A MEMORABLE CHRISTMAS MORNING.
On the outskirts of one of our large mill towns, at the very end of a narrow street lined on each side by a row of dwelling houses of the poorer class, stood a tiny cottage. It was a humble, unpretentious abode of only four rooms, but it was home to the weary girl struggling up the hillside. The tired eyes brightened and lagging steps quickened involuntarily as she turned the corner and saw the welcoming light streaming from the kitchen window.
It was very late on the eve of Christmas day and the street was deserted save for the solitary figure hastening towards that beacon light of home. Darkness and silence reigned in most of the houses she passed, and she sighed as she said to herself:
"Poor mother! Still up and still at work. I wish she would not work so hard; there is no need for it now."
Reaching the kitchen window, she stood for a momentto take note of the little scene within. By the table her mother sat sewing, her head bent over her work and fingers flying as she plied the needle in and out. As the girl watched, the mother looked up at the clock on the shelf above the stove, shook her head sadly, and hastily brushing away the tears which spring to her eyes, resumed her sewing.
"Poor mother!" again sighed the girl. "Worrying about Tim, as usual, I suppose." Then opening the kitchen door, she stepped into the welcome warmth and light of home.
"Well, little mother," she cried cheerily; "here I am at last, and I suppose you thought I was never coming. You see, dear, we had to work very late to-night to finish a large order. Then there was confession and I was delayed there quite a while. I was almost the last to be heard and it was considerably after ten by the time I left the church. Everyone in town seemed to be going to confession to-night."
"Not everyone," said her mother sadly. "There isonewho has not been in spite of his promise to us and to the Father."
The girl glanced quickly at the table on which platesfor two were laid, then at the supper keeping hot upon the stove, and exclaimed rather bitterly:
"So Tim is away again, as usual, is he? And he promised faithfully to come home early to-night and go to confession for Christmas. But then, he promised the same last Easter and every First Friday since, and has broken his word every time. Mother, how long is it now since Tim has been to Mass or to confession?"
"I do not like to think, child; it's a pretty long time. I can't understand what has come over him. He used to be such a good boy, such a help and comfort to me, and now he is slowly breaking my heart. I've had trials enough, trials enough, as you know, but I never complained. I never murmured till now. I was always ready to say: 'God's will be done.' But this, this is different. Long ago, when you and Tim were children, and the twins upstairs were but a few weeks old, and your father met with that accident that crippled him for life, I only said: 'God's will be done.' All through the years he lingered in sickness and suffering and I had to work day and night, day and night to support you all, I still said only: 'God's will bedone.' All through that long, hard fight to keep starvation from the door, when I saw my little children crying at times with cold and hunger, and watched my husband slowly dying and was unable to give him any of those little comforts and luxuries which the sick require, my only words were: 'His holy will be done.' But in this, the worst of all the trials that have come to me, when I see my boy drifting away from us all, turning his back on God and his religion and wandering away night after night with careless, jovial companions, intent only on the pursuits of pleasure and folly; God help me, I simply cannot bow my head and say: 'God's will be done'"; and tears streamed unheeded from the mother's eyes.
The girl stepped quickly to her mother's side and drew the gray head gently to her shoulder, whispering comfortingly: "There, there, little mother, don't cry so. You are fretting yourself to death over Tim, and surely, surely, things will come right in the end. Tim is not a bad boy, mother dear, only a little wild just now. Remember how good he used to be, how kind, how helpful, in that hard time you were just speaking about. Remember how good he was when father died,and how young he was when he first went to work to help you support us all. Tim's a good boy at heart, mother, and he's bound to come back before long."
"Yes, dearie, that's what the Father says," returned her mother, slowly drying her eyes and rising to lay the girl's supper upon the table.
"He says not to worry but just pray, pray, pray, and Tim will surely come back before long. But there, dear, sit down and eat your supper; then we'll fill the children's stockings for I can guess what is in all those parcels you brought home. Poor little things, it would not be Christmas for them unless they hung their stockings. Thank God, I've always managed to find something to put into them if it was only an orange or an apple and a little candy. Indeed, that's about all it was when you and Tim were younger, but life is so much easier now that you are helping me."
"And it is going to be easier still, mother dear, and you will be the happiest little woman in the world one of these days. This wild spell of Tim's is bound to pass and then he will settle down and be his own old self again. There, dear," the girl continued, a few moments later; "my supper is finished and now I'llclear away these dishes and fill the children's stockings. Just see all the pretty things I've brought for them. Won't their little eyes dance when they see them! Then, mother dear, before we go to sleep, you and I will say the rosary for Tim. It is too late for him to go to confession to-night, but wherever he is, and God alone knows where he may be, he needs our prayers and he will have them. As the good Father said, we will pray, pray, pray. If we only pray hard enough and trust hard enough, things are bound to come right in the end."
The afternoon and evening had been unusually busy ones for Father Xavier. Hour after hour he had sat in the confessional listening to the tales of sin and sorrow that were poured into his ears. Hour after hour he had spent bestowing the priestly absolution on the repentant sinner, giving fatherly advice and consolation to the sorrowful, sending all those troubled souls away lighter and happier for his ministrations. Hour after hour he had waited, hoping against hope, for the sound of the one voice above all others which he most desired to hear.
