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+The Project Gutenberg Etext of Cast Adrift
+by T. S. Arthur
+(#7 in our series by T. S. Arthur)
+
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+
+Title: Cast Adrift
+
+Author: T. S. Arthur
+
+Release Date: October, 2003  [Etext #4592]
+[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
+[This file was first posted on February 12, 2002]
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+Edition: 10
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+The Project Gutenberg Etext of Cast Adrift
+by T. S. Arthur
+******This file should be named cstdr10.txt or cstdr10.zip******
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+
+CAST ADRIFT.
+
+BY T. S. ARTHUR
+
+AUTHOR OF "THREE YEARS IN A MAN-TRAP," "ORANGE BLOSSOMS," ETC., ETC.
+
+PHILADELPHIA:
+CINCINNATI:
+NEW YORK:
+BOSTON:
+CHICAGO, ILLS.:
+NEW CASTLE, PA.:
+SAN FRANCISCO, CAL.:
+
+1873
+
+
+
+
+
+
+TO THE READER.
+
+IN this romance of real life, in which the truth is stranger than
+the fiction, I have lifted only in part the veil that hides the
+victims of intemperance and other terrible vices--after they have
+fallen to the lower deeps of degradation to be found in our large
+cities, where the vile and degraded herd together more like wild
+beasts than men and women--and told the story of sorrow, suffering,
+crime and debasement as they really exist in Christian America with
+all the earnestness and power that in me lies.
+
+Strange and sad and terrible as are some of the scenes from which I
+hare drawn this veil, I have not told the half of what exists. My
+book, apart from the thread of fiction that runs through its pages,
+is but a series of photographs from real life, and is less a work of
+the imagination than a record of facts.
+
+If it stirs the hearts of American readers profoundly, and so
+awakens the people to a sense of their duty; if it helps to
+inaugurate more earnest and radical modes of reform for a state of
+society of which a distinguished author has said, "There is not a
+country throughout the earth on which it would not bring a curse;
+there is no religion upon the earth that it would not deny; there is
+no people upon the earth it would not put to shame;"--then will not
+my work be in vain.
+
+Sitting in our comfortable homes with well-fed, well-clothed and
+happy-hearted children about us--children who have our tenderest
+care, whose cry of pain from a pin-prick or a fall on the carpeted
+floor hurts us like a blow---how few of us know or care anything
+about the homes in which some other children dwell, or of the hard
+and cruel battle for life they are doomed to fight from the very
+beginning!
+
+To get out from these comfortable homes and from the midst of
+tenderly cared-for little ones, and stand face to face with squalor
+and hunger, with suffering, debasement and crime, to look upon the
+starved faces of children and hear their helpless cries, is what
+scarcely one in a thousand will do. It is too much for our
+sensibilities. And so we stand aloof, and the sorrow, and suffering,
+the debasement, the wrong and the crime, go on, and because we heed
+it not we vainly imagine that no responsibility lies at our door;
+and yet there is no man or woman who is not, according to the
+measure of his or her influence, responsible for the human
+debasement and suffering I have portrayed.
+
+The task I set for myself has not been a pleasant one. It has hurt
+my sensibilities and sickened my heart many times as I stood face to
+face with the sad and awful degradation that exists in certain
+regions of our larger cities; and now that my work is done, I take a
+deep breath of relief. The result is in your hands, good citizen,
+Christian reader, earnest philanthropist! If it stirs your heart in
+the reading as it stirred mine in the writing, it will not die
+fruitless.
+
+THE AUTHOR.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS.
+
+
+CHAPTER I. The unwelcome babe--The defrauded young mother--The
+struggle between life and death--"Your baby is in heaven"--A brief
+retrospect--A marriage for social position--An ambitious wife and a
+disappointed husband--The young daughter--The matrimonial
+market--The Circassian slaves of modern society--The highest
+bidder--Disappearance--The old sad story--Secret marriage--The
+letters--Disappointed ambition--Interview between the parents--The
+mother's purpose--"Baffled, but not defeated"--The father's
+surprise--The returned daughter--Forgiven--"I am not going away
+again, father dear"--Insecurity and distrust
+
+CHAPTER II. The hatred of a bad woman--Mrs. Dinneford's plans for
+the destruction of Granger--Starting in business--Plots of Mrs.
