THREE EVENINGS IN A LIFE.
I.
One by one the city clocks chimed the hour of midnight. One by one Jane counted the strokes and sighed despairingly as she glanced at the window in which the light still burned so brightly. The air was bitter cold, a fine snow was falling, and she had been trudging up and down, up and down, for ages it seemed to her. Richard was growing so heavy and her arms ached so she could scarcely hold him. Still, there was nothing for it but to tramp up and down, up and down the narrow street, the baby in her arms, until mother should give the welcome signal. When that lamp in the window opposite was put out and the house in darkness, she would know that it was safe for her to creep up the stairs and into the bed in the kitchen which she shared with the baby brother now sleeping in her arms.
Seating herself upon a doorstep she was passing,Jane shifted the baby to a more comfortable position and leaned her head against the rough woodwork of the tenement house. How tired, she was, how very tired! Her head ached, her back ached, she ached all over. Day after day, she worked in the factory from early morning until nightfall. Night after night, she walked the street with Richard in her arms, not daring to enter the house until father was safely sleeping. Of course it did not happen every night. Just once in a while father would come home sober and then there was no fear of harm to the baby or herself. Many a night, too, he did not come home at all, but on those occasions she and mother scarce dared to close an eye. They knew not at what moment he might return, possibly in even an uglier mood than usual. Mother was never afraid for herself. She could usually manage him, although there had been times when bad cuts and bruises bore testimony to the treatment to which she had been subjected. For Jane and little Richard, their only chance lay in keeping out of the way, so Jane would tramp the street, Richard in her arms, despite aches and pains and weariness.
The child on the doorstep anxiously watched thewindow across the way. Would the light never go out? Father must be unusually bad to-night, and she was so tired. The day had been a hard one at the factory and every bone in her body ached. Well, there was one comfort; to-morrow would be Sunday and she could stay at home all day. To-morrow? To-day, rather, for midnight had already passed. She would have one long day to rest and help mother. She felt now as if she could sleep the whole day through. She would like to sleep for a week at least, and even then she would not be rested quite enough. There were moments of unusual fatigue and depression in which she could almost wish that she might fall asleep and sleep forever as the other little ones had done. Three of them there were, delicate, sickly little creatures, who had struggled for a time against the ills of human existence and then given up the unequal conflict. At times, she could almost find it in her heart to envy them were it not for mother and Richard, especially Richard.
There, at last! The light was gone, the window in darkness, and it was safe for her to return to the tenement across the way.
II.
The same street, the same tenement house, but grown even uglier and dingier with the passing of the years. In a small room on the second floor, Jane sits beside the bed on which her mother tosses in the delirium of fever. Her heart is slowly breaking as she listens to the moaning, insistent cry which issues from those parched lips. All through the days and nights of anxious watching, that cry has been ringing in her ears, the call for "Richard, Richard, Richard."
That her mother is dying she knows full well, and how she longs for one loving glance, for one word of affection, to carry with her in the lonely years to come. But no look of recognition comes to the sightless eyes and no word escapes the lips save that never ceasing cry of "Richard, Richard, Richard." A white-capped nurse flits softly about, but Jane pays no heed to her. The doctor enters and hold whispered consultation with the nurse. Jane does not even glance at him. She is tired of hearing him say the same old thing time after time: "While there is life, there is hope." She knows there is no hope, though everything possiblehas been done to save the precious life now ebbing so swiftly. Thank God, they are no longer poor as when she was a child. Her salary is a splendid one and she has been able to have the best advice, the best care possible, for her dying mother. No, they are no longer poor, but of what avail is money now? It cannot bring back the days that are gone, the happy days before Richard went away. And they were happy, then, so happy.
After her father's death, which had occurred while she was still a mere child, she and mother had devoted themselves to the task of caring for little Richard. They toiled; they starved, they saved—all for Richard. They prayed and planned and hoped—for Richard. He must go to school, he must go to college, he must become a power in the world. For themselves, poor food, poor clothes, the old tenement were good enough, for every cent they saved meant so much the more for Richard when he should have come to man's estate. And Richard? Oh! he had been well content to take all they offered him. He went to school, he went to college; only, somehow, the reports of his doings there were anything but encouraging. Theyseemed to be merely a series of pranks and mischief, but the devoted mother was very ready to make allowances. The boy was young, he would grow steadier as he grew older. They must have patience with him for a few years yet. At times Jane doubted the wisdom of their course, and when the demands, not only upon their patience but upon their purse, became greater and greater, Jane had counseled removing him from college and setting him to work. Not so the mother. Her cry was ever: "Patience, patience, and all will yet be well." So they bore with him a while longer to their never ceasing sorrow.
His escapades grew wilder, the reprimands of the faculty more severe. At last came the final prank, which had resulted in his disgrace and expulsion. Even then, she and mother was ready to forgive and had written him to come home. No answer from Richard had ever been received. Instead, came the news that the boy had disappeared, run away; the last seen of him was boarding a train for the West. All efforts at tracing him had proved futile, and to this day they knew not where he was.
