I pawned my good clothes, my overcoat, and handbag in Glasgow, took a bed in Moran's model by the wharf, and once again recommenced my search for Norah.
The search was both fruitless and tiring. Day after day I prowled through the streets, and each succeeding midnight found me on the spot where I had met Norah on the evening of my wrestling encounter. For hours I would stand motionless at the street corner and scrutinise every woman who passed me by. Sometimes in these children of the night I fancied that I detected a resemblance to her whom I loved. With a flutter in my heart I would hurry forward, only to find that I was mistaken. Disappointed, I would once again resume my vigil, and sometimes the grey smoky dawn was slanting across the dull roofs of the houses before I sought my model and bed. It is a weary job, looking for a friend in a great big city. One street is more perplexing than a hundred miles of open country. A window or a wall separates you from her whom you seek. You pass day after day, perhaps, within speaking distance of her whom you love, and never know that she is near you. Every door is a puzzle, every lighted window an enigma. The great city is a Sahara, in which you look for one special grain of sand; and doubt, perplexity, and heart yearning accompany you on your mission. I could not write, neither could I turn my attention to manual labour. My whole being was centred on my search, and the thought of anything else was repugnant to me. My desire for Norah grew and grew, it filled my soul, leaving no room for anything else.
To Moran's, where I stayed, the navvies came daily when out on their eternal wanderings, and here I met many of my old mates. They came, stopped for a night, and then padded out for Rosyth, where the big naval base, still in process of construction, was then in its first stages of building. Most of the men had heard of my visit to London, and none seemed surprised at my return. None of them thought that the job had done me much good, for now my hands were as white as a woman's. Carroty Dan, who came in drunk one night, examined me critically and allowed that he could knock me out easily in my present condition, but being too drunk to follow up any train of reasoning he dropped, in the midst of his utterances, on the sawdust of the floor and fell asleep. Hell-fire Gahey, Clancy of the Cross, Ben the Moocher, and Red Billy Davis all passed through Moran's, one of their stages on the road to Rosyth. Most of them wanted me to accompany the big stampede, but I had no ear for their proposals. I had a mission of my own, and until it was completed no man could persuade me to leave Glasgow.
I made enquiries about Moleskin Joe. Most of the men had met Moleskin lately, but they did not know where he was at the moment. Some said that he was in gaol, one that he was dead, and another that he was married. But I knew that if he was alive, and that if I stopped long enough in Moran's, I would meet him there, for most navvies pass that way more than once in their lives. I had, however, lost a great deal of interest in Moleskin's doings. There was only one thing for which I now lived, and that was the search for the girl whom I loved.
One morning about four o'clock I returned to my lodgings and stole upstairs to the bedroom, which contained three other beds in addition to mine. The three were occupied, and as I turned on the gas I took a glimpse of the sleepers. Two of them I did not know, but I gave a start of surprise when I caught a glimpse of the unshaven face showing over the blankets of the bed next to mine. I was looking at Moleskin Joe. I approached the bed. The man was snoring loudly and his breath was heavy with the fumes of alcohol. I clutched the blankets and shook the sleeper.
"Moleskin!" I shouted.
He grumbled out some incoherent words and turned over on his side.
"Moleskin!" I called again, and gave him a more vigorous shake.
"Lemme alone, damn you!" he growled. "There's a good time comin'——"
The sentence ended in a snore and Joe fell asleep again. I troubled him no further, but turned off the light and slipped into bed.
In the morning I woke with a start to find Joe shaking me with all his might. He was standing beside my bed, undressed, save for his trousers.
"Flynn!" he yelled, when I opened my eyes. "My great unsanctified Pontius Pilate, it's Flynn! Hurrah! May the walls of hell fall on me if I'm not glad to see you. May I get a job shoein' geese and drivin' swine to clover if this is not the greatest day of my life! Dermod Flynn, I am glad to see—— Great blazes, your hands are like the hands of a brothel slut!"
Joe left off his wild discourses and prodded the hand which I placed over the blankets with his knuckles. He was still half intoxicated, and a bottle three-quarters full of spirits was lying against the pillow of his bed.
"White as a mushroom, but hard as steel," he said when he finished prodding.
"How are you, Moleskin?" I asked. They were the first words that I had spoken.
