The Judge often looked up at a large painting on his study wall—“Even This Shall Pass Away.”

The words were issuing from the lips of an Oriental king who, seated on a magnificent throne, was receiving the homage of his courtiers. A half-sad, half-indulgent smile played about his face, and on his uplifted hand there could be seen the words deeply cut on a finger ring, “Even This Shall Pass Away.”

The Judge often looked at this picture. How many, many things had passed away in his experience—things that apparently never would pass away! How the time had dragged when Titus lay ill in the hospital! It had seemed as if he would always be ill, as if his grandfather would always be at home, a worried and suffering man. But now only a few weeks had gone by and Titus was at home, and things were going on as they had before his accident.

The boy was going to school again—no fear of fights now. He could stutter as much as he pleased. The boys, half savages as some of them appeared to be, were afraid to touch him.

After breakfast the Judge read his paper, went downtown to the post office, the bank, and his club, then came home.

The princess was always waiting for him, in her basket by the hearth rug if it were raining, or on the balcony if it were fine.

As soon as he appeared in the doorway she flew to meet him, lighted on his shoulder, rubbed her beak gently against his ear, saying “Rookety cahoo!” a great number of times.

When he put her on the hardwood floor she would circle round his feet, and finally retire to her basket, where she sat and watched him.

He had become her prime favorite. She liked Mrs. Blodgett and Higby, and she endured Titus, but she loved the Judge.

On this particular day, or rather evening, she was very much disturbed. The Judge had had his nap in the afternoon, and his drive, and his dinner, and now in the firelight and incandescent light, when the room was snug and cozy, he ought to be reading in his big chair, with herself, the princess, on one arm of it, occasionally getting her head scratched. But instead of following the usual order of things he was muttering to himself something about a vow, and was pacing about the room.

The princess did not like it, and showed her displeasure by a succession of sulky “Rookety cahoos!” uttered from her basket.

After a time the Judge rang the bell.

“Jennie,” he said when the parlor maid appeared, “ask Master Titus to come here after he finishes studying his lessons.”

Half an hour later Titus came whistling down the hall.

“W-w-well, grandfather,” he said, as he came into the study, “what do you want—a-a-a game of backgammon?”

“No,” said the Judge, “I want to talk to you. Sit down.”

Titus threw himself into a chair, and stared at him.

“When you were ill,” began the Judge, “I, in my extremity, promised my Maker that if you were spared to me I would show my gratitude by adopting some poor child who had no home of his own.”

“W-w-whew!” exclaimed Titus, and he drew his black brows together.

The Judge was not surprised. He had feared that Titus might be jealous of another lad.

He waited a minute or two, then he went on firmly: “This was not blind impulse. I have all my life known that it was not good for a child to be brought up alone. Being alone tends to egotism. We are very happy, you and I, yet I know it would be better for you to have another lad to share your sorrows and joys.”

“H-h-he might fight me,” said Titus, gloomily.

“I shall get one much younger than you,” replied the Judge.

“O-O-O!” said Titus, easily, “then I can lick him.”

“Titus,” said the Judge, “you know that there are boys and girls in the world less favored than yourself.”

“Y-y-yes, sir, but they are dirty and lazy, and they have awful manners.”

“If we get a young child we can mold him. I feel it my duty, boy. I have enough for you and another lad. There is a fearful amount of suffering in the world. We should do what we can to lessen it.”

“I-I-I don’t want one of those River Street cubs,” said Titus, sharply.

“I shall take the greatest pains to get a boy of good antecedents,” said the Judge, decidedly. “You know that my profession has brought me into contact with crime and criminals. I have a horror of inherited vicious tendencies.”

“A-a-all right, sir,” replied Titus, with a sigh. “If you’ve promised we’ve got to do it,” and getting up he walked over to his grandfather and threw his arm over his shoulder.

Titus was a reserved boy, but just now his slim young figure, pressed close to the chair in which the Judge sat, was brimful of eloquence.