Mother had never smiled again but had drooped andfaded day by day. Time and again Jane had urged moving to more congenial surroundings, to a flat or cottage in the suburbs, to fresh air and sunshine. But no, mother would not have it so; Richard might come back some day and how could he find them if they moved away from the old home in the tenement house?
Even now, when she is dying, her last thought is not for the girl beside her, the girl who has toiled so patiently, watched so faithfully, sacrificed all so generously, for mother and for Richard. Even in delirium, her thoughts are only for the absent one; her words, that insistent, heartrending cry for "Richard, Richard, Richard." Jane bows her head in anguish but whispers low: "Thy will be done."
III.
Long since, the factory whistle has sounded the signal for release from the day's toil. The workers in the factory, a small army of men and women, boys and girls, poured forth from the doorways of the huge buildings, swarmed up the street, laughing and chattering, and dispersed to their several homes. The buzz and jarring of the machinery have ceased and silencefills the place. Even the offices are deserted, with the exception of one from which issues the steady click, click, of a typewriter.
Jane Horton, private secretary and confidential clerk to the millionaire president of the company, is a very busy as well as a very important individual. The sound of that whistle means release for the workers in the rooms above, the toilers at the machines where she herself labored so many years ago; it means release for stenographers, bookkeepers, clerks, in the general office without; but for her, there yet remain many things to be attended to before she can take advantage of the half holiday and seek the seclusion of her small suburban home. Important letters must be written, private letters which cannot be entrusted to the care of an ordinary stenographer. For some time longer Jane's typewriter clicks unceasingly, and it is nearly dusk before her task is finished and she is free to lock her office door and leave the building for the night.
She walks rapidly along the darkening streets, sorry that she is so late. She fears Marie will have been watching for her all the afternoon and worrying perhaps, little Marie, the lame factory girl whom she hasbefriended, the girl with eyes so strangely like to Richard's. The resemblance is startling at times, though Richard's eyes were ever merry, ever dancing with fun and mischief, while Marie's are grave and sweet and sad. Still, the likeness is there, and probably that is the reason that Jane has been so anxious to help this girl, scarce more than a child, who had appealed to her for aid. Marie was by no means the first to seek her assistance in time of need, for Miss Horton's name stands for all that is kind and gracious and helpful in every department of the factory. The woman who has succeeded, who has worked her way up, step by step, to a position of trust and confidence, does not forget the time when she stood, as Marie does now, with her foot upon the lowest round of the ladder. She never forgets the days when she worked as they work, and is ever ready to extend a helping hand to those who need it. To her, then, Marie had come, as had so many others before her, in her hour of trial and distress. Hastening along the street, Jane smiles as she recalls the day Marie had first tapped upon her office door and, entering timidly, waited for permission to speak. Jane had been unusually busyand frowned impatiently at the interruption. The eyes, so like to Richard's, had quelled her anger and she listened to the girl's story.
It was Jackie was the trouble this time, Jackie who came next to her and who helped in the support of the family. He'd just broken his leg and was in the hospital and there was no telling when he would be out again. The twins were sick, too, and there were Nellie and Minnie and the little baby, and mother not strong enough to work even if she had time to leave the children. Father? Well, that's just where Miss Horton's help was needed. Father had worked here in the factory, out in the shipping-room, but they'd discharged him several weeks ago. Yes, father had been discharged before, many times before, and had been taken back again. This time they would not let him come back though he had begged and pleaded and promised faithfully never to touch the drink again. No, no, father did not get drunk very often, only once in a while, and he was never cross or ugly. He was the kindest and best of fathers only he drank a little just once in a while. Wouldn't Miss Horton please; please, say a word for father and get them to take himback? Miss Horton hesitated for a moment, looked into the eyes so like Richard's, then promised that she would.
She certainly kept her promise and said, not one word, but many, in her efforts to have Marie's father reinstated in his former position. The man was a stranger to her, she had never seen him, never even heard his name before, but for Marie's sake she pleaded his cause most earnestly. The same reply met her every turn:
"Not a better man in the place when he was sober, the very best worker we've got. But just when we're busiest and need him most, off he goes and gets drunk. Not so very often, oh! no, but always when he's needed most. We've forgiven him time again, but he's had his last chance. We'll not take him back."
Jane had even appealed to the president himself, but the appeal was useless. He never interfered in such matters, left them entirely to the department heads.
The eyes like Richard's filled with tears as Marie was told of the utter failure of all appeals. The pale face grew paler day by day and the thin figure drooped wearily. Jane had, more than once, offered pecuniaryhelp, which had been gently but firmly refused. They'd manage somehow, Marie thought, until Jackie was well again and able to help, though it was hard to feed so many on just one girl's pay. If they would only take father back, that was all the help she needed; just for them to take father back. He'd not touched a drop now for six months and vowed he never would again. He'd taken the pledge and was making the First Fridays. He'd not missed one since he began five months ago, and oh! if they'd only give him one more chance. That's what father said himself, that's all he wanted, just one more chance to make good. He meant it this time, too, Marie was quite sure of that. If they'd only give him that one chance he'd make the most of it.
