunken woman, with thin, white, straggling hair, watery, hungry-looking eyes, a wrinkled, ashen skin, her lips a leaden blue and sunken from lack of teeth. She had one of Mrs. Murphy’s rooms since the head of the house was safely bestowed within prison limits. Mrs. Bolan’s only son had been killed in the war, and she had her pension. Now and then some one gave her a little work out of pity.

She dropped down on the lounge. “When I heard that there hymn,” she went on quaveringly, “it took me back forty year an’ more. There was great revival meetin’s. My poor old mother used to sing it. But meetin’s don’t seem the same any more, or else we old folks kinder lost the end er r’ligion.”

She was so pitiful, with her timorous, lonely look, and the hard struggles time had written on her everywhere.

“Will you sing it for her?” Dil asked timidly, glancing up at Travis.

Some one else paused to listen and look in, and stared with strange interest at the fine young fellow, whose rich, deep voice found a way to their hearts. And as he sang, a realization of their pinched, joyless lives filled him with dismay. Mrs. Bolan rocked herself too and fro, her hands clutched tightly over her breast, as if she was hugging some comfort she could not afford to let go. The tears rolled silently down her furrowed cheeks.

The foreign part of the audience was more outspoken.

“Ah, did yez iver listen to the loikes! Shure, it would move the heart of a sthone. It’s enough to take yez right t’ro’ to heaven widout the laste taste o’ purgatory. Shure, Mrs. Kelly, it’s like a pack o’ troubles fallin’ off, an’ ye step out light an’ strong to yer work agen. There’ll be a blissin’ for ye, young man, for the pleasure ye’ve given.”

Mrs. Bolan shuffled forward and caught his hand in hers, which seemed almost to rattle, they were so bony.

“God bless you, sir.” Her voice was so broken it sounded like sobs. “An’ there’s something ’bout makin’ his face shine on you—I disremember, it’s so long since I’ve read my Bible, more shame to me; but my eyes are so old and bad, I hope the Lord won’t lay it up agen me. I’m a poor old body, pushed outen the ranks. And you get kicked aside. Ye see, ’tain’t every voice that takes one to heaven. Lord help us ’bout gettin’ in. But mebbe he’ll be merciful to all who go astray. An’—if ye wouldn’t mind sayin’ a bit of prayer, ’pears like ’twould comfort me to my dyin’ day.”

Her hungry eyes pleaded through their tears.

A bit of prayer! He had been praying a little for himself of late, but it came awkward after his years of intellectual complacency. A youngish woman was glancing at him in frightened desperation, as if she waited for something to turn her very life. There was but one thing he could think of in this stress—the divine mandate. Could anything be more complete? When ye pray, say,—

“Our Father which art in heaven—”

VI—A WONDERFUL STORY

“I shall ask my friend to tell me all about you—she will write it. And I shall come back.” He stooped and kissed Bess on the brow, for the last time. Heaven help her on her lonely journey. But the Saviour who blessed little children would be tender of her surely.

“We’ll all go—won’t we—to heaven? The singin’ was so beautiful. An’ the everlastin’ spring.”

“Good-by.” He clasped Dil’s hand. “Remember, wherever you are, I shall find you. Oh, do not be afraid, God will care for you.”

“I don’t seem to understand ’bout God,” and there was a great, strange awe in Dil’s eyes. “But you’ve been lovely. I can understand that.”

One more glance at Bess, whose face was lighted with an exalted glow, as if she were poised, just ready for flight. Oh, what could comfort Dil when she was gone? And he had so much! He was so rich in home and love.

A woman stood in the lower hallway, the half-despairing face he had noted. She clutched his arm.

“See here,” she cried. “You said, ‘deliver us from evil.’ Is anybody—is God strong enough to do it? From horrible evil—when there seems no other way open—when you must see some one you love—die starvin’—an’ no work to be had—O my God!”

The cry pierced him. Yes, there was a beneficent power in money. He gave thanks for it, as he crushed it in her hand. How did the poor souls live, herded in this narrow court? His father’s stable was a palace to it in cleanliness.

He had reasoned about poverty being one of the judicious forces of the world. He had studied its picturesque aspects, its freedom from care and responsibility, its comfortable disregard of conventionals, its happy indifference to custom and opinion. Did these people look joyous and content? Why, their faces even now haunted him with the weight of hopeless sorrow. Oh, what could he do to ease the burthen of the world?

Dil picked up the baby after she had lighted the lamp. She was still in a maze, as if some vision had come and gone. Was he really here? Or had she been in a blissful dream?

“Come an’ spell out what he’s written—an’—an’ his name, Dil!”

Bess was studying the fly-leaf. Yes, there it was, “John Travis.”

“I wisht it wasn’t John,” said Bess, a little disappointed. “He ought to have a fine, grand name, he’s so splendid. Rich people have nice ways, that poor people can’t seem to get.”

“No, they can’t get ’em, they can’t,” Dil repeated, with a despairing sense of the gulf between. She had never thought much about rich people before.