"Nine pounds to the good!" he roared. "I'll paint Moran's red with it. I'll raise Cain and flamin' fiery hell until ev'ry penny's spent. Then Rosyth, muck barrows, hard labour, and growlin' gangers again. But who'd have thought of seen' you here!" he went on in a quieter tone. "Man! I've often been thinkin' of you. I heard that you went up to Lon'on, then I found the name of the paper where you were workin' your shifts and I bought it ev'ry day. By God! I did, Flynn. I read all them great pieces about the East Lon'on workin' people. I read some of your writin's to the men in Burn's at Greenock, and some of the lodgers said that you were stuck up and priggish. I knew what you'd do if you were there yourself. You would knock red and blue blazes out of ev'ry man of them. Well, you weren't there and I done the job for you. Talk about skin and hair! It was flyin' all over the place between the hot-plate and the door for two hours and longer. I'm damned eternal if it wasn't a fight! Never seen the like of it.... Man! your hands are like a woman's, Flynn!... Come and have a drink, one good long, gulpin' drink, and it will make a man of you!... Did you like the ways of London?"
"No," I replied. "The pen was not in my line."
"I knew that," said Joe solemnly, as he lifted the bottle from the pillow. "Finger doctorin' doesn't suit a man like you. When you work you must get your shoulder at the job and all the strength of your spine into the graft. Have some blasted booze?"
"I've given up the booze, Moleskin," I answered.
He glanced at me with a look of frosty contempt and his eyes were fixed for a long while on my white hands.
"Lon'on has done for you, man, and it is a pity indeed," he said at last, but I understood Moleskin and knew that his compassion was given more in jest than in earnest. "What are you goin' to do? Are you for Rosyth?"
"No."
"Then why the devil aren't you?"
"Are you going there?" I asked, forgetting that he had already told me of his design.
"When I burst the last tanner in my pocket," he answered. "I've nine quid clear, so I'll get drunk nine hundred times and more. What caused you to give up the booze? A woman, was it?"
Suddenly the impulse came to me and I told Joe my story, my second meeting with Norah Ryan, and my desire to see her again. There in the ragged bed, with Joe stripped naked to the buff, and half drunk, sitting beside me, I told the story of my love for Norah, our parting, her shame, and my weary searching for her through the streets of Glasgow. Much of the story he knew, for I had told it to him in Kinlochleven long before. But I wanted to unburden myself of my sorrow, I wanted sympathy, I wanted the consolation of a fellow-man in my hours of worry. When I had finished my mate remained silent for a long while and I expected his usual tirades against women when he began to speak. On the contrary, the story seemed to have sobered him and his voice was full of feeling when he spoke.
"I'm goin' to help you to find your wench, Dermod," he said. "That's better than gettin' drunk, though I'd prefer gettin' drunk to gettin' married."
"But——"
"Don't but me!" roared Joe. "I'm goin' to give you a hand. Do you like that or do you not?"
"I'll be more than glad to have your help," I answered; "but——"
"No more damned buts, but let's get to business. Here, Judas Iscariot, are you feelin' sour this mornin'?"
Joe spoke to one of the lodgers, a hairy and deformed fellow who was just emerging in all his nakedness from the blankets.
"Hellish sour, Moleskin!" answered the man. "Anything to spare?"
"Take this and get drunk out of sight," said Moleskin, handing him the bottle.
"You mean it?" exclaimed the man. "You are goin' to give me the whole bottle?"
"Take it and get out of my sight," was all that Joe said and the old man left the room, hugging the bottle under his naked arm.
"He was a bank clerk did you say?" asked Moleskin. "Them sort of fellows that wear white collars and are always washing themselves. I never could trust them, Flynn, never in all my natural. Now give me the farmer cully's address; maybe he knows where your wench is."
In my heart of hearts I knew that the mission proposed by Joe would have no beneficial results, but I could not for the life of me say a word to restrain him from going. In my mind there was a blind trust in some unshapen chance and I allowed Joe to have his way.
The farmhouse where Alec Morrison lived being twenty miles distant from Glasgow, I offered Joe his railway fare, and for a moment I was overwhelmed by his Rabelaisian abuse. He would see me fried on the red-hot ovens and spits of hell if ever I offered him money again.
Morrison maybe was not at home; perhaps he had gone to London, to Canada. But Joe would find him out, I thought; and it was with a certain amount of satisfaction that I remembered having heard how Joe once fought a man twenty-six times, and getting knocked out every time challenged his opponent to a twenty-seventh contest. In the last fight my mate was victorious.