In a town like that which formed Father Xavier'sparish, the pastor is indeed the father of his flock. Every man, woman and child is known to him personally, and he takes a direct interest in each one's welfare. As Father Xavier sat that Christmas eve and listened to the confessions of his people, his heart grew sad and hope gradually died away as he waited in vain for the voice of one whom he was striving to bring back to God and to his duty.
The crowd of penitents melted away one by one, the few last stragglers had been heard, and still the priest waited in his confessional. The boy might possibly come even yet, his boy whom he had loved with a special affection ever since he was a tiny little chap first learning his prayers in the baby class of the Sunday-school. Why was it he had not been able to hold the boy? Why had he not been able to prevent his wandering away with bad companions, this absolute neglect of all religious duties on the part of his boy? Why could he not succeed in bringing him back again even though the boy had wandered far afield?
Father Xavier had hoped much from this Christmas eve, for Tim had promised faithfully to make his confession and to start anew in the path from which hisfeet had strayed. Tim had promised it as his Christmas gift to the Father. Yes, Tim had promised, but Tim had broken his promise.
With a sigh of utter weariness, weariness of body, weariness of mind, Father Xavier rose and left the confessional. He glanced over the church; it was empty. He glanced towards the altar and his eyes rested on the sanctuary lamp which appeared to be burning with unwonted brightness.
The hour was late, much later than he was accustomed to keep the church open, still he lingered, unwilling to give up a last forlorn hope that his boy might yet keep his promise. With eyes fixed on the Tabernacle door, the priest knelt and commenced to recite the rosary, pleading, pleading for his boy. The joyful mysteries were finished and no one came; the sorrowful, still no one; finally, the glorious mysteries, and still the priest was alone.
With one last appeal for the welfare of that wandering soul, Father Xavier rose from his knees and walked to the door of the church to close it for the night. He passed out on the steps and stood for a moment listening to a band of roisterers that were coming up thestreet disturbing the peaceful quiet of the night with their noisy songs and laughter. Where was his boy at that moment? He might possibly be with this very band of half-drunken revellers who were even now passing by and would soon be swallowed up in the darkness of the street. If not with this band, he was probably wandering somewhere with another just like it. Where was his boy at that moment? The priest turned, re-entered the church, and locking the door, passed up the aisle extinguishing the lights as he went along. He stood before the altar and once more looked at the sanctuary lamp. It was certainly burning with unusual brightness to-night. It set weird, fantastic shadows dancing along the walls and peopled the dim recesses of the church with goblin shapes. It seemed beckoning to him, calling to him, drawing him gradually to the steps of the altar, where he sank upon his knees to pray once more for his wandering boy.
For yet an hour the priest lingered before the Tabernacle. Then, utterly worn out in mind and body, he passed through the sacristy, locked the door, and mounted the steps of his own house to seek a few hoursof rest before commencing the arduous duties of Christmas day.
The church and rectory were situated on a hill and the priest stood in his doorway and looked down upon the town below. It was now after midnight, but many lights were still burning and the faint sound of distant merry-making reached the priest's ears. Was his boy down there among the revellers?
Beyond the town lay the river, frozen, dark and still; and beyond that again shone the lights of the neighboring city. Was his boy over there beyond that dark, silent river? Was he over there in the city in some one of those dens of iniquity which had lured so many young men to their ruin?
Well, wherever the boy was he must be left now to the care of God and his angel for Father Xavier had done all he could that night; and the priest went in and closed the door.
At that same moment, in a little cottage at the other end of the town, a sleepless mother rose from her knees beside the kitchen table and passed slowly up the stairs to her own room. The children and the eldest girl were long since asleep, but the mother could notrest for thinking of her wayward boy. Where was he to-night; where at this very moment? And he had promised, promised faithfully to turn over a new leaf with this Christmas eve. Christmas eve was here, nay, it was come and gone for midnight had sounded and it was now Christmas morning. Still, this night must be for her as all those other nights when she had lain awake hour after hour listening in silent anguish for the footstep that did not come. She had hoped much from that promise of his to Father Xavier and to her, and her disappointment was proportionately bitter.
The mother walked to the window and looked out upon the silent, frosty night. Low down upon the horizon myriads of stars were twinkling merrily, but high up in the heavens the moon shone with a brilliant radiance that totally eclipsed all lesser lights. The night was very still, very beautiful, but the silence and the beauty failed to bring peace to the mother's heart. She looked up into the heavens. How placidly cold the moon looked back at her, the same moon that was probably shedding its beams upon her boy at that moment and could tell her where he was if it could but speak. Why, oh why, could those beams not speakand tell her what they saw; why could they not bring her some message from the absent one! She had never felt like this before, she had never felt so restless, so uneasy. It was impossible to think of sleep; she would pray still longer. Perhaps the boy needed her prayers; perhaps he was in danger, danger of body, danger of soul, and needed her help. Her rosary in her fingers, she knelt by the window praying, praying, while the moonbeams danced and played around the kneeling figure. Perhaps it was just as well they could not speak and tell her what they saw out there upon the river. Perhaps they were trying to tell her and could not; trying to tell her of the three men, one of whom was scarce more than a boy, struggling out there in the icy water, struggling for life as the current sought to drag them down beneath the frozen surface. Their fingers clutched desperately at the ragged edges of the ice that had broken through with them and cracked and crumbled away at their touch.