“You’d better hide the book, an’ the money, ’fore Owny comes in,” said Bess fearfully. “I don’t even dast to look at the pictures. But we’ll have it a good many days when mammy’s out, an’ I must learn to read the hard words. O Dil! if I had two good legs, I would jump for joy.”

Dil wanted to sit down and cry from some unknown excess of feeling—she never had time to cry from pure joy. But she heeded Bess’s admonition, and hid their precious gifts. Then she stirred the fire and put on the potatoes. It was beginning to rain, and the boys came in noisily. The babies went home, and they had supper.

It was quite late when Mrs. Quinn returned home, and she threw a bundle on the lounge. The boys being in, and Bess out of the way, she had nothing to scold about. She had had her day’s work praised, and a good supper in the bargain. Then cook had given her a “drap of the craythur” to keep out the cold. And she could have two days’ work every week “stiddy,” so she resolved to throw over some poorer customer.

But when Mrs. Murphy came down with a few potatoes in her hand that she had borrowed, and full of her wonderful news, Dil’s heart sank within her like lead.

“An’ what do ye think?” the visitor began incautiously. “Poor old Mrs. Bolan is half wild with all the singin’ an’ the beautiful prisint he gev her.”

“What prisint?” asked Mrs. Quinn peremptorily.

“Why, it was a five-dollar bill. I thought first she’d faint clear away wid joy.”

“What man?” eying them both suspiciously.

Dil’s lips moved, but her throat was so dry she could not utter a sound.

“Wan of them Moody an’ Sankey men that do be singin’ around, an’ prayin’. An’ ye niver heard sich an’ iligant v’ice even at the free and easies! Why, Mrs. Quinn, it’s my belafe, in spite of the praist, he cud draw a soul out o’ purgatory just wid his singin’. Mrs. Bolan’s that ’raptured she does nothin’ but quaver about wid her shaky old v’ice. Ah, dear—ave ye cud hev heard him!”

“To the divil wid him! Comin’ round to git money out’v poor folks. I knows ’em. Dil, did you give him a cint?”

“I didn’t have any; but he didn’t ast for none,” and the poor child had hard work to steady her voice.

“An’ ye’r mistaken, Mrs. Quinn, if ye think the likes of sich a gentleman would be beggin’ of the poor,” returned Mrs. Murphy indignantly. “An’ he a-gevin a poor ould craythur five dollars! An’ they do be goin’ around a-missionin’ with their prayers and hymns.”

“I know ’em. An’ the praists an’ the sisters beggin’ the last cint, an’ promisin’ to pray ye outen purgatory! Mrs. Murphy,” with withering contempt, “them men cuddent pray ye outen a sewer ditch if ye fell in! An’ I won’t have them comin’ here—ye hear that, Dilsey Quinn! If I catch a Moody an’ Sankey man here, I’ll break ivery bone in his body, an’ yours too; ye hear that now!”

Mrs. Quinn was evidently “spilin’ for a fight.” Mrs. Murphy went off in high dudgeon without another word.

But she stopped to pour out her grievance to Mrs. Garrick on her floor.

“Shure, I pity them childers, for their mother do be the worst haythen an’ infidel, not belayvin’ a word about her own sowl, an’ spindin’ her money for gin as she do. She was a foine-lukin’ woman, an’ now her eyes is all swelled up, an’ her nose the color of an ould toper. An’ that poor little Bess dyin’ afore her very eyes widout a bit of a mass, or even christenin’ I belayve. I’m not that bigoted, Mrs. Garrick, though the praists do say there bees but the wan way. I’m willin’ that people shall try their own ways, so long as they save their sowls; but pore, helpless bits of childer that can’t know! An’ what are their mothers put in the wurruld for but to tache them? But when ye don’t belayve ye have a sowl of yer own it’s awful! There’s them b’ys runnin’ wild—an’ a moighty good thing it’ll be whin they’re in the ’form-school, kapin’ out o’ jail, an’ wuss!”

Dil sat in awful fear when the door had closed behind their neighbor. She took up Owen’s trousers—the rent was sufficient to send any boy early to bed.

That recalled her mother. She threw the bundle towards Dil.

“There’s some clo’es ye kin be fixin’ up for Dan, whin ye’ve so much time as to be spindin’ it on Moody and Sankey men, drat ’em! foolin’ ’round an’ wastin’ valyble time. Next I’ll hear that ye’ve ast in the organ man an’ the monkey, and I’ll come home to find ye givin’ a pairty. An’ ye’ll hev yer head broke for it, that ye will!”

So long as it was not broken now, Dil gave secret thanks. Did God help any? Then, why didn’t he help other times when things were very bad? She examined the suit, and found it a nice one, rather large for Dan, who was not growing like a weed, although he ran the streets.

Her mother began to snore. She would be good for some hours’ sound sleep. So Dil stole into the little room, and began to prepare Bess for bed, though she trembled with a half fear.