Jane Horton had promised to make one more attempt and she is now carrying to Marie the good news that her efforts have been crowned with success.
Following the directions given her, she passes from the broad, well-lighted streets to smaller, darker ones. Finally she turns down a narrow, crooked alley and enters a tumble-down house at the farther end. Bad as was the tenement home of her early childhood, thisplace is far worse, and a wave of pity fills Jane's heart as she thinks of that delicate, patient child growing up in surroundings like these. Marie herself opens the door in response to Jane's knock, her eyes anxiously asking the question her lips dare not utter.
"Good news, little one, good news," cried Jane joyously, advancing into the room and taking in at a glance the terrible poverty of the place, the shabbiness of the woman laying the table for supper, and of the barefooted, ragged children who stare at her in open-mouthed astonishment. "Where is your father, Marie? Take me to him at once for I bring him what he asked for—one more chance to make good."
In answer to Marie's call, the door leading into an adjoining room opens and a man steps forth. The light of the lamp shines full upon his face, and for one breathless moment they face each other in silence, the woman who has succeeded in life, the man who has failed, and to whom she brings one last chance of redeeming his failure.
Despite the change of name and the greater changes wrought by the hand of time, she knows him at once. It is Richard, her brother.
THE ELEVENTH HOUR.
It was an ordinary tenement house of the poorest class, exactly like its neighbors, which lined both sides of the dingy street. The door was always open, more than half the time hanging by one hinge, the stairways were dark and crooked, the rooms small and dirty. In a back kitchen on the topmost floor, a man sat, or rather huddled, in a chair drawn close to the stove. His eyes were closed and his head drooped wearily against the back of the chair. That last spell of coughing had been unusually severe and had left him weak and breathless. A plague on the cough, anyway. Why was it he could not get rid of it? The doctor from the dispensary, the district nurse, even Maggie, had assured him that with the coming of summer this cold of his would be better. Summer was here, though you would not think so to-day with this raw east wind and drizzling rain, and instead of being better he was worse, decidedly worse. Could it bethat they were all wrong and Nancy alone was in the right? Nancy, who, of all that approached him, was the only one who dared to tell him the truth. The truth? No, it was a lie, a lie; he was not dying, he was going to be well and strong again as soon as he could shake this cold that had settled upon him. Nancy was a meddlesome old woman. He had told her so not more than an hour ago and had sent her off about her business. He had been harsh to her and rude, and after all she was old and had probably meant to do him a kindness. But, then, he was not sorry; she'd not come bothering him any more now with her dismal croakings of death and eternity. Death? He defied it. Eternity? Time enough to think of that.
He opened his eyes and they rested upon the chair which Nancy had occupied one hour ago, which she had occupied so frequently during the past few months. She had been almost a daily visitor since he and Maggie had been living in these wretched lodgings in "Nancy's Alley," as it was called. Evidently, the old woman seemed to think the entire street was her personal property and that she was responsible for thewelfare of all the dwellers thereon. Well, he guessed he had taught her not to come meddling in his affairs. He hoped he had anyway. Dying? The idea of such a thing; how dared she tell him he was dying when everyone else fed him with the hope that he would be better to-morrow, next week, next month. Ah! yes, but to-morrow never came; or rather, when it did come, it was no longer to-morrow with its promise of renewed health. It was to-day, with the same disappointment, the same pains, the same racking cough, which he had endured on so many other to-days that had come and gone before it.
Watching the chair she had so lately occupied, he could see once more the figure of Nancy, her bright eyes and cheery smile, and hear the nimble tongue which chattered so merrily or soothed so gently according to the needs of her listener. He could see the little, stooped figure in its ragged gown, the work-worn hands, the smooth, grey hair. He would miss her visits; yes, indeed, he would miss them sorely. But what right had she to go talking to him of death? Still, she was old, she had been kind to him, and he had driven her away in anger. He had called her ameddlesome busybody who went about poking and prying into other people's affairs and had ordered her to leave the house and never enter it again.
"Pokin' an' pryin' is it?" she had answered quietly as she made her way towards the door. He remembered now how difficult it had been for her to walk even on the level floor; what a task it must have been for her to climb those three long flights of stairs as she had been doing every day for these months past. "Pokin' an' pryin' is it? Maybe so, maybe so. But Nancy didn't mean it that way, no, lad, indeed she didn't. Nancy was thinkin' of her own boy lyin' at rest out yonder with the green grass growin' over him, her own boy that went the same way you're a goin' now. He'd be about the same age as you, too, an' there's the look on your face that I seen on his so often, the desperate, despairin' look that it breaks my heart to see. I figured that if you was my boy, I'd be glad for some one to tell you the truth an' try to bring you back to God before it's too late. I'd figured, too, that most likely you had a mother somewheres. She may be still on the earth prayin' for you an' longin' for you, same as I prayed an' longed for my Dannyfor so many years. She may be in heaven lookin' down on us now, but wherever she is she'll be glad to know that I tried to bring you back. It's for her sake that I'm doing this, for the sake of your poor mother wherever she may be."