The Judge’s lip quivered. “Titus,” he said, slowly, “I shall never love another boy as I love you, and, to tell the truth, I half wish now that I had not made that vow; but I was in dire trouble, and the Lord delivered me out of it. Should I not show gratitude?”

“Y-y-yes, sir,” said Titus, hastily. “We’ve had a hard time. I had thoughts too, sir, when I was lying in bed so long. I’ve deceived you in lots of things. I’m going to be more straight—I-I-I guess it’s all right to take a kid. W-w-we’ll bring him to be just like you and me,” and with a grin he rubbed his black head against his grandfather’s white one, and then scampered away to bed.

Now the princess was happy. With a great sigh of relief the Judge settled himself back in his chair, pulled the reading light toward him, and took up a book.

Sukey flew to his side, and when he became too much absorbed in his reading to rub her white head she leaned over and gently pecked his hand.

Young Titus’s illness had extended over a long and cold autumn and into the first part of December. By Christmas time he was dashing about in his old way, though he still had a slight limp. Only time would cure that, the doctors said.

The limp did not keep him off his feet. From morning till night he was rushing about somewhere, and when the Christmas holidays came he was simply omnipresent.

According to a long-established custom, he and his grandfather went downtown every Christmas Eve to see the shops and the people. They started early on this Christmas Eve—just as soon as they had had their dinner—and they both would have been very much surprised if anyone had told them that during this evening a chance would come for the fulfillment of the Judge’s vow.

Ever since he had mentioned the matter to Titus the Judge had been quietly looking about for a boy. He had visited several orphan asylums, and he had written to friends, but though the orphans were plentiful he was fastidious, and so far some defect had been found in every one proposed to him.

“This is a joyful season, sir,” said young Titus, as he endeavored to stride along in a manly fashion beside his grandfather.

The Judge nodded, for this particular season was, as Titus said, an ideal one. Enough snow had fallen to make sleighing pleasant, the air was clear and frosty, but not too sharp, and the days were cloudless and the nights bright. It was a pleasure to be out.

The usual Christmas stir prevailed. The streets were full of people, the shops were crowded. The Judge and Titus had nothing to buy. The boy had bought his presents for his grandfather and the servants, and the Judge had his gifts all neatly done up and labeled. They were in two of the big drawers of one of his bookcases, and Princess Sukey, the pigeon, had been the only one to see them as yet.

Everything was gay and cheerful. Nobody seemed sad, nobody sorry. Boys and girls, men and women, were laughing and talking cheerily, and Titus was staring about, his eyes going this way and that way, until at last his grandfather turned his wandering gaze in one direction by saying, “What do you suppose is the matter with that boy?”

Titus looked straight in front of him.

A small child clad in a long coat and having on a shabby fur cap was trotting along in front of them. Sometimes he would take several steps in a straight and assured way, then he would falter and stagger. Once in a while he would reel up against the shop windows. Upon one of these occasions he pressed his little face against the frosty glass and gazed in at the toys.

The child’s cheeks were white and dirty, his eyes were sleepy, and Titus said in a puzzled way, “Do you suppose anyone would give him anything to make him stagger?”

“Hardly,” said the Judge, “the little fellow must have extraordinarily weak ankles. Watch him.”

The child set out again, and this time he staggered so badly that he fell on the snowy pavement. There he sat with his little face bent, a curious smile playing about his lips as he gazed, not at the passersby, but down at the ice and snow.

The Judge and Titus were the first to reach him. “Here,” said the Judge, and he looked down at the child, “try again,” and he set him on his feet.

The little boy gave him a slow, scrutinizing glance, then he smiled mysteriously and said, “My little trotters slipped on the ghosts of running things.”

“A-a-are you ill?” asked Titus, sharply.

The child softly patted the front of his coat with his mittened hand, “They kept me late, and Mr. Rat is at his old tricks.”

“You are hungry,” said the Judge.

The child yawned—such a tired, weak little yawn that, to the Judge’s surprise, he tried to suppress. Then he nodded his little head a great many times. “There’s something in the oven for me, but it’s a long way there.”