“O Dil, I didn’t hardly dast to breathe! An’ if she’d known he come in here an’ sung, she’d murdered us! An’ it made me feel glad like that he was goin’ away, for mammy might happen to be home when he come—though don’t you b’lieve he’d take us away right then? An’—an’ wasn’t it lucky you didn’t have to tell about the—”

Bess held the bill up in her hand.

“Le’s put it in the book, an’ hide the book in the bottom of the wagon. An’, Dil, I can’t help feeling light like, as if I was goin’ to float. Think of that splendid place, an’ no night, an’ no winter, an’ all beautiful things. Oh, I wisht he’d gev us the words too; I’m most sure I could sing ’em. An’ the best of all is that mammy won’t be there, cause, you see, ’twouldn’t please her any, and I’d be awful feared. She’d ruther stay here an’ drink gin.”

They had not gone far enough in the Christian life, poor ignorant little souls, to have much missionary spirit. But they kissed, and kissed softly, in the half-dark, and cried a little—tender tears touched with a sadness that was as sweet as joy.

Dil stepped about cautiously, emptied the grate, and did up her night-work. There seemed a certainty about heaven that she had not experienced before, a confidence in John Travis that gave her a stubborn faith. He would surely return in the spring. They would go out some day and never, never come back to Barker’s Court.

She fell asleep in her visionary journey when she was up beyond Central Park. She was always so tired, and this night quite exhausted. But Bess kept floating on a sea of delicious sound; and if ever one had visions of the promised land, it was Bessy Quinn.

There were seven babies in the next morning, it being a sharp, clear day. Mrs. Quinn had gone off about her business with no row. When Bess had been dressed and had her breakfast, they drew out the precious book.

“I’ll jes’ cover it with a bit of old calico an’ no one will mistrust, for you can jes’ slip it down in the carriage. An’ we’ll get out that old speller of Owny’s, so mother can see that around if we do be taken by s’prise.”

They looked at the pictures as the babies would allow them the leisure, and spelled out the explanation underneath. It was so wonderful, though at times they were appalled by the difficulties and dangers. And it was almost night when they reached the crowning-point of all,—Christiana going across the river.

“All the banks beyond the river were full of horses and chariots which were come down from above to accompany her to the City Gate.” Her friends were thronging round. She was entering the river with a fearless step and uplifted face.

“Why, Dil, she jes’ walked right acrost.” Bess gave a joyous little laugh. “You see, she couldn’t get drownded, because that Lord Jesus had made it all right an’ safe, jes’ as he carried people in his arms. I’m so glad we know. You see, when we get to the river, an’ it will be way, way above Cent’l Park, when we’ve been through these giants an’ all—an’ I’m ’most afraid of thim; but the man did not let ’em hurt her, an’ he, our man, won’t let ’em hurt us. An’ we’ll jest step right in the river,—maybe he’ll carry me acrost on account of my poor little legs,—an’ we sha’n’t be a mite afraid, for he won’t let us drown. O Dil, it’ll be so lovely! An’ here’s the pallis!”

There was the “throng that no man can number,” welcoming Christiana. Angels with spreading wings and rapturous faces. Her husband coming to meet her, and the Lord Jesus ministering an abundant welcome.

What a day it was! Never was day so short, so utterly delightful. Some of the babies were cross: out of seven little poorly born and poorly nourished babies, there were wants and woes; but Dil hugged them, cuddled them, crooned to them, with a radiant bliss she had never known before. She could look so surely at the end.

An old debt of half a dollar came in, and there were thirty-five cents for the babies. Dan had on his new suit too, and altogether Mrs. Quinn was remarkably good-natured. Dil felt almost conscience-smitten about the book—but then the story would have to come out, and alas!

After that they began to read the wonderful story. Dil was not much of a scholar. Her school-days had been few and far between, never continuous enough to give her any real interest. Indeed, she had not been bright at her books, and her mother had not cared. School was something to fill up the time until children were old enough to go to work. But Dil surely had enough to fill up her time.

Bess would have far outstripped her in learning. But Dil had a shrewd head, and was handy with her needle. She possessed what Yankee people call “faculty;” and her training had given her a sharp lookout for any short cuts in what she had to do, as well as a certain tact in evading or bridging over rough places.

But the reading was very hard labor. They did not know the meaning or the application of words, and their pronouncing ability was indeed halting.

They had not even attained to the practical knowledge acquired by mingling with other children. Dil’s life had been pathetic in its solitariness, like the loneliness of a strange crowd. Other children had not “taken to her.” Her days had been all work. She would have felt awkward and out of place playing with anything but a baby.

Bess found the most similitudes in Christiana. Even John Travis would have been amused by her literal interpretation. Though it had been simplified for children’s reading, it was far above their limited capacity. But the pictures helped so much; and when Dil could not get “the straight of it,” when the spiritual part tried and confused their brains, they turned to Christiana crossing the river and entering heaven.

Valiant Mr. Greatheart appealed strongly to Bess.