During his absence I moped about, unable to work, unable to think, and hoping against hope that the mission would be successful. Late in the afternoon he returned with a sprained thumb and without any tidings of my sweetheart. The clerk was at home, and the encounter with Joe was violent from the outset. Morrison said that my mate was a fool who had nothing better to do than meddle with the morals of young women; and refused to answer any questions. Joe took the matter in hand in his usual fistic and persuasive way and learned that the farmer's son had not seen Norah for years and that he did not know where she was. Joe, angry at his failure, sprained his thumb on the young man's face before coming back to Glasgow.
"And what was the good of this?" said Moleskin, holding up his sprained thumb and looking at it. "It didn't give one much satisfaction to knock him down. He is a fellow with no thoughts in his head; one of them kind that thinks three shillings a week paid to a woman will wipe out any sin or shame. By God! I'm a bad one, Flynn, damned bad, but I hope that I've been worse to myself than anybody on this or the other side of the grave. Look at these young women who come over from Ireland! I'd rather have the halter of Judas Iscariot round my neck than be the cause of sendin' one of them to the streets, and all for the woman's sake, Flynn. There should be something done for these women. If we find a tanner lying in the mud we lift and rub it on our coats to clean it; but if we find a woman down we throw more mud over her.... I like you, Flynn, for the way you stand up for that wench of yours. Gold rings, collars, and clean boots, and under it all a coward. That's what Morrison is."
"What is to be done now?" I asked. Joe was silent, but his mind was at work. All that evening he sat by the bed, his mind deep in thought, while I paced up and down the room, a prey to agony and remorse.
"I have it, Flynn," he cried at length. "I have it, man!" He jumped up from his bed in great excitement.
"Your wench was Catholic and she would go to the chapel; a lot of them do. They steal into church just like thieves, almost afraid to ask pardon for their sins, Flynn. If there is anything good in them they hide it, just as another person would hide a fault; but maybe some priest knows her, some priest on the south side. We'll go and ask one of the clergy fellows thereabouts. Maybe one of them will have met the woman. I've never knew a——" He stopped suddenly and left the sentence unspoken.
"Go on," I said. "What were you going to say?"
"Most of the women that I know go to church."
His words spoke volumes. Well did I know the class of women who were friends of Moleskin Joe, and from personal experience I knew that his remarks were true.
It was now eight o'clock. We went out together and sought the priest who had charge of the chapel nearest the spot where many months before I had met Norah Ryan. The priest was a grey-haired and kindly old Irishman, and he welcomed us heartily. Joe, to whom a priest represented some kind of monster, was silent in the man's presence, but I, having been born and bred a Roman Catholic, was more at home with the old man.
I told my story, but he was unable to offer any assistance. His congregation was a large one and many of its members were personally unknown to him.
"But in the confessional, Father," I said. "Probably there you have heard a story similar to mine. Maybe the girl whom I seek has told you of her life when confessing her sins. Perhaps you may recollect hearing such a story in the confessional, Father."
"It may be, but in that case the affair rests between the penitent and God," said the old priest sadly, and a far-away look came into his kindly eyes.
"If the disclosure of a confessional secret brings happiness to one mortal at the expense of none, is it not best for a man to disclose it?" I asked.
"I act under God's orders and He knows what is best," said the old man, and there was a touch of reproof in his voice.
Sick at heart, I rose to take my leave. Moleskin, glad to escape from the house, hurried towards the door which the priest opened. As I was passing out, the old man laid a detaining hand upon my arm.
"In a situation like this, one of God's servants hardly knows what is best to do," he said in a low whisper which Moleskin, already in the street, could not hear. "Perhaps it is not contrary to God's wishes that I should go against His commands and make two of His children happy even in this world. Three months ago, your sweetheart was in this very district, in this parish, and in this chapel. Do not ask me how I have learned this," he hurried on, as I made a movement to interrupt him. "If I mistake not she was then in good health and eager to give up a certain sin, which God has long since forgiven. Be clean of heart, my child, and God will aid you in your search and you'll surely find her."
He closed the door softly behind me and once again I found myself in the street along with Moleskin.
"What was the fellow sayin' to you?" asked my mate.
"He says that he has seen her three months ago," I answered. "But goodness knows where she is now!"
In the subsequent search Moleskin showed infinite resource. Torn by the emotions of love, I could not form correct judgments. No sooner had one expedient failed, however, than my mate suggested another. On the morning after our interview with the priest he suddenly rose from his seat in the bedroom, full of a new design.
"My great Jehovah, I have it, Flynn!" he roared enthusiastically.