Now but two figures were visible to the watching moonbeams; one had been dragged down into the black waters, down to his death in the freezing depths below.
For a moment a cloud covered the moon's face obscuring its view of things terrestrial. When it passed and that scene upon the river was once more visible, only one figure remained still struggling bravely; still clutching at the slippery, crackling ice; still fighting, not for life alone, but for his soul's salvation. What thoughts must have passed through his mind in those dreadful, despairing moments! Thoughts of sins committed, of graces neglected; thoughts of all that might have been and of all that was. Who can know of the sorrow and remorse that filled his heart, of the wild cry for help and pardon that went up from the river that night?
Meanwhile, the moon shone calmly, steadily, on the boy still fighting for his life, on the mother praying at her chamber window, and on good Father Xavier sleeping the sleep of the exhausted.
Somewhat later, but still before the dawn, he was summoned from that sleep to answer a sick call from the hospital just across the river, to which he was chaplain. Three young men coming home from the city shortly after midnight had attempted to cross the frozen river, though warned of the danger of doingso. The ice had broken through, two were drowned, one saved, and the doctors thought he would live though unconscious at present.
No, the names of the young men were not known as yet. The sisters at the hospital sent for the priest because the boy brought there wore a scapular and they knew he must be a Catholic. Aside from that nothing was known about him.
Father Xavier's heart stood still. Something told him that his boy had been one of those three. Two drowned, one saved! Which, oh, which was the one saved?
The hospital reached, it was with rapidly beating heart he followed the nurse through the ward and stood beside the bed at the farther end. The night light burned low and the features of the boy upon the bed were scarcely visible. Stooping low, a fervent "Thank God" broke from the priest's lips as he recognized in the silent figure, the boy for whom his heart had been yearning. His boy had been the one that was saved. Yes, saved from death, saved from worse than death, saved to carry out the resolutions he had made while struggling in the icy river that Christmas morning.
NANCY'S TALE.
"Dear, dear! but God's ways are wonderful, there's no denyin' that. Many a time we poor mortals think if we only had the handlin' of things, the world would be a pleasanter place for some of us, but I reckon the Lord knows His own business best. He usually manages to bring things out right in the end, so He does."
Nancy sat before the kitchen stove, rocking to and fro, and gazing abstractedly before her. Her mood was a reminiscent one and I knew if I gave her time enough she would launch forth into one of the interesting narratives of which she possessed a goodly store. To have interrupted her train of thought by even a whisper would have been fatal; silence and patience must be my watch-words. Presently she turned to me with the query:
"'Member Mona, the old apple-woman you met here about a year ago?"
Remember the apple-woman? Indeed I did; oncehaving met Mona it was impossible to forget her. Besides, she was, one might say, one of the landmarks of the town, the frail, shadowy little woman who sold her apples and peanuts and candy from her stand on the street-corner. Nancy's words reminded me that I had not seen Mona lately at her usual place of business.
"Well," resumed Nancy, "Mona's gone, gone forever. Poor Mona! It's the hard life she's had, and I'm after thinkin' she's not sorry that it's over and she's found peace an' happiness at last. Want to know her story? Well, I'll tell it to you, for it's me that can, havin' known her since we was wee scraps of babies playin' on the floor together back there in the old country. Yes, indeed, we were babies together, we grew up together, an' we come out here to America on the same ship. Dear, dear, how long ago that was, an' it don't seem much more than yesterday.
"Well, as I was sayin', times was mighty hard in Ireland that year, specially in the little town where me an' Mona was born an' reared. Crops failed, work was slack; finally, famine an' pestilence took possession of the land. Ah! child, child, you cannot dreamwhat them words mean, famine an' pestilence. To see the rich growin' poor, the poor starvin' an' dyin' on every hand; the little children cryin' with cold an' hunger, an' the fathers an' mothers with ne'er a scrap of food to give 'em. That was the state of things in Ireland the year we left it.