“He’s got such a strong, beautiful name,” she declared enthusiastically. “He always comes when there’s troubles, an’ gettin’ lost, an’ all that. I ’most wish his name was Mr. Greatheart. He could fight, I know; not this common, hateful fightin’ down here in the court, but with giants an’ wild beasts. An’ there were the boys, Dil; but I s’pose Owny wouldn’t care ’bout goin’.”

“Well,” Dil hesitated curiously, “you’ve got to try to be good some way, an’ Owny wouldn’t quit swearin’ an’ snivyin’ when he got a chance. An’ I don’t think he’d understand. Then he might tell mammy ’bout our plans.”

“An’ mammy jes’ wouldn’t let you stir a step, I know. An’ I couldn’t go athout you, Dil, though there’ll be many people on the road. I was most feared it would be lonesome like.”

“An’ I’ll be gettin’ a few clo’es ready, the best of thim. I’ll wash an’ iron your new white dress when we don’t go out no more, an’ put it away kerful. An’ I hope some one will give mother some clo’es for a big girl! I’ll be so glad to go, for sometimes I’m so tired I jes’ want to drop.”

“But October’s ’most gone. An’ last winter don’t seem long to me now, an’ the summer that was so hot,—but it had that beautiful Sat’day when we found him. An’ to think of havin’ him forever ’n’ ever!”

Dil gave a long sigh. She was as impatient as Bess, but she hardly dared set her heart upon the hope.

She was a very busy little woman, and her mind had to be on her work. The garments given to the boys had, of course, the best taken out of them, and Owen was hard on his clothes. As for the stockings, their darning was a work of labor, if not of love. Bess had to be kept warm and comfortable, and Dil tried to make her pretty as well. There were some rainy Saturdays, and the one baby often came in that day. But she tried to give Bess an airing on Sunday. It was such a change for the poor little invalid.

Mrs. Quinn was better pleased to be busy all the time. Besides the money, which was really needed now that fires were more expensive, she liked the change, the gossiping and often it was a pleasure to find fault with her customers. She still went to Mrs. MacBride’s of an evening.

With the advent of November came a week of glorious Indian summer weather. And one Saturday Mrs. Quinn was to do some cleaning at a fine house, and stay to help with a grand dinner. Dil rushed through with her work, and they went up to the Square that afternoon, and sat in the old place. The sparrows came and chirped cheerfully; but the flowers were gone, the trees leafless. Yet it was delightful to picture it all again.

John Travis would have felt sorry for Dil to-day—perhaps if he had seen her for the first time he would not have been so instantly attracted. Her eyes were heavy, her skin dark and sodden. Even Bess grew weary with the long ride. But they shopped a little again; and Dil was extravagant enough to buy some long, soft woollen stockings for Bess’s “poor, hurted legs.”

“I’m so tired,” she said afterward. “’Tain’t quite like summer, is it? Make up a good fire, Dil, an’ get me snappin’ warm.”

She did not want much to eat. Even the grapes had lost their flavor.

“I wish you could sing that beautiful hymn,” she said to Dil. “I’d just like to hear it, ’cause it keeps floatin’ round all the time, an’ don’t get quite near enough. O Dil! don’t you s’pose you can sing in heaven?”

“Seems to me I heard at the Mission School that everybody would. If the Lord Jesus can mend your legs, I’m sure he can put some music in my throat.”

“We’ll ask him right away. Then read to me a little.”

Bess fell asleep presently. Dil made slow work spelling out the words and not knowing half the meanings. Her seasons at the Mission School had always been brief, from various causes. Now and then some visitor came in, but the talk was often in phrases that Dil did not understand. She had not a quick comprehension, neither was she an imaginative child.

Looking now at Bess’s pinched and pallid face a strange fear entered her mind. Would Bess be strong enough in the spring to take the long journey? For it was so much longer than she imagined, and Bess couldn’t be made well until they reached the Lord Jesus. There was a vague misgiving tugging at her heart. They ought to have gone that lovely Saturday.

They talked so much about John Travis that they almost forgot what he had said about his friend. They were husbanding their small resources for the time of need. There had been so many babies that Dil had not needed to make up deficiencies. Sometimes they felt quite afraid of their hiding-place, and Dil made a little bag and put it around Bess’s neck, so no one would come upon the money unaware.

The touch of Indian summer was followed by a storm and cool, brisk winds. It was too cold to take Bess out, even if she had cared; but she had been rather drooping all the week. There was a baby in, also, and Bess kept in her own room, as she often did Saturday morning, to be out of the way of her mother’s sharp frowns.

Dil had gone of an errand. Mrs. Quinn sat furbishing up an ulster she had bought at a second-hand store at a great bargain. The baby was asleep on the lounge. When Dil returned, a dreadful something met her on the threshold that made her very heart stand still.

“I have come from a Mr. Travis, to see the children. He has gone abroad, and he asked me to look after them.”

This was what had gone before—very little, indeed. Mrs. Quinn had answered, “Come in,” to a tap at the door; and there had entered a rather pretty, well-dressed, well-bred young woman, who considered herself quite an important member of the charitable world. She saw a clean-looking room with more comforts than usual, and she gave a sharp glance around the corners.