"What is it?" I asked. Every new outburst of Moleskin gave me renewed hope.
"Gourock Ellen, that's the woman!" he cried. "She knows ev'rything and she lives in the south side, where you saw your wench for the last time. I'm goin' to see Gourock Ellen, for she's the woman that knows ev'rything, by God! she does. You can stop here and I'll be back in next to no time."
About seven o'clock in the evening Joe returned. There was a strained look on his face and he gazed at me furtively when he entered. Instantly I realised that the search had not gone well. He was nervous and agitated, and his voice was low and subdued. It was not Moleskin's voice at all. Something had happened, something discouraging, awful.
"I'm back again," he said.
"Have you seen her, Joe?" I asked hoarsely. I had been waiting his return for hours and I was on the tenter-hooks of suspense.
"I've seen Gourock Ellen," said Joe.
"Does she know anything about Norah?"
"She does." I waited for further information, but my mate relapsed into a silence which irritated me.
"Where is Norah, Moleskin?" I cried. "Tell me what that woman said. I'm sick of waiting day after day. What did Gourock Ellen tell you, Joe?"
"I saw Norah Ryan, too," was Moleskin's answer.
"Thank you, Moleskin!" I cried impetuously. "You're a real good sort——"
A look at Joe's face damped my enthusiasm. Why the agitation and faltering voice? Presentiments of bad tidings filled my mind and my voice trembled as I put the next question.
"Where did you see her, Joe?" I asked.
"In Gourock Ellen's house."
"In that woman's house!" I gasped involuntarily, for I had not rid myself of the fugitive disgust with which I had regarded that woman when first I met her. "That's not the house for Norah! What took her there?"
"Gourock Ellen found Norah lyin' on the streets hurted because some hooligans treated her shameful," said Joe, in a low and almost inaudible voice. "For the last six weeks she has watched over your girl, day and night, when there was not another friend to help her in all the world. And now Norah Ryan is for death. She'll not live another twenty-four hours!"
To me existence has meant succeeding reconciliations to new misfortunes, and now the greatest misfortune had happened. Moleskin's words cut through my heart as a whiplash cuts through the naked flesh. Fate, chance, and the gods were against me, and the spine of life was almost broken.
The darkness had long since fallen over the tumbledown rookeries of the Glasgow alley wherein this story is to end, but the ragged children still played in the gutters and the old withered women still gossiped on the pavements. Two drunken men fought outside a public-house and another lay asleep on the dirty kerbstone. When Moleskin and I came to the close which was well known to my mate we had to step over the drunken man in making an entrance.
We passed through a long arched passage and made our way up a flight of rickety wooden stairs, which were cracked at every step, while each crack was filled with the undisturbed dirt of months.
"In there," said Joe, pointing to a splintered door when we gained the top landing. "I'm goin' to stop outside and wait till you come back again."
I rapped on the door, but there was no response. I pushed against the handle and it opened inwards. An open door is a sure sign of poverty. It is a waste of time to lock a door on an empty house. Here where the wealth of men was not kept, the purity of women could not be stolen. Probably Death had effected his entrance before me, but he is one whom no door can hold. I looked into the room.
How bare it looked! A guttering candle threw a dim light over the place and showed up the nakedness of the apartment. The paper on the walls was greasy to the height of a man's head and there was no picture or ornament in the place to bring out one reviving thought. The floor was dirty, worn, and uncarpeted; a pile of dead ashes was in the fireplace and a frying-pan without a handle lay in one corner of the room. No chair was to be seen. A pile of rags lay on the floor and these looked as if they had been used for a bed. The window was open, probably to let the air into the room, but instead of the pure fresh air, the smoke of a neighbouring chimney stole into the chamber.
This much did my eyes take in vaguely before I saw the truckle bed which was placed along the wall near the window. On the bed a woman lay asleep—or maybe dead! I approached quietly and stood by the bedside. I was again looking at Norah, my sweetheart, grown fairer yet through sin and sorrow. The face was white as the petals of some water flower, and the shadow of the long wavy hair about it seemed to make it whiter still. She was asleep and I stood there lost in contemplation of her, a spirit which the first breeze might waft away. Her sleep was sound. I could see her bosom rising and falling under the ragged coverlet and could hear the even breath drawn softly in between the white lips now despoiled of all the cherry redness of six years ago. Instinctively I knew that the life of her was already broken in the grip of sorrow and death.