+Dinneford and Freeling--The discounted notes--The trap--Granger's
+suspicions aroused--Forgery--Mrs. Dinneford relentless--The
+arrest--Fresh evidence of crime upon Granger's person--The shock to
+Edith--"That night her baby was born"
+
+CHAPTER III. "It is a splendid boy"--A convenient, non-interfering
+family doctor--Cast adrift--Into the world in a basket, unnamed and
+disowned--Edith's second struggle back to life--Her mind a
+blank--Granger convicted of forgery--Seeks to gain knowledge of his
+child--The doctor's evasion and ignorance--An insane asylum instead
+of State's prison--Edith's slow return to intelligence--"There's
+something I can't understand, mother"--"Where is my baby?"--"What of
+George?"--No longer a child, but a broken hearted woman--The divorce
+
+CHAPTER IV. Sympathy between father and daughter--Interest in public
+charities--A dreadful sight--A sick babe in the arms of a
+half-drunken woman--"Is there no law to meet such cases?"---"The
+poor baby has no vote!"--Edith seeks for the grave of her child, but
+cannot find it--She questions her mother, who baffles her
+curiosity--Mrs. Bray's visit--Interview between Mrs. Dinneford and
+Mrs. Bray--"The baby isn't living?"--"Yes; I saw it day before
+yesterday in the arms of a beggar-woman"--Edith's suspicions
+aroused--Determined to discover the fate of her child--Visits the
+doctor--"Your baby is in heaven"--"Would to God it were so, for I
+saw a baby in hell not long ago!"
+
+CHAPTER V. Mrs. Dinneford visits Mrs. Bray--"The woman to whom you
+gave that baby was here yesterday"--The woman must be put out of the
+way--Exit Mrs. Dinneford, enter Pinky Swett--"You know your
+fate--New Orleans and the yellow fever"--"All I want of you is to
+keep track of the baby"--Division of the spoils--Lucky
+dreams--Consultation of the dream-book for lucky figures--Sam
+McFaddon and his backer, who "drives in the Park and wears a two
+thousand dollar diamond pin"--The fate of a baby begged with--The
+baby must not die--The lottery-policies
+
+CHAPTER VI. Rottenness at the heart of a great city--Pinky Swett's
+attempted rescue of a child from cruel beating--The fight--Pinky's
+arrest--Appearance of the "queen"--Pinky's release at her
+command--The queen's home--The screams of children being beaten--The
+rescue of "Flanagan's Nell"--Death the great rescuer--"They don't
+look after things in here as they do outside--Everybody's got the
+screws on, and things must break sometimes, but it isn't called
+murder--The coroner understands it all"
+
+CHAPTER VII. Pinky Swett at the mercy of the crowd in the
+street--Taken to the nearest station-house--Mrs. Dinneford visits
+Mrs. Bray again--Fresh alarms--"She's got you in her power"---"Money
+is of no account"--The knock at the door--Mrs. Dinneford in
+hiding--The visitor gone--Mrs. Bray reports the woman insatiable in
+her demands--Must have two hundred dollars by sundown--No way of
+escape except through police interference--"People who deal with the
+devil generally have the devil to pay"--Suspicion--A mistake--Sound
+of feet upon the stairs--Mrs. Dinneford again in hiding--Enter Pinky
+Swett--Pinky disposed of--Mrs. Dinneford again released--Mrs. Bray's
+strategy--"Let us be friends still, Mrs. Bray"--Mrs. Dinneford's
+deprecation and humiliation--Mrs. Bray's triumph
+
+CHAPTER VIII. Mrs. Bray receives a package containing two hundred
+dollars--"Poor baby! I must see better to its comfort"--Pinky meets
+a young girl from the country--The "Ladies' Restaurant"--Fried
+oysters and sangaree--The "bindery" girl--"My head feels
+strangely"--Through the back alley--The ten-cent lodging
+house--Robbery--A second robbery--A veil drawn--A wild prolonged cry
+of a woman--The policeman listens only for a moment, and then passes
+on--Foul play--"In all our large cities are savages more cruel and
+brutal in their instincts than the Comanches"--Who is responsible?