His mother! What memories that name conjured up! His mother who had kissed and blessed him as she closed her eyes forever so many, many years ago. He was still looking at the chair which Nancy had occupied but he saw it not. He was a boy once more standing by his mother's bedside, her soft, white hand in his, and was promising her—ah! how many promises he had made holding that dear hand for the last time, and how readily he had broken those promises every one!
His mind wandered on and he saw himself a boy at school, a youth at college, a grown man filling a position of trust in a large business concern. In those days, wherever he might turn, there was one figure standing out before all others, one friend, tried and true. When boys at school this friend had saved his life; when young men at college, it was to this friend's continued help he owed any little success he may haveattained. After leaving college, his position was secured through the kindly offices of this same friend whose desk was next his own in the office in which they were employed.
His gaze still rested on the vacant chair but he saw only a pretty little suburban cottage with flower garden and smooth green lawn and box-bordered gravel paths. Once upon a time that cottage was his, and the sweet-faced girl, who trod those paths so daintily, tripping to the gate to meet him on his return in the evening, was his wife. Upstairs in the nursery their children slept, two fair little girls with their mother's pretty eyes and dainty ways. All that had been his, once upon a time.
He still watched that vacant chair but he saw only the day they discovered the loss of that money which had disappeared so mysteriously from the firm's safe. Suspicion rested upon that one true friend of his, the friend to whom he owed all he was, all he had. There was not sufficient evidence to prove that he was the thief, but in the minds of his employers there was no doubt as to his guilt. The supposed delinquent was dismissed and the cloud of suspicion rested upon himwherever he went thereafter. Only two people had known the truth, the man now sitting by the stove in the tenement house kitchen and the friend who had suffered in silence rather than betray him. They had never met again, and not long after the robbery, the man now sitting by the stove had heard of his friend's death; the physicians said it was typhoid, but he knew better. Disappointment, anxiety, heartbreak, were the real causes of his friend's early taking off.
He still gazed at the empty chair but he saw only the series of misfortunes that had befallen him since the day his friend died. He had launched into business on his own account; the result was dire disaster. His home was burned in the dead of night; they barely escaped with their lives. Everything was gone; there was no insurance and ruin and despair confronted them. His children died suddenly of a malignant fever and the heartbroken mother had followed them to the grave within a few weeks. He was alone, all alone, and from that day to this had gone steadily downward until now he found himself in this dirty tenement depending for his daily bread upon the faded, ragged little woman who was now his wife.Poor Maggie, how she irritated him at times and yet she had been a good faithful wife to him. But for her, they would not have even this miserable apology for a home. Yes, even Maggie, with her watery eyes and thin, unkempt hair, Maggie, who scrubbed floors for a living and could not write so much as her own name nor read the simplest child's primer; even Maggie was far too good for the worn-out drunkard and gambler whom she tended so faithfully.
A light tap upon the door, but the man by the stove was too much occupied with those phantoms of the past to pay heed to it. The door opened quietly and a priest stepped into the room. The man's gaze shifted from the vacant chair to the black-robed figure standing by the door and looking at him in puzzled amazement. Phantoms of the past? Yes, indeed, and here was one more come to torment him and to mock at him. The two watched each other in silence for a moment. Then, the man crouching in his chair by the fire found voice at last:
"What brings you here, you, of all men? Have you come to taunt me, to upbraid me, to delight youreyes with the sight of my misery? Have you come to laugh at me in my downfall?"
"Nay, friend," returned the priest gently, "none of those things has brought me to you to-day. I come only on a mission of mercy, to bring you peace and pardon."
"But how did you find me; who sent you to me?" demanded the man by the fire.
"A little old woman, Nancy by name, told me there was one here sadly in need of the ministrations of a priest. I did not dream that I should findyou."
"You know me then; you remember me?"
"I remember you perfectly and recognized you at once, though you have changed almost beyond recognition."
"You say you know me, but you do not, you do not. You may knowwhoI am, but you don't knowwhatI am. You don't know that I'm a thief. Yes, a thief, for it was I who took that money he was accused of stealing. Do you know that?"
"I know it," answered the priest calmly, "and still I say I bring you peace and pardon."
"Perhaps you know, too, that I am a murderer, forit was grief, heartbreak, which weakened him so that when disease attacked him he had not sufficient strength to combat the fever. Do you now that, you who talk to me so easily of peace and pardon?"
"I know that, too, and it is in his name that I offer you forgiveness for your sins."
"You know all then? He told you?"
"He told me in the delirium of fever. He never knew he told; he died thinking he carried the secret with him to the grave. He was faithful even unto death."
"Faithful even unto death. And you, his brother, come to me now and, knowing all, dare to hold out to me the hope of forgiveness and of peace?" and the man stared incredulously into the kind, pitying eyes bent upon him.