"The plague had carried off my father an' mother, my brothers was all married an' moved away, an' my only sister was at service in London, so when Mona begged me to come to America with her an' Michael an' the little ones, I just jumped at the chance. Michael was a good fellow, sober an' industrious, but there was no work to be had at home and he had heard such wonders of the land across the sea. There, a man that was a man had no trouble in findin' work an' making a comfortable livin' for himself an' family. He wanted to leave Mona with his sister in Dublin, who offered to care for her an' the children until he'd made a home for 'em in the country he was goin' to. But no, Mona wouldn't hear to that. She'd promised at God's altar to take him for better or worse an' to cling to him till death. Because the worse had come, she wasn't goin' to desert him an' let him go out aloneto the cold land of the stranger to fight his battle all by himself. She'd go with him an' stand by him and help an' comfort him in his struggles. She knew she could help him. She'd been taught by the nuns an' could do all sorts of fine sewin'. In America, as in Dublin, there must be rich ladies who would pay well for a bit of fine embroidery or hand-made lace. No, no, Mona wouldn't be left behind; he must take her an' the little ones, no matter what was before them. It was settled at last that we was all to go together, an' so, one bright mornin' we stood on the deck of the ship that was carryin' us far away from home an' all we loved, far away to the strange land across the sea. With the tears runnin' down our faces, we waved farewell to the shores of Ireland, an' Mona, though she didn't know it, was wavin' farewell to happiness in this world. Poor girl, it's little she knew from that day on but grief an' trouble an' sufferin'.
"Well, child, as I was sayin', it was the fine, bright mornin' that we left Ireland, but the good weather held for only a few days after. Then, there blew up such a storm as I never see before an' hope never to see again. It was fearful, fearful. I couldn't describeit to you if I tried. We just lay in our berths, every one of us, our backs agin the wall, our knees braced agin the board in front, an' we holdin' on for dear life expectin' every moment to be dashed out on to the floor an' have all our bones broken. We was too frightened to say a word, but we prayed, oh, my! how we did pray, every mother's son of us. For nigh onto three days that poor boat struggled on bravely agin the ragin' storm, but the ship wasn't built that could live in that sea, an' the end was bound to come sooner or later. Come, it did, at last. An officer stood on the stairs orderin' us all up onto the deck; the ship had sprung a leak, the water was pourin' in faster than they could pump it out, an' we must take to the boats at once.
"I never can remember rightly what happened then. It seems now such a confusin' jumble of men, women and childer, all screamin' an' rushin' for the stairs, and all the time the wind was a howlin' an' the vessel was groanin' an' pitchin' so you had to cling to whatever was nearest to keep on your feet at all. I don't know how we got there, but the next thing I remember was standin' on the deck an' hangin' on to somethingto keep from bein' washed overboard by the great waves that broke over the ship an' flooded her from stem to stern. Mona stood near me with the baby on her arm an' holdin' tight to the hand of little Gerald who hid his face in her skirt an' sobbed in terror. Michael was beside her, one arm holdin' her close while with the other he hung onto the railin' just as I was doin'. Pretty soon, the boats was lowered an' everyone made a rush for 'em. There was a shout of:
"'Stand back, there, stand back! Women an' children first; only the women an' children.'
"The ship's officers an' sailors beat back the men an' commenced puttin' the women into the boats as fast as they could. One of 'em caught Mona by the arm an' tried to hurry her away. She struggled with him an' begged to be left with Michael. The sailor swore at her an' then I heard Michael's voice, calm an' steady, above the din of the storm:
"'Go at once, asthore,' say he; 'for the sake of the childer, go at once. Sure, dearie,' says he, 'we're in the Lord's hands anyway! can't ye trust Him on the water just the same as on the land?'
"The sailor lifted Mona an' the baby in his arm(it's the wee bit of a thing she was always) an' passed her on to another to be lowered into the boat. Michael caught up little Gerald an' cried out to me: 'Take the boy with you, Nancy; take him quick, girl.' But before I could lay my hand on the child I was seized and put into the boat beside Mona. The poor girl screamed and held out her arms for the little lad, but the boat was shoved off an' the last thing I can remember, as a mountain of water rolled up between us an' the ship, was seein' Michael still clingin' to the rail an' holdin' little Gerald on his arm. Then Mona fainted agin my shoulder and I had my hands full tendin' her an' the baby.
"It was nearly dusk when we took to the boat, an' pretty soon it was so dark you could scarce see your hand before you. I'll never forget the horrors of that night, indeed then I won't, tossin' on top of waves as big as mountains an' the next minute goin' down, down, down, till I thought sure we'd strike bottom before ever we come up again. But even the longest night must wear away, an' when day broke we seen a big vessel comin' towards us an' in the course of an hour or so we was all transferred to her decks. Shecruised around for a time, hopin' to pick up some of the other boats, but couldn't find none of 'em. There was no tellin' how far away from the wreck an' the boats we'd drifted in the night. The vessel that picked us up was bound for America an' so we continued our voyage to this country.
"I've often heard people complain of the coldness an' hardness of the world; by 'the world,' always meanin' the folks that live in it, I suppose. To my way of thinkin' there's a deal more kindness in the world than there is selfishness an' badness, an' the people on that steamer proved me right in one case anyway. They made up a purse among 'em an' give a share to each of us that had been picked out of the sea, as you might say. So, when we landed, we each had a little money to start in with. I soon found work in a mill, an' my poor Mona managed to keep herself an' the baby by doin' fine sewin'. For a long time we kep' house together, me an' Mona, then I married an' moved away to another town. My own troubles come on me thick an' fast after that an' what with one thing an' another, an' movin' here an' there, it was years before I set eyes on her again. Then we met quite byaccident an' I found she was livin' not far from here with an old woman who peddled shoestrings an' pencils on the street. Mona herself kep' a stand on a corner where she sold apples an' peanuts an' such stuff.