+
+CHAPTER IX. Valuation of the spoils--The receiver--The "policy-shop"
+and its customers--A victim of the lottery mania
+
+CHAPTER X. "Policy-drunkards"--A newly-appointed policeman's
+blunder--The end of a "policy-drunkard"--Pinky and her friend in
+consultation over "a cast-off baby in Dirty alley"--"If you can't
+get hush-money out of its mother, you can bleed Fanny Bray"--The way
+to starve a baby--Pinky moves her quarters without the use of "a
+dozen furniture cars"--A baby's home--The baby's night nurse--The
+baby's supper--The baby's bed--How the baby's money is spent--Where
+the baby's nurse passes the night--The baby's disappearance
+
+CHAPTER XI. Reserve between mother and daughter--Mrs. Dinneford
+disapproves of Edith's charitable visits--Mrs. Dinneford meets
+Freeling by appointment at a hotel--"There's trouble brewing"--"A
+letter from George Granger"--Accused of conspiracy--Possibility of
+Granger's pardon by the governor--An ugly business--In great
+peril--Freeling's threats of exposure--A hint of an alternative
+
+CHAPTER XII. Mr. Freeling fails to appear at his place of
+business--Examination of his bank accounts--It is discovered that he
+has borrowed largely of his friends--Mrs. Dinneford has supplied him
+$20,000 from her private purse--Mrs. Dinneford falls sick, and
+temporarily loses her reason--"I told you her name was Gray--Gray,
+not Bray"--Half disclosures--Recovery--Mother and daughter mutually
+suspicious--The visitor--Mrs. Dinneford equal to the
+emergency--Edith thrown off the track
+
+CHAPTER XIII. Edith is satisfied that her babe is alive--She has a
+desire to teach the children of the poor--"My baby may become like
+one of these"--She hears of a baby which has been stolen--Resolves
+to go and see it, and to apply to Mr. Paulding of the Briar street
+mission for assistance in her attempt--Mr. Paulding persuades her
+that it is best not to see the child, and promises that he himself
+will look after it--Returns home--Her father remonstrates with her,
+finally promises to help her
+
+CHAPTER XIV. Mr. Dinneford sets out for the mission-house--An
+incident on the way--Encounters Mr. Paulding--Mr. Paulding makes his
+report--"The vicious mark their offspring with unmistakable signs of
+moral depravity; this baby has signs of a better origin"--A
+profitable conversation--"I think you had better act promptly"
+
+CHAPTER XV. Mr. Dinneford with a policeman goes in quest of the
+baby--The baby is gone--Inquiries--Mr. Dinneford resolves to
+persevere--Cause of the baby's disappearance--Pinky Swett's
+curiosity--Change of baby's nurse--Baby's improved condition--Baby's
+first experience of motherly tenderness--Baby's first smile--"Such
+beautiful eyes"--Pinky Swett visits the St. John mission-school--
+Edith is not there
+
+CHAPTER XVI. Mr. Dinneford's return, and Edith's disappointment--"It
+is somebody's baby, and it may be mine"--An unsuspected
+listener--Mrs. Dinneford acts promptly--Conference between Mrs.
+Dinneford and Mrs. Hoyt, _alias_ Bray--The child must be got out of
+the way--"If it will not starve, it must drown"--Mrs. Dinneford sees
+an acquaintance as she leaves Mrs. Hoyt's, and endeavors to escape
+his observation--A new danger and disgrace awaiting her
+
+CHAPTER XVII. Mental conditions of mother and daughter--Mr.
+Dinneford aroused to a sense of his moral responsibilities--The
+heathen in our midst--The united evil of policy-lotteries and
+whisky-shops--The education of the policy-shops
+
+CHAPTER XVIII. News item: "A child drowned"--Another news item:
+Pinky Swett sentenced to prison for robbery--Baby's improved
+condition--Mrs. Burke's efforts to retain the baby after Pinky
+Swett's imprisonment--Baby Andy's rough life in the street--Mrs.