Suddenly she opened her soft grey eyes. In their calm and tragic depths a strange lustre resembling nothing earthly shone for a moment. There was in them the peace which had taken the place of vanished hopes and the calm and sorrowful acceptance of an end far different from her childish dreams.
She started up in the bed and a startled look stole into her face. A bright colour glowed faintly in her cheeks, and about her face there was still the girlish grace of the Norah whom I had met years before on the leading road to Greenanore.
"I was dreamin' of ye, Dermod," she said in a low silvery voice. "Ye were long in comin'."
Sitting up with one elbow buried in the pillow, her chemise slipped from her shoulders and her skin looked very pink and delicate under the scattered locks of brown hair. I went down on my knees by the bedside and clasped both her hands in mine. She was expecting me—waiting for me.
"Ellen told me that ye were lookin' for meself," she continued. "A man came this mornin'."
"I sent him, Norah," I said. "'Tis good to see you again, darling. I have been looking for you such a long time."
"Have ye?" was all her answer, and gripping my two big hands tightly with her little ones she began to sob like a child.
"It's the kindly way that ye have with ye, Dermod," she went on, sinking back into the bed. Her tearless sobs were almost choking her and she gazed up at the roof with sad, blank eyes. "Ye don't know what I am and the kind of life I have been leadin' for a good lot of years, to come and speak to me again. It's not for a decent man like ye to speak to the likes of my kind! It's meself that has suffered a big lot, too, Dermod, and I deserve pity more than hate. Me sufferin's would have broke the heart of a cold mountainy stone."
"Poor Norah! well do I know what you have suffered," I said. "I have been looking for you for a long while and I want to make you happy now that I have found you."
"Make me happy!" she exclaimed, withdrawing her hands from mine. "What would ye be doin' wantin' to make me happy? I'm dead to ev'rybody, to the people at home, and to me own very mother! What would she want with me now, me, her daughter, and the mother of a child that never had a priest's blessin' on its head? A child without a lawful father! Think of it, Dermod! What would the Glenmornan people say if they met me on the streets? It was a dear child to me, it was. And ye are wantin' to make me happy. Ev'ry time ye come ye say that ye are goin' to make me happy. D'ye mind seein' me on the streets, Dermod?"
"I remember it, Norah," I said. She had spoken of the times I came to see her and I did not understand. Perhaps I came to her in dreams.
"It was the child, Dermod," she rambled on; "it was the little boy and he was dyin', both of a cough that was stickin' in his throat and of starvation. I hadn't seen bread or that what buys it for many's a long hour, even for days itself. I could not get work to do. I tried to beg, but the peelis was goin' to put me in prison, and then there was nothin' for me, Dermod, but to take to the streets.... There was long white boats goin' out and we were watchin' them from the strand of Trienna Bay, Dermod and me. I called him Dermod, but he never got the christenin' words said over him or a drop of holy water.... Where is Ellen? Ellen, ye're a good friend to me, ye are. The people that are sib to meself do not care what happens to one of their own kind, but it's ye yerself that has the good heart, Ellen. And ye say that Dermod Flynn is comin' to see me? I would like to see him again.... I called me little boy after him, too.... Little Dermod, I called him, and now he's dead without the priest's blessin' ever put over him."
"I'm here, Norah," I said, for I knew that her mind was wandering. "I am here, Norah. I am Dermod Flynn. Do you know me now?"
The long lashes dropped over her eyes and hid them from my sight.
"Norah, do you remember me?" I repeated. "I am Dermod, Dermod Flynn. Say Dermod after me."
She opened her eyes again and looked at me with a puzzled glance.
"Is it ye, Dermod?" she cried. "I knew that ye were comin' to see me. I was thinkin' of ye often and many's the time that I thought ye were standin' be me bed quiet like and takin' a look at me. Ye're here now, are ye? Say true as death."
"True as death," I repeated after her. The phrase was a Glenmornan one.
"Then where is Ellen and where is the man that came here this mornin' and left a handful of money to help us along?" she asked. "He was a good kindly man, givin' us so much money and maybe needin' it himself, too. Joe was his name."
"Moleskin Joe," I said.
"There were three men on the street and they made fun of me when I was passin' them," said Norah, and her mind was wandering again. "And one of the men caught me and I tried to get away and I struggled and fought. For wasn't I forgiven for me sins at the chapel that day and I was goin' to be a good woman all the rest of me life? I told the men to let me alone and one of them kicked me and I fell on the cold street. No one came to help me. Who would care at all, at all, for a woman like me? The very peelis will not give me help. 'Twas Ellen that picked me up when the last gasp was almost in me mouth. And she has been the good friend to me ever since. Sittin' up at night be me side and workin' her fingers to the bone for me durin' the livelong day. Ellen, ye're very good to me."