“We are obstructing the way,” said the Judge, and indeed many persons had stopped and were listening. “Take his hand, Titus—here, child, come into this restaurant.”

Like one walking in sleep he gave his hand to Titus, and allowed himself to be led into the brilliantly lighted white and gold room.

“W-w-wonder what he thinks of it?” murmured Titus to himself. “Here, boy, take off your cap.”

The little boy struggled to keep his hairy or almost hairless headgear, but Titus was inexorable. He finally gave it up, but he gazed at Titus with a slightly injured air, as the bigger boy handed the shabby fur thing to the waiter.

Then with babyish vanity he put up a hand and smoothed the thin crop of curls plastered down on his forehead by a band of perspiration.

“What will you have?” said the Judge to him after they had seated themselves at a small table.

“Cats like milk,” he said, dreamily, “and dogs like broo.”

Titus stared at him, then he said under his breath to his grandfather, “I-i-is he crazy?”

“No, he is repeating a Scotch jingle. ‘Broo’ is broth. He is terribly tired. Child,” he went on, “would you like me to read you the menu?”

“Please, sir,” he said, shyly, and with tired grace he handed the Judge the bit of cardboard with which he was playing.

The Judge elevated his eyebrows, put on his eyeglasses, and took the menu from him.

“Oysters, sir,” said the child, seriously, when the Judge had run over the list, “bouillon, and Democrat-Republican ice cream.”

Democrat-Republican ice cream was a specialty of this same first-class restaurant, and Titus, hearing this poverty-stricken child show familiarity with its merits, snickered aloud in his amusement.

His grandfather gave him a warning glance, but the child had not heard him. He was wearily looking about the pretty room with an air that said, “I have seen all this before.” Then, while waiting for their orders to be filled, he quietly dropped to sleep.

Meanwhile the Judge and Titus studied his appearance.

“Do you see,” said the Judge, “that though his face and hands are dirty his wrists are clean. He is only dirty outside. Look at his ragged little shirt cuffs. They are quite white—and how nicely his coat is darned.”

Titus nodded, and as the Judge noted the kindly look on the boy’s face as he surveyed the sleeping child a light broke over his own face. He was not romantic nor sentimental, but he was a religious man, and he believed in the leadings of Providence.

He had been guided to this boy. What a brother he would make for Titus—that is, and he prudently added an afterthought, if he was without incumbrances, and his antecedents were good—and meanwhile the little child slept on.

“B-b-boy,” said Titus, presently, “wake up, and eat your victuals.”

The child opened his eyes, smiled sweetly at him, and calmly took up a fork.

He went to sleep between oysters and bouillon, and bouillon and ice cream. He slept putting a piece of bread to his mouth—indeed, he slept with such frequency that Titus wondered how he managed to tuck away so much food.

At last he had finished, and then he did something that considerably mystified the Judge and Titus.

After wiping his mouth with his napkin he put the napkin on the table, and unbuttoning his coat he slipped a hand in the front of it.

As he did this the sleepy look left his eyes, and a sorrowful one came in its place. Drawing out a small handkerchief with a border of marvelous lions and tigers, he unrolled it, pretended to take something out of it and put it on the table. Then he placed crumbs of bread and cake before this imaginary thing.

“W-w-what are you doing?” asked Titus, bluntly.

“Feeding the little one,” said the child, solemnly.

“W-w-what little one? There isn’t any there.”

“Don’t you see my little mouse?” he asked, impatiently.

“A-a-a mouse!” exclaimed Titus, “je-whillikens! I don’t like mice.”

“He’s dead,” said the child, softly; “a strange pussy killed him—not our pussy.”

“H-h-how can you feed him if he’s dead?” pursued Titus, with boyish callousness.

“But he has a little ghost,” said the strange child, gently shaking his head, “and I carry it here—have you had enough, mousie?” and he tenderly lowered his head to the table.

“Yes,” he said, softly speaking to himself; then he took up the ghost, wrapped it in his handkerchief, and put it back in his little bosom.