"That night she come to see me here an' we talked over old times an' all that had happened since last we met. She'd done well at her sewin', she said, and brought up the baby in tolerable comfort. Then, just as the child was growin' into a woman that could be of help to her mother an' pay her back for her years of workin' an' strugglin', she was took down with consumption. All the little poor Mona had managed to save went in carin' for her sick daughter an' buryin' her when she died. By that time, Mona's health was pretty well broke up, her eyes was not as good as they used to be, an' she had to give up the sewin'. She fell in with the old woman who peddled shoestrings, and, by her advice, started in with her apple-stand. They'd been together ever since an' managed to earn a livin' between 'em. We talked an' we talked that night, an' when Mona was goin' she turned to me an' says:
"'Nancy,' says she, 'I can't tell you how thankfulI am to have seen you again. An' I can't tell you how much good you've done me. Nancy,' says she, 'I've been a wicked woman, a wicked, rebellious woman,' says she. 'I've said dreadful things in my heart an' felt hard an' bitter at times against Almighty God for all the trials an' sufferin' He sent me. When I look at you, I'm ashamed of myself. I've lost a husband, so have you; I lost a daughter, you lost two; my son sleeps at the bottom of the sea, but your son—.Nancy, Nancy, when I go home to-night, I'll get down on my knees an' thank God that my boy is sleepin' at the bottom of the sea instead of wanderin' the earth a shame an' a disgrace to me.'
"You see, child, that was before my Danny come back to me to be reconciled to His God. It was while he was still wanderin' I didn't know where, an' goin' from one piece of villainy to the next.
"Poor Mona, I don't believe she was half as bad as she made herself out to be, an' certainly from that day to this I've never heard a complaint or a murmur cross her lips. She's been sick, too, most all the time, an' there's been many a day when she'd ought to be home in bed but off she'd go an' stand on her corneran' peddle her apples because the old woman that lived with her was sicker than she an' they wouldn't have no money, come rent day, unless Mona went out an' earned it for 'em. Talk about the heroes that done such wonderful things that folks has to write whole books about 'em! I tell you what, child, there's many a hero hid away in the dirty little side-streets and alley-ways of every big city; only folks don't know about 'em. To my mind, Mona was one of them heroes; so sweet an' patient, pretty well on in years herself, an' all crippled with the rheumatism, but goin' out day after day to sell her apples; a slavin' an' a killin' herself for a woman a little older an' a little sicker than she was. An' all this because the old woman had been kind to her in her hour of greatest need.
"Well, after findin' her again, I seen Mona every day; she used to come here in the evenin' an' we'd sit an' talk of them that was gone. She was with me when my Danny died, an' she thanked God with me for havin' brought him back to me in the end. Then, one night, Mona didn't come, but they brought me a message sayin' she was in the hospital, dyin' from anaccident, an' wanted to see me right away. I didn't let the grass grow under my feet you may be sure, an' before long I stood beside the bed where she was lyin', her poor, pale face all drawn with sufferin'. I've called her a hero for the life she'd led, an' her end was sure enough a hero's end. That afternoon a child had started to run across the street at the corner where Mona's apple-stand was. He didn't see the horse an' team that come tearin' up the street, an' the driver was too busy lashin' the horse to see the child. In spite of her rheumatism, Mona dashed in front of the team, and with a quick shove, sent the child flyin' out of harm's away. He rolled over an' over on the street, but beyond a scratch or two wasn't hurt. But Mona fell an' the team passed over her ankles crushin' both of 'em badly. Her age an' the shock, together with her injury, made 'em sure she couldn't live long. The chaplain had been sent for, they told me, an' would come at any moment now.
"She was sleepin' when I reached her, so I sat down beside the bed an' waited. The priest come an' stood lookin' down at her, an' the kindness an' pity on his face was wonderful to see. He looked at me an' Ifair jumped out of my chair with the shock his eyes sent through me.
"'Glory be to God!' I says, blessin' myself, for I was all a tremble with the fright of it. 'Sure it's Michael Conners himself come back from the dead.'
"That very minute Mona's eyes opened slowly an' fixed themselves on the priest's face. A smile that brought the tears to my eyes, it was that beautiful, crossed her face an' she held out her thin, white hand to him, whisperin', 'Michael.' Then she closed her eyes again an' was off unconscious once more.
"The priest looked first at her, then at me, an' his face was all puzzled an' amazed like.
"'How do you know that my name is Michael Conners?' says he.
"'How do you know it yourself, Father?' says I, for I had my suspicions by that time.
"'Because of this,' says he, showin' me a strangely carved little black wooden crucifix attached to his beads. 'This was on my neck when I was saved from the wreck in which my father an' mother perished.'