Mrs. Quinn received her very civilly, considering her a possible customer.

“You have a little girl who is an invalid, I believe?” she queried.

“That I have,” was the brief reply.

The stranger glanced at the two open doors, and wondered; was the child in bed?

The next sentence was what Dil had caught. Miss Nevins checked herself suddenly. Mr. Travis had said, “See the children alone if you can. Their mother is out to work most of the time, and it will be an easy matter. But do not give any money to the woman for them; they will not get it.”

“Well—what?” asked Mrs. Quinn sharply, with an aspect that rather nonplussed the lady. “Whin did he see so much of thim, an’ come to think they needed his attintion?”

“Why—when he was here—”

“Was he here now? an’ what called him?”

Mrs. Quinn gave her visitor an insolent stare that rendered her very uncomfortable.

“I—I really do not know when. Kindly disposed people do visit the sick and the needy. I go to a great many places—”

“Av ye plaise,” she interrupted, “we’re not paupers. I’m well enough, ye see, to be takin’ care of me own childers. An’ he nor no one else nade throubble theirselves. I’m not askin’ charity; an’ av they did it unbeknownst to me, I’ll hammer thim well, that I will! They’re as well off as common folk, an’ ye needn’t be worritin’. Av that’s all ye come fer, ye kin be goin’ about yer own bisniss, bedad! An’ ye kin tell Mr. What’s-his-name that I’m not sufferin’ fer help.”

This was not the fashion in which Miss Nevins was generally received. “You do not understand”—with rising color. “We desire to be of whatever service we can; and if your child is ill, you cannot have a better friend—”

“Frind! is it? Bedad, I kin choose me own frinds! An’ if he knows whin he’s well off, he’ll not show his foine forrum here, er his mug’ll get a party mash on it. Frind, indade!”

The irate woman looked formidable as she rose, but Miss Nevins did not mean to be daunted.

“You may see the time when you will be glad of a friend, though you need not worry about his coming. I shall tell him you are not worth his interest. As for the child”—and her indignation sparkled in her eyes.

“The child wants none of his help, ye kin tell him. I kin look afther her mesilf.”

“Good-day,” and the visitor opened the door. Dil stepped back in the obscurity. The lady held up her fine cloth gown, and gave her nose a haughty wrinkle or two as she inhaled the stifling air once, and then did not breathe until she was in the court.

“Such a horrid hole!” she commented. “The child ought to be moved to a hospital—or perhaps she is well by this time. John is so easily taken in—his swans so often turn out to be geese. As if I would have given her any money, the impudent, blowsy thing! I know pretty well how far to trust that class! Though it’s rather funny,” and she smiled in the midst of her disgust; “they are always whining and pleading poverty, and will be abject enough for a quarter. And she was very high and mighty! I’ll write a good long letter to John about it, but I won’t trouble her ladyship again.”

Dil stood shaking with terror, and some moments elapsed before she had courage enough to open the door. She was in a degree prepared for a line of defence.

Her mother seized her by the arm, and fairly shouted at her,—

“Who was the man who kim to see ye, ye young huzzy?”

“Man! When did a man come? I don’t remember,” assuming surprise.

“I’ll help yer mem’ry thin wid that;” and Dil’s ears rang with the sound of the blow.

“There wasn’t any man since the wan that sang a long whiles ago. Mrs. Murphy knew. She said he was a Moody an’ Sankey man, an’ that they do be goin’ round singin’ and prayin’. An’ they all stood in the hall, the women about. Mrs. Murphy kin tell you.”

Mrs. Quinn was rather nonplussed.

“What did he gev ye?”

“Nothin’,” sobbed Dil. “It was poor old Mrs. Bolan that had the money.”

“Not a cint?” She took Dil by the shoulder. “Dil Quinn, I don’ no whether to belave yer; but if he’d gev ye any money, an’ ye’d bin such a deceivin’ little thafe, I’d break ivery bone in yer mean little body. Howld yer tongue! I ain’t done nothin’ but ast a civil question.”

Dil tried to stop sobbing. Her mother was in a hurry to get out, or matters might have been worse.

“Stop yer snivelin’,” commanded her mother. “But if I hear of any more men singin’ round, I’ll make ye wish yer never been born.”

The baby cried at this juncture, and Dil took it up. Mrs. Quinn went out, and there would be peace until midnight.

Bess sat in the carriage, wild-eyed and ghostly, trembling in every limb.

“It was a norful lie!” sobbed Dil. “But if I’d told her, she’d killed me! He wouldn’t a done such a thing; but nobody’d darst to tackle him, an’ rich people don’t beat an’ bang.”

“You didn’t tell no lie,” said Bess in a sudden strong voice. “He never gev you no money. ’Twarn’t your money ’t all. Doncher know he put it in the bag the first time when you was feared to take it, an’ he jes’ dropped it down here in the side of the kerrige. He never gev you a penny. An’ it was my money.”