The Judge felt a strange misgiving. Another animal enthusiast—and this one worse than Titus, for Titus had little imagination, and interested himself only with the live bodies of animals, not their dead shades.

The mouse episode over, the child again became sleepy. Titus, who had managed to dispose of some ice cream himself, jammed the boy’s fur cap down on his head, and guided his steps behind the Judge to the door of the restaurant.

There the child sank down on the doorstep.

“U-u-upon my word,” stuttered Titus, “he’s saying his prayers. T-t-this time he’ll be off for good—must have been drugged.”

“It’s a case of natural or unnatural fatigue,” said his grandfather. “Drugs would probably cause him to sleep uninterruptedly. Go get a sleigh and we will drive him home. Child,” and he bent down and slightly shook him, “where do you live?”

“Forty-five River Street,” he replied, drowsily, “at Mrs. Tingsby’s.”

When he found himself lifted in among warm fur sleigh robes he slept more soundly than ever.

“River Street—River Street,” said the Judge. “Poor child!”

In a short time they had left the crowded, brightly lighted streets, and were traversing the long, dingy narrow one that Titus so much disliked.

On one side of the street there were wharves behind the houses. The traffic for the day was over, and the wharves were dull and deserted, but there was some life on the street, particularly about the saloons and small shops.

Even River Street must have its Christmas Eve.

“Forty-five,” said the driver, “here it is,” and he stopped beside a narrow house—the middle one of three dingy, uninviting dwellings.

“Mere shells of buildings,” muttered the Judge, glancing up at the houses, “and the poor haven’t coal to heat them, while we with well built houses have plenty of fuel.”

When the sleigh stopped, and the merry jingle of the horses’ bells ceased, a curtain was pulled aside from a window of number forty-five, then the door flew open, and a thin slip of a woman in a cotton dress ran out to meet them.

“O, the child! the child!—don’t say death to me!”

“Motherly anxiety,” commented the Judge to himself, and strange to say his heart sank. If the boy had a mother he would never get him.

He stared at the excited wisp of a woman who was dragging the child from the fur robes, and was violently hugging him. “O, Bethany! Bethany! you aint dead.”

“Dead, no,” said the Judge, “he is only asleep,” and he proceeded to tell the woman the story of their finding the child.

She listened to him, holding her head up, and with a strained expression on her thin face, and after a time the Judge stopped talking, for he discovered that she had not heard a word of what he was saying.

“I’m deef!” she exclaimed, “deefer than that iron post. Come in, come in,” and clutching the little boy firmly by the hand she backed into a tiny hall, and threw open the door of a small front room where a table was set as if for a meal.

“Wait for us,” said the Judge to the cabman, then he followed her.

The cloth on the table was white but threadbare, and the appointments were all so meager that the Judge averted his head. He had a tender heart, and now that he was getting toward old age the awful inequality between the lot of the rich and the poor struck a painful sympathy to his heart.

“What makes this boy so sleepy?” he asked, pointing to the little child.

The woman saw his gesture. “Ah! sir,” she said, “it’s cruel to keep them so late. They begin work at nine in the morning.”

“Work!” echoed Titus.

His clear young voice reached the deaf woman’s ear.

“That there child,” she said, pointing to the little boy, who was sitting on a small stool stifling yawns, “has been at work sence nine this morning with bare an hour for lunch—just as sure as I’m a livin’ woman.”

“What work does he do?” asked the Judge.

The woman did not hear him, but she guessed what his question would be.

“From nine to five is the hours, and in the sight of my Maker I vow I’d not let any child in my care go to sech slavery, if it weren’t that I’m so hard pressed that upon my word the soul is fairly racked out of me to get victuals for my children.”

“What does he do?” roared the Judge in her ear.

“Do, sir—makes paper boxes. You know about Christmas time how the rich folks must have boxes to put their candy in. The contracts for boxes is let out to men who swallow up the poor. There’s dozens of poor children a-slavin’ in this city, agin’ the law and unbeknownst to the law. I wish the Lord had never made Christmas. It’s a good time for the rich. You take out your fat pocketbooks an’ order presents for each other, an’ you wait till the last minute, an’ then the poor has to go to work.”