"I, his brother, offer you now forgiveness of all your sins and peace which surpasseth all understanding."
The sick man was seized with a violent fit of coughing and when it had passed, he lay back in his chair exhausted, with closed eyes and white, pain-drawn face. The priest, wishing to give him a moment torest and recover his breath, walked to the window and looked out. In the field below more than a score of ragged men, women and children were scratching and digging among piles of ashes, eagerly searching for and gathering up the half-burned cinders; searching, too, in the forlorn hope of finding something of greater value that might have been thrown away by accident. The rain beat noisily on the window pane and the priest shivered as he looked at those scantily-clad little children, not one of whom could boast of shoes and stockings, and at the white heads and bent figures of old women on whose unprotected shoulders the rain fell so pitilessly. What mattered the inclemency of the weather to them? Winter would be here by and by; they must gather in all the fuel possible before it was upon them with its snow and sleet and icy blasts. In fact, even when winter came, many of these same little children and old women, even grown men who either could not find other work to do or did not care to seek it, many of these same people would be seen day after day scratching and digging in this same field of ashes.
The priest turned from the window with a sigh ofpity for the miserable creatures below. His glance strayed over the untidy kitchen which bore all the marks of the most extreme poverty and he gave another sigh of pity for the man who had been brought so low in the last days of his life, the man whom he had known in the time of his success and prosperity.
He approached the chair beside the stove and the tired eyes opened slowly and looked at him. Unaccustomed tears filled those eyes and the hard voice softened marvelously.
"Nancy was right," that changed voice was saying. "I am dying. Father, you say you bring me forgiveness in his name, forgiveness for the great wrong I did him. In his name, I will accept the gift. Father, I will confess my sins to you and beg God's pardon for them."
Two hours later, when poor, tired Maggie, with aching arms and aching back, returned from her day's work, she was surprised at the gentleness with which he greeted her. Never had he been so kind before: she was more accustomed to harsh words and even curses than kindness from him. She set about preparingtheir evening meal and he actually ate what she put before him without even once finding fault with the food or with her. She could not understand it and felt vaguely alarmed.
Again the door opened and a face peered in anxiously. It would look as if the owner of the face was fully prepared to slam the door and take to her heels at a second's notice. The man in the chair by the stove smiled faintly and called:
"Come in, Nancy; it's all right."
The little stooped figure sidled into the room but stood with her hand upon the door ready for flight at any moment. She could not trust her eyes and ears, she knew they must be deceiving her.
"Come in, Nancy," the man repeated. "Come in and sit down there in the chair you occupied this afternoon when you dared to tell me the truth that all others feared to tell. You're a brave little woman, Nancy, and, thanks to you, all is well with me at last. As he said, he brought me forgiveness for my sins and peace which surpasseth all understanding. Thanks to you, Nancy, thanks to you."
"Thanks to me is it, lad? Not a bit of it, not a bitof it. Thanks be to God!" ejaculated Nancy fervently.
"Thanks be to God!" whispered Maggie, as a tear rolled down her worn and faded cheek and splashed into the pan of water in which she was washing the supper dishes. "Thanks be to God for bringin' him back even at the eleventh hour!"
THE STORY OF JULIE BENOIT.
Julie leaned against the door of the room from which she had just been summoned. Her black eyes flashed defiance into the eyes of the woman watching her in sorrowful silence.
"Why you come here?" she cried. "Why you not leave me alone? I not want to see you nor anyone. You no right to come here; you not my forewoman now. You dismiss me in disgrace a week ago, you and that superintendent in your factory over there. What you come for; to punish me some more?"
"My poor child," returned the other gently, "you must not hate me so. Believe me, I love you, Julie, and I've come here as your friend."
"You a friend to me; me, Julie Benoit who is sent away from the factory because I steal all that money! No, no, I know better than that, you no friend to me, you despise me. All the girls point their finger at me, for I steal that money. But I give it all back, do Inot? And the superintendent he say it is my first offense and he will not send me to prison. Oh yes! he is very kind. Julie have give back the money, Julie is forgiven, but she is a thief and cannot work with honest people. She must go, and without a reference. No one could recommend a thief. Well, Julie does go, so why you not let her alone?"
"Julie, Julie, listen to me," cried the forewoman almost in despair. "Believe it or not as you please, I have come here to-day to help you if I can. I have come because there was something in your face, a look in your eyes, that day you left us that has haunted me ever since. I have come because I feared you were in trouble and were too proud to tell us so. Julie, for twenty years I have been forewoman of my department over there in the factory. Many, many girls have worked with me, new ones coming, old ones going all the time. Some have left for one reason, some for another, but never before has one gone from me in anger or disgrace. All my girls have loved me, Julie, and I loved them. Why was it I never could win you, win your trust and confidence. Was I notkind to you, child? I tried to be for I wanted your love and trust."
The flashing eyes and angry face of the girl softened a little as the woman continued:
"I know you are not a bad girl, Julie. I know that you never before stole anything. I have been thinking of you all this week and worrying about you, for it must have been some great trouble which induced you to take that money. Why did you take it, child? Won't you please tell me?"