"'Well,' says I, 'you're wrong. 'Tain't Michael, but Gerald, is your name, an' praise be the Lord but this'll be the happy day for my poor Mona when she finds out the truth. That crucifix with the name of Michael Conners on it was given to your father on his marriage day by the priest that married him. Here's the mate to it that he give your mother on the same day,' an' I picked up Mona's rosary lyin' on the bed an' showed him the cross on it. They was as like as two peas, only on the back of hers was carved the name of Mona Conners.
"Well, we had to break the news to her gently, an' it's the happy woman she was for the next few days in spite of all the pain she suffered. She'd just lie there holdin' Gerald's hand an' gazin' at him an' makin' him tell over an' over again of how he'd been saved from the wreck. He was only a wee lad of three at the time, but he could still remember of his father standin' there on the deck of the sinkin' ship an' holdin' him in his arms. He could still hear the words his father spoke to him an' feel the father's hand slippin' the rosary over his head an' claspin' the little fingers around the cross as it lay on his breast.Michael had passed him to a sailor an' he was lowered into one of the boats, where a kind-hearted woman took compassion on his loneliness an' cared for him. They'd been picked up by a sailin' vessel bound for France, an' the woman who first cared for him, took him with her from France to America an' finally adopted him. She brought him up, educated him, an' at last he became a priest of God.
"He was with his mother to the very end, an' it was his hand that give her the last blessin' of the Church an' his voice recited the prayers that send the departin' soul safe on its journey to the throne of God. It's the happy woman my Mona was in them last few days upon earth, an' it's the happy woman she is this day, all her troubles over, all her sufferin's gone, an' she in Paradise for ever an' ever."
During Nancy's recital, the shadows of twilight had gathered and deepened, and now her little kitchen was wrapped in darkness. Still, she sat for several moments buried in thought which I cared not to interrupt. Then, with a sigh, she rose to light the lamp and I noticed that tears filled her eyes though the brave lips were smiling.
"Yes, yes," she repeated. "God's ways are wonderful, they are that. Even if we don't understand things in this world, we're sure to in the next, for the Lord knows His own business best every time."
PATSY.
Patsy was wide awake in a second. What was it those men were talking about; what was it they were planning to do? That name, and "the brown house on the hill"! By a strong effort, he kept his eyes closed and breathed regularly and deeply as though still sleeping. He must not let them suspect that he was listening, but he must catch every word they said, every word. How he hated them, this band of rascals that had gotten his David into their clutches and were slowly but surely making him as bad as they! His David bad? No, no! David was kind and good and gentle to him always. David was not bad, he would not listen to their dreadful scheme. He would refuse to help them; surely he would. His David a thief? It was impossible. But that dreadful plan they were discussing! "The brown house on the hill"; "to-morrow night"; and David was promising to go with them.
Patsy shivered beneath the bedclothes and bitter tears gathered in his eyes and trickled down the pale, sunken cheeks. The men were leaving and David was renewing his promise to accompany the expedition to the brown house on the hill to-morrow night. In fact, he was to act as guide to the man appointed to commit the deed, for who, so well as David, could show them the way to the library in which was the safe that they were going to rob?
They had gone now and Patsy felt that David was standing beside the bed and looking down at him. He opened his eyes and two more tears escaped, which he hastily brushed away. Immediately David was on his knees, the little cripple's hand clasped tenderly in his.
"What's the trouble, kid?" he questioned anxiously. "Is it the pain that's bad to-night?"
"'Tain't the pain, Davy, 'tain't the pain at all," sobbed the child.
"What is it then, youngster? Come now, tell your own Davy what's troubling you, there's a good boy."
"David, how long is it since mother was taken away from us? It seems so long. I was thinkin' ofmother, Davy, and wishing she was here with us this night."
"You poor kid, poor little crippled kid," muttered David, patting the small, thin hand. "It's natural, I suppose, for you to pine for your mother, but ain't Davy been almost like a mother to you, Patsy? He's tried hard, that he has, to be father and mother and big brother all in one." And the man smiled somewhat wistfully.
"You've been all that and more too, Davy. 'Twasn't on my account I was wishin' for mother, 'twas on yours. If she was here, she'd know how to keep you from going with them men to-morrow night. She'd know how to keep you to home, and I don't know what to say or to do to stop you from going."
David's face darkened slightly and there was a note of sternness in his voice as he said:
"So you was listening, was you, and heard what we was talkin' about?"
"I didn't listen a purpose, David; at least, not at first. I happened to wake and heard 'em speak of the brown house on the hill. Then I wanted to hear everything and I listened a purpose after that. Oh, Davy!Davy!" the child cried imploringly, sitting up in the bed and clasping his hands in petition; "don't do it, Davy; don't be a thief to please those wicked men; don't go robbing the brown house on the hill."
A fearful fit of coughing racked the little form and David held him gently in his arms until the paroxysm had passed. Then, laying the boy back upon the pillows, he said quietly:
"You mustn't get excited, Patsy, it's bad for you. We'll not talk no more to-night. In the morning I'll tell you the story of the house on the hill and you'll see I'm not tacklin' this job to please anyone but myself. Go to sleep now, kid, for I'll not say another word to-night, not another word."