“O Bess! Ye’r such a bright, smart little thing! If you’d been well we’d just kept ahead of mother all the time;” and now the sunshine slanted over the brown quartz eyes that were swimming in tears. “I d’n’ know, but I should have hated norful to tell a lie ’bout him. He seems—well, I can’t somehow git the right words; but’s if you wanted to be all on the square when he liked you. I don’t b’leve he’d so much mind yer snivyin’ out a nickel when there was a good many babies, an’ puttin’ it back when there wasn’t, to save gettin’ yer head busted. But he wouldn’t tell no lie. He kem when he said he would an’ brought Christiana, an’ he’ll come in the spring, sure.”

“Yes, sure,” said Bess, with a faint smile. “But you better ast Mrs. Murphy to keep the book a few days, for mammy might go snoopin’ about—”

“I just will; but I don’t b’leve she’d dast to hustle you round and find the money. An’ now a week’s gone, an’ there’s only three left, en then it’ll be anuther month, an’ O Bess, spring! spring!”

There was an exultant gladness in Dil’s voice.

VII—MARTYRED CHRISTIANA.

There had never been but one dream to Dil’s life, and that was Bess. Here her imagination had some play. When they took their outings through the more respectable streets for the cleanliness and quiet, or paused awhile in the green and flowery squares, she sometimes “made believe” that Bess was the lovely child in the elegant carriage, with wraps of eider down and lace, and she the nurse-maid in white apron and cap who trundled her along jauntily. Or else it was Bess, blue-eyed and golden-haired, sitting in a real “grown-up” carriage with her pretty mamma in silks and satins. The little nurse-maid was at home, putting everything in order, and waiting for the lovely princess to come back and tell her all she had seen. That and heaven had been the extent of her romancing.

But to-night a curious, separate life stirred within her. A consciousness of the great difference between such people as John Travis, even the lady in the hall who had so disdainfully gathered up her skirts and scattered a faint fragrance about. Why was such a great difference made? Why should she and Bess be Honor Quinn’s children? Would another mother be given them in heaven?

The mothers in the court seemed to love their little babies, yet afterward they beat and banged them about. But the children in that clean, beautiful world where there was no pain, the children in heaven—ah! ah! She was not crying with human passion; it was the deep anguish of the soul that cannot even find vent in tears, the throes of an awful inward pain, that seldom, thank God, comes to the young, that dense ignorance often keeps from the very poor.

“Took them in his arms.” That was what John Travis had said. She was so tired to-night—not the fatigue of hard work altogether, but a great aching that had no name. If she could be taken in some one’s arms! Dilsey Quinn could not remember being held, though her mother had been proud of her first-born, and fond too, in those days.

If Mrs. Quinn’s life had been a little more prosperous, if she had lived in a cottage with a patch of ground, a cow and some chickens, and the wholesome surroundings of the little village where she had reigned a sort of rural queen, her children might have known love and tenderness. But the babies had come fast. Her man had taken to drink. They were crowded in among the poor and ignorant, where brawls and oaths, drinking and cruelty, were daily food. Ah, what wonder one lapses into barbarism! For the last half-dozen years she had slaved, and sometimes gone hungry. She could have strangled little Dan when he came, for adding to her burthens. How much of the peril of the soul depends upon the surroundings!

And now Dil longed for the strong arms to be about her. Do you wonder she had so little idea of a heavenly Father? The teaching of the Mission School had been measured by the hard, bare materialism of poverty, quite as upas-like as the materialism of philosophy. It had a rather dainty aspect when John Travis dallied with it among his college compeers; but it seems shocking when these hundreds of little children cannot even formulate the idea of a God. And though Dil stretched out her hands with an imploring moan, it was for some present and personal comfort.

Owny came creeping in softly, and just saved his skin, for to-night his mother returned earlier than usual. She was growing stout, and walked solidly. She seemed to be puttering about. Then she pushed Dil’s door wide open, and there was barely room for her. The lamp stood on the floor outside. Dil’s “chest of drawers” was covered with a curtain of various pieces, and she had ornamented the top with treasures found amid the cast-off Christmas and Easter cards that had fallen to her when more favored children had tired of them. A cigar-box was covered with some bits of silk, and held a few paltry “treasures.” Some fancy beads, a tarnished bangle, a bit of ribbon, and so on, she found as she dumped them in her apron and then thrust them back. Next she dragged the articles out of the improvised “drawers,” and shook them one by one. Nothing contraband fell out. There was nothing to reward her search, and she glared at the child in the faded, shabby wagon.

Dil hardly breathed. She remembered in that half-frozen, fascinated sort of way that horrible events will rise up, ghost-like, in times of terror—that one night last winter, a woman farther up the court had murdered her two little children, and then killed herself. She was cold with an awful apprehension of evil. Even though she kept her eyes closed, she could seem to see with that awesome, inward sight.

Mrs. Quinn thrust her hand under Bess’s pillow, under her bed, and the poor child gave a broken, disturbed half-cry. Her efforts were fruitless; but before Dil could give a sound to her horrible fear, she had turned and was facing her. Then Dil sprang partly up, but the scream curdled in her throat.