"You ask me why I take it? Well, I will tell you. Do you know what is in that room just behind this very door I lean against? It is my mother. She will never move again, never speak to me again; she is dead. Yes, she died last night but I not tell no one. If I tell, they will take her away and bury her I not know where. I have no money to bury her myself. Pretty soon I will have to tell, then they bury her in a pauper's grave with other people poor like us. I not know where they put her; I never can go and kneel at her grave and whisper to her that I have not forgotten.
"You want to know why I steal that money? Well,a week ago poor mother she is so very sick. They tell me she cannot live many days; but I think if only I have money I can save her yet. I can have doctors to see her, big doctors who will go to sick people only for very much money. I can buy her food and medicine and perhaps send her away to some place where the sun will shine for her, where she can breathe God's pure air. Why even strong people can scarce live in a place like this where the sunshine never come, where it is cold and damp all the time. How can the poor little mother hope to grow well again in such a place, without good food, often without a fire, the air not fit for anyone to breathe. I think of it all the time. I lie awake at night and think of it, it is before me all day at my work. Money, money, if only I have a little money, I can save my mother yet. Then the chance come, the money is there before me. I look at it, I take it. That is all.
"You ask me why I steal that money. I steal it for her, my mother; to save her life. Yes, and for her, too, the blind grandmother, and for them," and she pointed to a very old woman sitting close to the stove and holding in her arms a whimpering child offour. At her side crouched two more children, somewhat older, huddled together in a ragged shawl. They wore neither shoes nor stockings and the small feet were blue with cold.
"Oh, you poor child," exclaimed the forewoman, her eyes filling with tears. "Why did you not tell me a week ago instead of taking that money, for one wrong can never right another; why did you not tell me? We might not have been able to save your mother, but we could have helped you. Even after you took the money, if you had told me all, something might have been done for you. I wish you had told me, Julie, I wish you had told me."
The shocked grief of the woman's face and voice had their effect upon the girl, and it was in a much more gentle tone that she continued:
"You can see for yourself how it is with us now, but we are not always like this. If you care to listen and will sit down, I tell you all about it.
"No, indeed, we are not always like this. I can remember when father is alive how happy we all are. He is a mason, good and steady, and he work for us all the time. We live in a pretty little flat, it is brightand clean and mother keep it so and make everything look nice for us. She sing and she laugh and she look so pretty in those days. I go to school and Marie also, dear Marie who died one year ago. Antoine, too, he go to school with Marie and me. Lorraine there, she too little; she stay at home with mother and with grandmother.
"Well, we are all so happy until one day father is brought home to us. He is dead, killed at his work by a falling derrick. That same day poor little Baptiste, him there on grandmother's lap, he come into this cruel world. Mother is sick, so very sick for a long time after. It is weeks and weeks before she can walk around again. By the time she does, the little money she had saved is all gone; there is not a cent in the house and the landlord puts us out into the street.
"I am only twelve at the time but I go to work in a factory—not your factory, but one away off the other side of the river. I have to walk long, long distance in the cold, dark morning, and walk back again at night, but I am happy for I earn money to help at home. Mother she go to work too, in a great steam laundry where she stand all day at a big machine.She very thin and pale, and so tired at night she can hardly walk home. But she, too, is content; for she have work to do and work means money to buy food for the little ones and for the blind grandmother.
"We get along pretty well for almost three years. Then, just a year ago, the factory I work for shuts down. Times are hard, there is no more work for us, we must go. We do go. We try first one place, then another, to find work. It is the same story everywhere, times are hard and there is no work for us.
"Then mother gets that dreadful cold. The laundry where she works is always so very hot. She come out at night into the cold air; her coat is thin for she cannot buy a warm one and she get a dreadful chill one night as she comes home. She cough all the time after that. It shake her nearly all to pieces; but she still go to her work till one day she fall beside her machine. They bring her home and we put her into bed and she never leave it again.
"What to do then we know not. One, two, three days pass; at last there is a day when grandmother and I eat nothing. We give the last scraps of bread to the children and spend the last two pennies on milk formother. There is nothing left for us. We not sleep that night; we sit by the empty stove and we think all night. Grandmother is praying all the time; she is, oh so good, that grandmother. She pray and she pray, and she tell me God is kind and good, He will show us a way. Me, I am not good like that. I say to her God cannot be kind and merciful, or he would not treat us so. What have we done that He punish us like that? She say to me:
"'Hush, child, hush; you very bad, very wicked. God is good and kind and loving. He not try us any more than we can bear; He send us help soon if we trust in Him.'
"Next morning is cold, very cold; we have no fire and no food. I have been everywhere to look for work and find nothing. But I put on my hat to go out and try once more. Grandmother ask me what I do. I tell her I go again to look for work. She say: 'No, child, you stay here with your mother to-day; it is my turn now.'