The Judge wrinkled his white brows.

“Look at that table, sir,” continued the woman, “set sence five o’clock this evenin’—the time the poor is supposed to git off. Look at the sour bread the baker sells us, an’ the salt butter the grocer weighs us, an’ the molasses, an’ rind of cheese. That’s our Christmas Eve supper, but sech as it is it’s been waitin’ for hours for my boarders.”

The Judge said nothing, but his gaze went round the shabby room. Nothing more unlike his idea of a boarding house could be imagined.

The little thin woman with the sharp eyes interpreted his glance.

“Yes, sir, I earns my livin’ by keepin’ boarders—ever sence my husband was poisoned to death by work in the city sewers. There’s that boarder,” and she pointed to a plate on the table—“Matthew Jones. He works in a fur store—overtime now, because it’s Christmas, and some grand lady must have her set of sables to-night. The light is poor in his workroom, an’ his eyes is bad, but no matter—he’s got to work or be fired. Then next to him sits Harry Ray. He’s in the express employ. Only seventeen, an’ an orphan. He’s drivin’ till one and two every night now, an’ eatin’ his lunch on his seat in his cart. He’s got an awful cold. After Christmas he’ll likely take time to have newmania or grip. Then there’s old man Fanley. He’s carryin’ parcels for a small firm—poor old soul, stumblin’ round in the cold at night when he ought to be in bed. O! sir, we don’t hate work, we poor uns, we’ll slave all day, but I do think the rich might let us have our nights. We’d serve ’em better, sir, we would.”

The Judge bent his white head and nodded it sadly. At times there seemed no joy, no pleasure in life, only stern taskmasters and shrinking slaves.

“It’s hardest on the children,” pursued the woman in a lower tone. “My heart bleeds for ’em. I’ve just got me own in bed. They’re all workin’ too, now that it’s holiday time. I was just waitin’ for this stray lamb,” and her glance softened as it fell on the bobbing form of the sleeping child.

The Judge raised his head. “Isn’t this your child?” he asked, sharply.

The woman turned to Titus. “What do he say?”

Titus repeated the question, and she intently watched the motion of his lips.

“My child!” she exclaimed. “O, law no! Look at my hair, sir, black as a crow’s. Those curls be quite light,” and she stepped over and laid a hand on the child’s head.

“Whose child is he?” asked the Judge.

The woman turned to Titus with an impatient gesture. “You say it. His mustache do cover his lips. I can’t see ’em.”

“P-parents,” cried Titus, “of that boy. Who is his mother?”

“Mother!” repeated Mrs. Tingsby, “nay, that I can’t say till I finds an owner for the child. ‘Susan Tingsby,’ said his ma when she lay a-dyin’ in this very house, ‘Susan Tingsby, you’ve been a good friend to me. When the Lord sends some one to take my baby tell my poor story, such as it is’—an’, sir, I’ve kept the child these ten months. Often I’ve hardly had bread for me own, but the child of the stranger never suffered.”

The Judge sat quietly for a few minutes. Now that his attention was called to the fact that the woman was not the child’s mother he saw quite a difference in their faces. Mrs. Tingsby’s sharp, dark features were very unlike the pale, plump face of the little one.

“Yes!” she suddenly ejaculated, “the child’s fat enough.”

The Judge looked at her. Though deaf she was not stupid, and she was marvelously clever at understanding one’s thoughts.

“The children of the poor is mostly that,” she continued. “Much sour bread puffs ’em out, an’ likewise fresh air which they has plenty of. But bless your heart, it aint good flesh like rich children’s. Newmania and consumption takes ’em off like smoke.”

“Ask her to what station in life the boy’s mother belonged,” said the Judge to Titus.

“W-w-was its mother a lady?” vociferated the boy, with a nod toward the child.