“Oh, ye naydent disturb yersilf this time o’ night. I was jist lookin’ in upon me two gals that the man was so distrissed about. Dil Quinn, av’ ye iver go to the bad like some gals, I’ll not lave a square inch of skin on yer body, ner a whole bone inside. I’ll have no men singin’ round whiles I’m not here. You shut the door on ’em, jist. You’re a humbly little runt, God knows, but thim kind is purty hard whin they once set out. Ye mind, now! An’ that un—”

She shook her fist, and backed out of the room, for she could hardly have turned around. Bess moaned, but she was not awake. Dil used all her strength to suppress a scream, while a cold perspiration oozed from every pore.

When she dared, after the lamp was out, she rose and changed Bess to a more comfortable position. Ah, if the book had been there! The child shuddered with vague apprehension.

All the rest of the night she lay fearfully awake, and the next morning she looked ghastly. Even her mother was moved.

“You don’t look well, Dil,” she said. “What’s got yer?”

“My head aches.” Had she dreamed that horrible vision of the night?

“Take some queuann. Ye’ve no toime to be sick. Ye spind too much toime over the brat there. An’ it’ll be a mercy whin it’s all over. I cuddent stan’ it mesilf much longer.”

Patsey came that afternoon. Business was good, and he had a few dimes in the bank. He and three other boys boarded with an old woman.

“But I’ve been thinkin’, Dil, that if we had you instid o’ the old woman! She can’t make an Irish stew worth shucks, an’ yers wud jist make a felly sing in his sleep. Whin I git some money ahead I’ll jist have youse come. Yer mammy’ll not mind if ye take Bess.”

Dil smiled. It was lovely of Patsey, but they would be going to heaven then. She wondered why they didn’t care to take Patsey along when they were so fond of him. He wouldn’t want to go—how she knew that she could not tell, either.

He brought Bess a splendid orange and some candy and an illustrated paper. The pictures were very entertaining.

“Bess is lookin’ slim,” he said. “She wants to go out in the fresh air.”

“But it’s so cold, an’ it just goes over me an’ all through, as if I hadn’t half enough clo’es on. No, I must stay in an’ keep good an’ warm, an’ get well by spring.”

“That’s the talk,” and Patsey smiled.

When he was gone and they were all alone, they looked at each other curiously.

“’Twould be nice to go an’ live with Patsey if we wasn’t goin’ to heaven,” Bess said. “I do be so afeard of mammy sometimes.”

“An’ she rummiged last night, Bess, on the shelves an’ in your bed; an’ if it hadn’t been for yer wit she’d a found the book. I was so glad it was in Misses Murphy’s, an’ I guess I’ll keep it up there every night; an’ if she finds out an’ asts, I’ll say an’ old trac’ woman left it. She won’t mind an old woman. I sh’d hate to tell such a lie, but when we see him we’ll tell him how it was. ’Cause we can’t be murdered.”

“We just won’t tell any one ’bout goin’ to heaven, either. Only Patsey, just at the last.”

Mrs. Quinn dropped her suspicions in a few days. The weather was growing colder, and she needed a little more to keep up the internal fires. She managed to pay her rent promptly, and so had a good reputation with the agent. Through Dil’s good management the boys fared very well as to food, but Bess did not eat enough to keep a bird alive.

“But the medicine helps,” she said. “It’s such splendid medicine! so much better’n that ’Spensary stuff.”

The morphine in it soothed and quieted. Sometimes Bess slept all the morning, and now she was seldom wakeful at night. Dil thought that an improvement. If only she was not so frightfully thin!

The days sped on with little variation. At Thanksgiving they had two turkeys, and several of Mrs. Quinn’s cronies came in to dinner. They feasted all the rest of the week.

And now another month was gone. Only four remained.

Alas! with all their care and caution, and the ready sympathy of Mrs. Murphy, there came a swift, crushing martyrdom to their much-loved Christiana, almost to Dil. She had hurried her supper dishes out of the way, tidied up the room, and, as her mother had gone to Mrs. MacBride’s, Dan in bed with a cold, and Owen roaming the streets, Dil brought out her book for an hour’s reading. They had come to Giant Grim and his blustering threats to the Pilgrims, who would have fared badly indeed but for Mr. Greatheart. Dil had to stop to spell many of the words; often it took the united efforts of both brains to decide the meaning of a sentence.

The door opened, and Mrs. Quinn walked in. There had been a rather heated talk at Mrs. MacBride’s.

Dil paused suddenly, with a swift, startled breath.

“What’s that ye got?” She came nearer and glared over Dil. “An’ who gev ye that?”

“A—a woman left it!” exclaimed Dil tremulously. “An old woman with trac’s—”

She pulled Dil up to her feet, and the book fell to the floor.

“An’ it wasn’t that—that singin’ man?”

She shook her so that Dil could scarcely make a sound, and for once she hardly minded.

“No man has been here,” declared Bess.

“Shet yer head!” roared her mother. “Pick up that buke. What’s it all about?”