"She is old; she is blind and I fear to have her go out alone, but she is firm and will go. She take her stick and she go out. She come back later with breadfor the children and a little money to buy coal. I not ask her where she get it; I know. She beg it on the street. Every day she go out like that, and when she bring back food and money she not say one word and I not ask her where she get it; I know.
"She keeps us from starving for a few weeks and then, at last, I find work in your factory. For a time, I am almost happy again, for now grandmother need beg no more; my pay will keep us in food and fire. Even mother seems better for a little while, and I think perhaps she will get well and we will all be happy once again. But mother is soon very, very sick, and I see her dying day by day and can do nothing to help her.
"Then, that day last week, a party of ladies come to visit the factory. The wife of the superintendent is with them. She very handsome, very rich; she beautifully dressed. She stop near my table to take off her coat, the room is warm and the fur coat heavy. She lay her purse down on my table while she remove the garment; one of the ladies call to her and she go away, leaving the purse behind her on my table.
"Mother is very sick that morning; she not sleepall night, but cough, cough, cough. There is the purse before me. No one is looking; I pick it up and open it. It is filled with money, the money that may save my mother's life. That lady will never miss it. I slip the purse inside my dress and go on with my work. I can hardly keep from screaming with joy I am so happy to think I have the money which is going to save my mother's life. The ladies go away and I feel that I am safe; she has forget about her purse. I want to rush away at once, but I must stay at my work so no one will suspect.
"Presently the superintendent he come in and he talk to you and you look very grave. Then he say one of the ladies have left her purse on a table in this room. Will the girls be kind enough to stop work and search for it? He will give five dollars reward to the one who finds it. We all search but no purse is found, and he go away again. Pretty soon he come back and the lady with him. She look around for a few moments, then she walk straight over to my table. The superintendent ask is she sure, quite sure. She say she is perfectly sure. She lay her purse on that table in order to remove her coat, then forget to take it upagain when she go away; and she look very hard at me.
"The superintendent ask me if I have seen the purse and I say no. I suppose he know by my face that I am lying for he tell you to take me to the dressing-room and search. Then I know there is no hope for me; if you search you find the purse, so I take it out and hand it to him. He talk to me about my wickedness but I not answer him. He discharge me, but I not say one word. You talk to me, but I not speak to you either, I am too heartbroken, too despairing. My mother she will die now, she will surely die; and grandmother she will have to go out begging once again.
"I come home and I tell them I am discharged. I not tell them why, for they very good and stealing is a sin. They be so shocked and sorry. I sit beside my mother, despair in my heart, and I watch her dying, dying, dying.
"Her pain is all over now; she leave me last night and she never come back again. I watch with her in there when you come. I watch with her some more when you go; then I must tell that she is gone, that she is dead, and they come and take her away," andshe threw herself on the floor by the door of her mother's room in a perfect agony of grief.
In a moment the kind-hearted woman was on her knees beside the heartbroken girl, whom she gathered into her motherly arms, murmuring words of comfort all the while. Gradually the dreadful sobbing subsided, and after a time the girl was once more standing before that door she guarded so jealously. Seeing that she was her own calm self again, the forewoman said gently:
"My poor child, again I say that I wish you had told me a week ago. So much suffering would have been saved. However, this is no time for vain regrets, it is the time for action. I must leave you at once, Julie, but I will be back, and will, I hope, bring you good news. In the meantime do you say nothing to anyone about your mother. You will believe that I will help you? You will do as I say?"
"You very good," replied Julie simply, laying her hand in that of the forewoman; "when you want me, you find me there," and she pointed to the door behind which her mother's silent form was resting.
Two days later, the forewoman, seated at her desk,was apparently absorbed in the newspaper she was reading while leisurely disposing of her noonday lunch. In reality she was covertly watching an excited group of girls on the other side of the room who were discussing some matter of evident importance. Without doubt, something was wrong. The forewoman rather surmised what the trouble was and smiled behind the shelter of her newspaper. She knew these girls and was quite sure that the difficulty, whatever it was, would be brought to her for settlement. As she had said to Julie, she loved her girls, and they in turn loved and trusted her.
In this instance she had not long to wait. Presently the girls cast aside napkins and lunch boxes and moved toward the corner of the room where their forewoman was waiting. She watched their approach in smiling silence. Slightly in advance of the others came a small, impetuous figure, a painfully thin, cross-eyed girl of fifteen, whose abundant crop of freckles had earned for her the sobriquet of "Speckles." She had answered to that name for so long now that she had almost forgotten she ever owned any other. She was impulsive, good-hearted, and a general favorite in spiteof her rather sharp little tongue. Rushing up to the forewoman's desk, she said excitedly:
"Miss Merton, it can't be true, what Louise has just been telling us, that you are going to let that horrid Julie Benoit come back again. You surely wouldn't take her back, would you, Miss Merton?"
"Yes, it is perfectly true," replied the forewoman calmly. "Julie will return to us next Monday, and I hope all my girls will do everything they can to make her feel that we are glad to have her back."
"But we're not glad. We don't want her back," cried one girl.