When David spoke in that tone of voice Patsy knew there was nothing for him to do but to obey. Turning his face to the wall, he closed his eyes, but sleep did not visit him that night. He lay listening for the stroke of the town clock as it sounded, one after another, the slowly dragging hours; he lay listening to David's regular breathing and wondered how a man could sleep so calmly with such a deed in prospect; he lay anxiously turning over in his mind various schemesby which he could frustrate the plan in case he failed in persuading David to abandon it altogether. Several times fits of coughing shook him nearly to pieces, and at those times the pain in his poor little chest was well-nigh unbearable. He smothered the cough as well as he could beneath the bedclothes for fear of disturbing David. As for the pain—well, pain and Patsy had been companions so long now that he had grown quite accustomed to it.
The next day was cold and dismal, with a leaden sky threatening snow, and a bitter wind blowing that searched the very marrow of one's bones. The few neighbors who chanced to glance out of their windows at an early hour in the afternoon were surprised to see Patsy making his way along the street, slowly and painfully, with the aid of his crutches. They had never known him to be abroad on a day like this; indeed, it was many a day since he had attempted going upon the street at all. Poor little Patsy, his crutches were once a familiar sight going up and down the pavements on pleasant days in the summer time, but they had thought never to see him leave his room again. Did David know? Some one should stop thechild; he was too weak to wander out alone like that. But then, it was no affair of theirs; David could probably be trusted to look after the boy.
As no one was willing to make it his business to interfere, Patsy went on his way unmolested. A strange look of determination battled with the pain on the sickly, childish face as he made his way bravely against the biting wind that sought to drive him back. He had learned the mystery of the house on the hill; he knew now why David hated so bitterly that house and all connected with it; he knew why David was willing and eager to help the men in the plan they were to carry out that night. David had told him all about it, and for the first time in his life he had felt afraid of this dearly loved brother of his. It had been a revelation to Pasty. Surely, this bitter, unforgiving, revengeful man could not be the same who had been father, mother and big brother to the little cripple for whom he had cared so tenderly since their mother had been taken from them.
It had sounded like a fairy tale to Patsy; he could scarcely believe his own ears. Just to think of it; that brown house on the hill had once been their mother'shome, and the man who lived there, the man whom David hated with undying hatred, was their mother's brother and their uncle. On the day she married, she had left her home forever, her brother vowing that never as long as he lived would he set eyes upon her face again; to him she would be as though dead. Once, when father lay dying (Patsy could not remember it, but David had told him of it), mother had written to their uncle imploring a little help in their misery. It was not for herself she had asked but for the dying husband and sickly baby. Her letter had been returned to her with these harsh words written on the back: "Some mistake here. No woman has the right to call me brother. My only sister died years ago." David had kept the letter ever since; he had been old enough at the time to understand. He had vowed then to have revenge some day and he kept the letter to remind him of the vow should he ever be in danger of forgetting it.
Patsy knew now why his brother so hated the house on the hill, and why David had been so cross on that day last summer when he, Patsy, had come home and told of the young lady who had been so kind to him,the lady who lived in the house on the hill. As a rule, every one was good to Patsy. Even the children on the street, who quarrelled among themselves, striking, reviling, pelting one another with stones, had, nothing but kind words and smiles for Patsy. But that day last summer he had wandered farther from home than usual and a crowd of rough boys had stopped and commenced tormenting him, laughing at him, calling him names, jeering at his deformity, and even pulling his hair and pinching his ears. The child had tried to push past them, but they closed in on him and it might have fared ill with Patsy but for the timely arrival on the scene of the young lady from the house on the hill.
She quickly scattered the band of hoodlums and then walked with Patsy until he was well on his way home and safe from further attack. She had been kind to him, and made him promise to come and see her. That was how he knew her name and where she lived. He had wanted to see her again and had thought of her so often but David would not let him go.
Many a night, when the pain kept him from sleeping,he would while away the long hours by thinking of the gentle, beautiful girl, and he never said his prayers at night and morning, as mother had taught him, that he did not add a petition for his "lovely lady." And to think that she was his own cousin, his uncle's daughter; she lived in the house on the hill and it was her house that David and those men were planning to rob. For her sake as well as David's the deed must be prevented; her father must not be robbed; David must not become a thief. Patsy had determined that last night when he first heard them mention the scheme. If no one else would stop them, he would, though he could not imagine how he was going to do it. He had thought and thought until his head ached so that he could hardly see, but no plan suggested itself to his mind. He prayed, too, long and earnestly, for the priest at the Sunday-school told them God would always answer little boys' prayers if what they asked for was good for them. And was it not a good thing for which he was pleading? Simply that he might find a way to keep his lady from being robbed and save David from becoming a thief?