"Ellen is not here, Norah," I said, and the tears were running down my cheek.
I placed my hand on Norah's forehead, which was cold as marble, and at that moment somebody entered the room. I was aware of the presence of the newcomer, but never looked round. Norah's face now wore a look of calm repose and her lashes falling slowly hid the far-away look in her grey eyes. For a moment I thought that she held silent council with the angels.
I was still aware of the presence. Somebody came forward, bent tenderly over the bed and softly brushed the stray tresses back from Norah's brow. It was the woman, Gourock Ellen. At that moment I felt myself an intruder, one who was looking on things too sacred for his eyes.
"Norah, are you asleep?" Ellen asked, and there was no answer.
"Norah! Norah!" The woman of the streets bent closer to the girl in the bed and pressed her hand to Norah's heart.
"Have ye come back, Ellen?" Norah asked, in a quiet voice without opening her eyes. "I was dreamin' in the same old way. I saw him comin' back again. He was standin' be me bed and he was very kind, like he always was."
"He's here, little lass," answered Ellen; then to me, "Speak to her, man! She's been wearin' her heart awa' thinkin' of you for a lang, lang, weary while. Speak to her and we'll save her yet. She's just wanderin' a bit in her heid."
"Then it's not dreamin' that I was!" cried Norah. "It's Dermod himself that's in it and back again. Just comin' to see me! It's himself that has the kindly Glenmornan heart and always had. Dermod, Dermod!"
Her voice became low and strained and I bent closer to catch her words.
"It was ye that I was thinkin' of all the time and I was foolish when we were workin' with Micky's Jim. It's all me fault and sorrow is on me because I made ye suffer. Maybe ye'll go home some day. If ye do, go to me mother's house and ask her to forgive me. Tell her that I died on the year I left Micky's Jim's squad. I was not me mother's child after that; I was dead to all the world. My fault could not be undone—that's what made the blackness of it: Niver let yer own sisters go into a strange country, Dermod. Niver let them go to the potato-squad, for it's the place that is evil for a girl like me that hasn't much sense. Ye're not angry with me, Dermod, are ye?"
"Norah, I was never angry with you," I said, and I kissed her lips. They were hot as fire. "Darling, you didn't think that I was angry with you?"
"No, Dermod, for it's ye that has the kindly way!" said the poor girl. "Would ye do something for me if iver ye go back to yer own place?"
"Anything you ask, Norah," I answered, "and anything within my power to do."
"Will ye get a mass said for me in the chapel at home, a mass for the repose of me soul?" she asked. "If ye do I'll be very happy."
When I raised my head, Moleskin was in the room. He had stolen in quietly, tired of waiting, and perhaps curious to see the end. He removed his cap and stood in the middle of the floor and looked curiously around. Norah sat up in bed and beckoned Ellen to approach.
She opened her mouth as if to speak, but there was a rattle in her throat, her teeth chattered, her hands opened and closed like those of a drowning man who clutches at floating sedge, and she dropped back to the pillow. Ellen and I hastened to help her, and laid her down quietly on the bed. Her eyes were open, her mouth wide apart showing two rows of white teeth. The spirit of the girl I loved had passed away. Without doubt, outside and over the smoke of the large city, a great angel with outspread wings was waiting for her soul.
I was conscious of a great relief. Death, the universal comforter, had smoothed out things in a way that was best for the little girl, who knew the deep sorrows of an erring woman when only a child.
Joe looked awkwardly around. There was something weighing on his mind. Presently he touched me on the arm.
"Would there be any harm in me goin' down on my knees and sayin' a prayer?" he asked.
"No harm, Joe," I said, as I knelt again by the bedside.
Ellen and Joe went down on their knees beside me. Outside the sounds of the city were loud in the air. An organ-grinder played his organ on the pavement; a crowd of youngsters passed by, roaring out a comic song. Norah lay peacefully in the Great Sleep. I could neither think nor pray. My eyes were riveted on the dead woman.
The candle made a final splutter and went out. Inside the room there was complete darkness. Joe hardly breathed, and not knowing a prayer, he was silent. From time to time I could hear loud sobs, the words of a great prayer—the heart prayer of a stricken woman. Gourock Ellen was weeping.
THE END