“’Bout a woman they told me of in the Mission School. She took her children an’—was goin’ to heaven—”

“Well, you’ve got business here, an’ ye’ll be tindin’ to it, it’s my opinion. Ye ain’t got time for no sich foolin’. Yer wurruk will kape ye busy. Ye best not be settin’ up fer a schollard. The radin’ an’ the stuff’ll turn your head upside down. Take that!”

Mrs. Quinn gave her a resounding blow with it. Before Dil could fairly see, she had marched over to the stove.

“O mother! mother!” shrieked Dil as she caught her arm.

Mrs. Quinn gave her a push that sent her staggering across the room. She raised the stove-lid, and crowded in the book.

“Ye’ll not waste yer time over any sich nonsense. Git off to bed at wanst, er I’ll make ye see stars! Take that measlin’ brat along wid ye.”

Dil turned the wagon into the small chamber without another word. Bess caught her hands, but neither dared speak.

“Where’s Owny?” the mother demanded.

“I don’t know,” almost sobbed Dil.

“I’ll not hev him runnin’ the streets at night! A foine sister yes are, to be sure, readin’ novils, an’ lettin’ yer pore brother go to destruction! If ye don’t kape him in at night I’ll know the reason why. I’ll lie here a bit, an’ I’ll give him a norful larrupin’ when he comes.”

Mrs. Quinn threw herself down on the old lounge, and in five minutes was snoring as usual. Dil prepared Bess for bed, and rubbed her with a soft mitten she had made. The poor thing trembled so that it was a positive shudder. Then, as the snoring grew louder, they dared to give vent to their own overcharged hearts in tears.

“An’ to think poor Christiana’s burnt up, an’ we can’t tell how she got out of the giant’s hands! Dil, there’s jes’ such truly people, an’ mammy’s one of ’em! Jes’ think if she’d been like Christiana, an’ took us by the hand, an’ was leadin’ us to heaven, an’ pushin’ the kerrige whiles to spell you!”

Then they cried again at the thought, so utterly delightful, and the present reality so hard to bear.

“But we know she did get to heaven,” resumed Bess; “only we can’t tell how many things there were. Dil, it isn’t reel easy to go to heaven, after all. But when we have him, you see he’ll do the fightin’, an’ he’ll pick out the way, an’ we’ll go right straight along. We won’t stop in them queer places an’ get all tangled up; for we’re in such a norful hurry to get there, an’ have my hurted legs made well.”

Dil kissed her convulsively, and cried over the shining golden head. Besides the book, there had been an irreparable loss to her, that Bess had not yet realized. She had tucked her precious picture inside the cover of the book. For now she felt it must be kept out of her mother’s sight, as she could not explain how she came by it, and escape with her life. That, too, had perished in the flames, the next precious thing to Bess.

The poor children unlocked arms presently, and Dil crept into bed sad and forlorn. She heard Owen stealing in, but her mother never stirred.

Mrs. Quinn sat taking her cup of coffee the next morning when Owen made his appearance. She tried to recall what had happened last night, and whether she had thrashed him or not.

“A purty time of night it was for ye to come home,” she began.

“Oh, come off!” said Owen. “What yer givin’ us? I was home an’ abed afore ye kem in, an’ ye was full of the shindy at Mis’ MacBride’s. Don’t ye remimber how ye wint on?”

Owen dodged the cuff. His mother was so nonplussed that for once she was helplessly silent. But as she went out of the door she turned and said,—

“I’ll see yer in to-night, young feller.”

Dil’s face was in such a maze of surprise that she looked at Owen without being able to utter a word for some moments, while he laughed heartily.

“How could ye, Owny?”

“How cud I?” Owen laughed again. “Well,” with a swagger, “it’s all in knowin’ how to dale with the female sect. Was she thunderin’ mad last night? Did she go fer me?”

“But about Mrs. MacBride? How could ye know what happened?”

“Why, ye see I was passin’ jes’ after the shindy. That Mrs. Whalen who made the row whin she beat ye so, ye know, was harang’in’; an’ then I heard there’d been a great row, an’ mammy’d come home mad as a hornet. So, sez I, I’ll wait until she’s asleep before I trust myself. An’ its jes’ havin’ yer wits about ye. She was too drunk to remember what she did. Did she break yer head agen? If she did I’ll go an’ complain of her. Whin yer tired a-havin’ her round, we’ll git her sent up to th’ Island. An’ now get me some grub.”

“She only struck me wunst. But she burnt up something,” and Dil began to sob. “But, Owny, ye were not in, an’ it was a—a—”

“Git off de stump wid yer high notions! I’d save me head wid any kind o’ lie. You gals don’t know nothin’ but to run right agin de stun wall. Ye see, it’s a bit o’ circumwention, an’ ye jes’ use yer brains a bit to save yer skull er yer back. But dat old gin-mill ain’t goin’ to boss me much longer. Ye’ll see, an’ be moighty s’prised. An’ here’s a nickel, Dil.”

Owen ate his breakfast, and then taking out a cigarette, lighted it, and swaggered off.