“A lady! Well, I guess so,” replied Mrs. Tingsby, indignantly, “as much as you be. She were a school-teacher—out of New York. I know her maiden name. Her husband’s name weren’t nothin’ remarkable. I don’t mind sayin’ it. It were Smith.”

“Ask her what the husband’s character was,” said the Judge.

“H-h-husband,” continued Titus, “was he good?”

“He were an imp,” said Mrs. Tingsby, shortly.

“An imp,” murmured the Judge. “Go on, Titus, extract some more information. You can guess pretty well what I want to know.”

“W-w-what do you mean by an imp?” stuttered the boy, speaking very slowly, and shaping his words well with his mouth.

“Well, young sir,” said Mrs. Tingsby, ironically, “when you grows up and marries a wife, and goes off an’ leaves her in a poor boardin’ place like this, an’ only comes home once in a while, an’ takes her an’ the child to a swell restaurant for lunch, an’ then goes off an’ leaves her to bread and molasses again, I’ll say you are an imp.”

“I-I-I don’t care much for this woman,” said the abashed Titus under his breath to his grandfather.

“Never mind, boy—she means well. Ask some more questions. What was the husband’s business?”

Titus grinned in an embarrassed way. “W-w-what was the imp’s business?” he inquired.

“Servin’ his master,” said the woman, shortly, and with a glance at the now sleeping child, “an’ sometimes gettin’ big pay, an’ sometimes poor—what’s his business?” and she abruptly jerked a forefinger in the Judge’s direction.

“H-h-he’s a judge,” said the boy, proudly, “retired a few years ago—o-o-on account of ill health,” he added; “but he’s all right now.”

“Ah!” replied Mrs. Tingsby, and still staring at the Judge she addressed him significantly, “maybe you’ve seen him purfessionally.”

Judge Sancroft felt an inward recoil, though he said nothing. But he rose almost immediately, and looked at his grandson.

Mrs. Tingsby was a remarkably shrewd woman. Under the Judge’s reserved exterior she saw plainly that his heart had been going out to the orphan child.

“The father is dead,” she said, briefly, “buried by the mother—an’ she were a saint on earth, an’ is now a saint in heaven.”

The Judge said nothing, and picking up his fur gloves he slowly began to draw them on.

Mrs. Tingsby’s strained, eager face was bent on him. “The father of the imp were a minister of the gospel,” she continued, “an’ the imp’s wife—”

She paused an instant. The dead woman had told her clearly not to reveal her maiden name except to the person who would adopt her child; but Mrs. Tingsby was so sure that this person stood before her that she made up her mind to a slight breach of confidence.

“The mother were a Hittaker,” she said, grandly.

The Judge had never heard of the Hittakers, and therefore did not look impressed.

The woman in her anxiety pulled Titus by the sleeve. “Ask him—aint he heard of Hittaker—big soap manufacturer. Why, it’s in all the groceries.”

Titus shook his head. He saw that his grandfather did not know the name.

“Inquire why she does not apply to these people,” said Judge Sancroft.

Titus asked her.

“Apply to ’em! Bless you, didn’t she? What won’t a woman do for her child. But her own parents be dead. These Hittakers be uncle and cousin to her, an’ they wouldn’t do a thing—sent back her last letter.”

The Judge got up. “I’ll send some one to you,” he said. “Titus, you tell her. I’ll report her case, and have some aid given her.”

Titus in his boyish fashion rattled off a sentence. “M-m-my grandfather will send help to you. Maybe he can get the child a home.”

Mrs. Tingsby laid a lean hand on Titus, but she looked at his grandfather. “An’ you don’t want the orphan yourself, sir?”

The Judge shook his head.

Mrs. Tingsby locked her hands together. “I like your face, sir. There has been people fancyin’ the child, but I didn’t fancy ’em.”

Judge Sancroft smiled faintly. Then his hand went toward his pocket.

The little woman’s face flushed crimson. “I’m no beggar, sir. I’ve no wish for money I can’t earn.” The Judge put out a hand and took hers. “Titus, shake hands with her,” he said.