At last, the idea he wanted had come to him; heknew just what he must do to secure his end. There was danger in the plan, to himself, but he must risk that. It mattered little what happened to him if he could only save his David, his dear, kind big brother, who would never have thought of doing wrong had it not been for those wicked men who had led him astray. Patsy feared those men mightily. He knew their anger would be terrible should they discover how their plan had been frustrated. They might even kill him if they found him out, but he hoped they need not know. He would confess to David alone at supper time that evening; no matter how angry, David would not hurt his little brother. Of that Patsy was certain. Anyway, whatever the risk, he must take it to save David and to save the lady.
The early winter twilight was closing in when Patsy reached his home again and dragged himself up the stairs to the one room which he and David occupied. He was almost exhausted and his breath came in short, sharp gasps which cut him like knives. He would have liked to crawl into his bed, close his eyes and never open them again, he was so tired. But he must not give in yet; his task was but half accomplished.David must be told of what he had done, and at that thought a spasm of fear contracted his heart. Shivering, he drew a chair near the stove and waited with closed eyes and pain-drawn face for the sound of David's foot upon the stairs.
Twilight passed and darkness filled the little room, still David did not come. Patsy lighted the lamp upon the table, wondering anxiously why his brother was so late. He put more coals upon the fire, which was burning low, and made the tea for David's supper. He set out the loaf of bread, the cold meat, the cheese, upon the table, then resumed his chair and his eager listening for footsteps that were so long in coming. It seemed to Patsy he had waited for hours and hours, and suddenly his heart stopped beating and his eyes distended in terror as a thought occurred to him. Suppose David did not come at all! What, what would happen then? But there, that was David's step and all would be well now. The child looked up eagerly as his brother entered the room, then, nearly cried aloud in his bitter disappointment. David was not alone. One of the gang was with him, and this was a contingency for which Patsy had made no allowance.What was he to do now? How could he tell his brother, how warn him, in the presence of that dreadful man?
For the first time in his life David was so preoccupied that he paid no heed to the little cripple who had now withdrawn to the darkest corner of the room and crouched there in abject terror. The two men made a hasty meal and then sat by the table talking in tones so low that Patsy heard scarcely a word of what was said. Anyway, he cared nothing for their plans now; he had spoiled everything for them. But how was he to tell David, how was he to tell David?
By and by, a third man joined them and there was more whispering with heads close together. At last, the three arose and made preparations for going out. They moved towards the door and were astonished to find themselves confronted by a small, crippled figure, that stood swaying on his crutches, directly in their way. A bright red spot burned on either cheek, the eyes were brilliant with fever, and the child was panting for breath. But he said very quietly, his eyes fixed steadily on his brother's face:
"You mustn't go out to-night, David."
The men gasped and looked at one another in amazement.
"You mustn't go out to-night, David," the child repeated. "You mustn't none of you go to the house on the hill to-night."
"We mustn't go out, mustn't we," exclaimed one of the men roughly. "Who's to stop us going, I'd like to know? Stand aside, kid, before harm comes to you."
"Who's to stop you? I am. I have stopped you."
A laugh of derision greeted this statement.
"Yes," Patsy repeated; "I've stopped you. I peached on you; I warned 'em you was comin'."
David's face was terrible to see.
"What's that you're saying, Patsy? You what?"
"I warned 'em this afternoon. I went to the house on the hill and told 'em you was comin'. You mustn't go, David, you mustn't go. The police'll be there waitin' for you, 'cos I told 'em you was comin'. I didn't want you to be a thief, David; I done it for your sake. Oh, David, David!"
David's face was livid and his clenched fist wasraised to strike, but Patsy and his crutches lay in a little huddled heap at David's feet.
When the child opened his eyes again, the men were gone and he and his brother were alone. He looked into the face bending above him and gave a sigh of relief. All the anger was gone, only anxious solicitude rested there. Patsy tried to speak, but his voice was so weak and low that David had difficulty in understanding what he said. He leaned over to catch the faintly whispered words:
"You ain't mad at me now, are you, Davy? I'm so glad. I'd hate to go away thinkin' you was mad at me. I had to do it, Davy, I had to tell; there wasn't no other way to keep you from being a thief. I'm sorry to leave you alone, Davy, but I guess mother wants me in Heaven. You know the doctor said I'd be going soon anyway. Mother said she'd be waitin' for you and me and I guess she wants me now. I'm sorry to leave you, but I'm afeared I must go. It'll be lonesome for you when I'm gone. You'll have no one to light the lamp and make the tea for you in the evenings. You'll come home here at night and it'll be all dark and lonely with no Patsy to meet you.But remember, David, I'll be lookin' at you from Heaven. Mother and I'll be waitin' for you there and I'm thinkin' even Heaven won't be just right till you've come to us. Promise me you'll come to us some day; promise you'll never go with them wicked men no more. Let 'em alone or they'll make you as bad as they be, and then you won't never see mother and me. Promise you'll let 'em alone, Davy; promise you'll be good and come to us in Heaven some day."
"I promise, kid, I promise," whispered David brokenly. "With God's help I'll turn over a new leaf and I'll come to you some day."
A smile brightened the pale, pinched face, a smile of absolute content and trustful affection.
"God bless you, my Davy, God bless you," murmured the faint voice haltingly. "Good-by—until we meet—in Heaven."