"Why it's impossible after what she did," added another.
"I, for one, wouldn't work in the same room with a girl like that," said a third, with a toss of her head. "I wouldn't dare leave any of my belongings out of my sight for a single instant."
"That's just the trouble," chimed several all at once. "We wouldn't feel safe for a moment knowing there was a thief amongst us."
During this outburst the forewoman sat quietlywatching the indignant faces before her. Then she said very gravely:
"Girls, I think we all misjudged Julie, and really almost owe her an apology. I have asked her pardon, and though I do not expect you to do the same, I do ask you to receive her back with kindness."
"Misjudged her! Apology!" gasped Speckles. "She took that money, didn't she?"
"Yes."
"And a person who takes money that belongs to someone else is a thief, isn't she?"
"Yes, certainly."
"Well then, I say a thief is a thief, and I don't see where any misjudging comes in," and Speckles looked defiantly from one to another.
A tall blonde whose thoughtful blue eyes had been studying the forewoman's face, laid her hand on the excited girl's arm, remarking gently:
"Let's not judge too hastily, Speckles dear. I think Miss Merton has something to tell us. For my part I used to pity Julie, she seemed so weak and sickly and so terribly alone. She was with us but she was not one of us."
"Pity your grandmother," cried Speckles the irrepressible. "If she was alone all the time, it was her own fault. She was a stuck-up old thing and wouldn't make friends with any of us. If you'd speak to her she'd only stare at you with those fierce black eyes of hers and answer yes or no just as short and snappy as you please."
"I doubt if we tried very hard, any of us, to win her friendship, the poor little thing. And she did seem so forlorn and lonely at times," answered the blonde. "But there, girls, let's all keep quiet if we can for I know Miss Merton has something to tell us."
"You are right, Louise, I have a little story to tell you, the story of Julie Benoit," and she told them Julie's story as she had heard it from Julie herself. In conclusion, she added: "When I left that poor child beside her dead mother, I went at once to the superintendent and told him the whole story. You girls know how kind he is; many of you have had personal experience of his charity. He called in his wife and together they planned to bury Julie's mother as a Catholic should be buried, they to stand all the expense. They have also undertaken to see that the youngerchildren are sent to school and the grandmother properly cared for, and Julie is to return to her place here on Monday.
"I wish you could have seen her face when I went back to those two dreadful rooms in the alley where she lives and told her what the superintendent and his wife had said. She stared at me, amazed, incredulous; then said slowly in an awed whisper:
"'They do all that for me, Julie Benoit the thief! You tell the lady it is I who steal her money but she forgive and have my mother buried like a Christian. She have her taken into church where the priest will bless her and pray over her. She have her buried where I can go and kneel beside her grave and tell her that I love her still and that I forget her never, no never. The lady do all that for me who steal her money. But she is good, she is kind to forgive me.'
"After a moment's thought, she added: 'You think God will forgive me too? I very bad, very wicked; I say all those dreadful things about Him, but He will forgive me, is it not so? Grandmother say He good and kind. You think He will forgive me if I ask Him?'
"It was a very different Julie that I left that night; oh! very different from the girl who met me with such fierceness earlier in the evening. Just as I was leaving, she said to me very humbly: 'The girls at the factory, you think they will forgive me also? I very rude to them; I say I hate them all. You think they will forgive me?'
"So now, my girls, your welcome to Julie on Monday morning will be the best answer to that question."
"Will we forgive her, the poor girl!" cried Speckles impulsively. "You bet we will. If there's any one here who won't be kind to that poor little Julie, she'll just have to reckon with me. I think it is we who should ask her to forgive us, for I must admit we were all rather hateful to her. Oh, I say, girls! I've just got an idea," she continued. "Here, Louise, just hand me one of those empty boxes from that shelf over your head. There you are. Now then, this is a hat and I pass it around to each one of you, so. I say to each one of you: 'Did you notice that poor Julie has been wearing a thin summer coat all this bitter winter weather? It used to make me shiver just to look at her. Did any of you notice that her shoeswere all broken through and even in rain or snow storms she never had any rubbers to wear over them?' Suppose each one of us chip in a few pennies, we can all spare a little, and have Miss Merton give it to her to buy shoes or something for herself. I'll start with fifty cents."
The box was passed from one to another, each contributing what she could, and each contribution meaning more or less of a sacrifice to the donor. In this way a goodly sum was collected and laid on Miss Merton's table.
"There, girls," said the triumphant Speckles. "That will show Julie whether we have forgiven her or not. And now, do you hear that musical whistle calling us back to our places? We'd better hustle for the machines will start up in a minute or two. Machines are like time and the tide, they wait for no man. Nor woman, either, not even for Julie Benoit," and with a laugh, Speckles was off like the wind.
As the girls departed, each to her own machine or work-table, Miss Merton looked after them, a tear in her eye and a smile upon her lips.
"God bless my girls," she said to herself. "Their hearts are in the right place, every one of them. I need have no fear of the welcome they will give my poor little Julie Benoit."