“G-g-grandfather,” ejaculated the boy as they stepped over the threshold of the door leading into the little dark hall, “look at her!”

Mrs. Tingsby stood holding the small lamp aloft for them, with tears running down her cheeks, and a painful, almost terrified, expression in her eyes.

“I’ve told a dead woman’s secret, sir,” she said in response to the Judge’s look of inquiry. “I’ve risked me soul, an’ it aint done no good.”

The woman’s expression of suffering was so genuine that the Judge stopped short. How cruel to lay another burden on this already overburdened back!

She was an honest woman, he could see that. He had had a long experience in the study of human nature, and she would not have been able to deceive him if she had wished. Suppose he took the child from her. With his connections and influence he could easily find a home for it.

“Madam,” he said, courteously, and stepping back, “this is Christmas Eve, and from my heart I wish you good cheer. If it will give you pleasure, I am willing to take the child, and to pledge myself to find a good home for him.”

The woman again twitched Titus by the sleeve. She had partly, but not wholly, understood.

Titus, who was getting excited, stopped stuttering and told her.

When he finished she turned round, set the lamp down on the table, and threw up her hands.

“Thank the Lord! Thank the Lord! Here, duckie, old Mother Tingsby has found you a home. Stir up, and go with the gentleman,” and in feverish haste she aroused the sleeping child, got him on his feet, and put his cap on his head.

“Well, well,” said the Judge, in some hesitation, “I did not think of taking him to-night.”

The woman did not hear him, though she spoke as if she had. “Better have it over in darkness, with none to see and none to hear. I don’t want to drag down that sweet woman’s child by any connection with me. Ah! sir, she was like a sister to me. I’ll miss her child,” and with very genuine regret she embraced the bewildered little boy.

“I assure you,” vociferated the Judge, “that I am not in the habit of doing things in secret. I do not care who knows that I have taken a poor child from River Street.”

Mrs. Tingsby did not hear him, and Titus was too excited to report, so the Judge slightly shrugged his shoulders.

“I’ll miss my baby—I’ll miss my baby!” she cried, “for there’s not a soul younger in the house but the kitten—good-bye, pet—good-bye. Old Mother Tingsby will sometimes sneak up to look in your windows. Sir, you’ll never give up this child—you’ll let your soul go first.”

The Judge smiled slightly, and catching this smile she suddenly flung up her black head and fixed two shrewd eyes on him.

“Sir, don’t you be afraid of no fathers an’ grandfathers. Some of my boarders was talkin’ the other evenin’. Says one of ’em, says he, ‘I’ve been readin’ a magazine article. It says everyone of us has had thieves an’ robbers in our ancestors.’ Do you believe that, sir?”

The Judge, in a slightly bewildered state of mind, was pushing his way out to the hall door, beyond this flood of talk. He had a feeling that he would like to reach the quiet of his own home, and think things over. However, some sort of an answer was due to her, so he turned once more. “I would rather have had that boy’s father an honest man.”

Mrs. Tingsby was so close on his heels, and was listening so intently, that she caught a few words.

“Boy—yes!” she exclaimed, nodding her head at Titus, and grinning amiably, “an honest boy!”

“I say,” roared the Judge, stopping short, “that I wish your little boy had had an unblemished parentage.”

“My boy,” she responded, sadly, “my boy—why, sir, I have three—an’ how I’m goin’ to raise ’em the Lord knows.”

Meanwhile the child was drawing back. He was now thoroughly roused from sleep, and his little face was quite disturbed.

“Mother Tingsby,” he said, pulling at the woman’s gown, and drawing down her ear to his small mouth, “is this the husband of the good third mother?”

“Yes, lamb, yes,” said the woman, nodding her head a great many times, “an’ your second mother bids you go. Be good an’ clever.”

The child gave her an anguished glance. He did not wish to go with these strangers. However, he had been trained to look forward to just such an event, and he made no protest. Putting his little hand in the one that Titus held out, he followed the Judge to the street.