+Burke's death--Cast upon the world--Andy's adventures--He finds a
+home and a friend
+
+CHAPTER XIX. Mr. Dinneford visits the mission-school--A comparison
+of the present with the past--The first mission-school--
+Reminiscences of the school in its early days--The zealous
+scholar--Good effects of the mission--"Get the burning brands
+apart, or interpose incombustible things between them"--An
+illustration--"Let in light, and the darkness flees"
+
+CHAPTER XX. "The man awoke and felt the child against his bosom,
+soft and warm"--Led by a little child--"God being my helper, I will
+be a man again"--A new life--Meeting of an old friend--A friend in
+need--Food, clothes, work--A new home--God's strength our only
+safety
+
+CHAPTER XXI. Intimate relations of physical and moral purity--Blind
+Jake--The harvest of the thieves and beggars--Inconsiderate
+charity--Beggary a vice--"The deserving poor are never common
+beggars"--"To help the evil is to hurt the good" The malignant ulcer
+in the body politic of our city--The breeding-places of epidemics
+and malignant diseases--Little Italian street musicians--The
+existence of slavery in our midst--Facts in regard to it
+
+CHAPTER XXII. Edith's continued interest in the children of the
+poor--Christmas dinner at the mission-house--Edith perceives Andy,
+and feels a strange attraction toward him--Andy's disappearance
+after dinner--Pinky Swett has been seen dragging him away--Lost
+sight of
+
+CHAPTER XXIII. Christmas dinner at Mr. Dinneford's--The dropped
+letter--It is missed--A scene of wild excitement--Mrs. Dinneford's
+sudden death--Edith reads the letter--A
+revelation--"Innocent!"--Edith is called to her mother--"Dead, and
+better so!"--Granger's innocence established--An agony of
+affection--No longer Granger's wife
+
+CHAPTER XXIV. Edith's sickness--Meeting of Mrs. Bray and Pinky
+Swett--A trial of sharpness, in which neither gains the
+advantage--Mr. Dinneford receives a call from a lady--The lady, who
+is Mrs. Bray, offers information--Mr. Dinneford surprises her into
+admitting an important fact--Mrs. Bray offers to produce the child
+for a price--Mr. Dinneford consents to pay the price on certain
+stipulations--Mrs. Bray departs, promising to come again
+
+CHAPTER XXV. Granger's pardon procured--How he receives his
+pardon--Mrs. Bray tries to trace Pinky home--Loses sight of her in
+the street--Mrs. Bray interviews a shop-woman--Pinky's
+destination--The child is gone
+
+CHAPTER XXVI. Mrs. Bray does not call on Mr. Dinneford, as she
+promised--Peril to Andrew Hall through loss of the
+child--Help--Edith longs to see or write to Granger, but does
+not--Edith encounters Mrs. Bray in the street--"Where is my
+baby?"--Disappointment--How to identify the child if found
+
+CHAPTER XXVII. No trace of Andy--Account of Andy's abduction--Andy's
+prison--An outlook from prison--A loose nail--The escape--The
+sprained ankle--The accident
+
+CHAPTER XXVIII. Edith's visit to the children's hospital--"Oh, my
+baby! thank God! my baby!"--The identification
+
+CHAPTER XXIX. Meeting of Mr. Dinneford and George Granger--"We want
+you to help us find your child"--"Edith's heart is calling out for
+you"--The meeting--The marriage benediction
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CAST ADRIFT.
+
+CHAPTER I.
+
+
+
+
+
+_A BABY_ had come, but he was not welcome. Could anything be sadder?
+
+The young mother lay with her white face to the wall, still as
+death. A woman opened the chamber door noiselessly and came in, the
+faint rustle of her garments disturbing the quiet air.
+
+A quick, eager turning of the head, a look half anxious, half
+fearful, and then the almost breathless question,
+
+"Where is my baby?"
+
+"Never mind about the baby," was answered, almost coldly; "he's well
+enough. I'm more concerned about you."
+
+"Have you sent word to George?"
+
+"George can't see you. I've said that before."
+
+"Oh, mother! I must see my husband."
+
+"Husband!" The tone of bitter contempt with which the word was
+uttered struck the daughter like a blow. She had partly risen in her
+excitement, but now fell back with a low moan, shutting her eyes and
+turning her face away. Even as she did so, a young man stepped back
+from the door of the elegant house in which she lay with a baffled,
+disappointed air. He looked pale and wretched.
+
+"Edith!" Two hours afterward the doctor stood over the young mother,
+and called her name. She did not move nor reply. He laid his hand on
+her cheek, and almost started, then bent down and looked at her
+intently for a moment or two. She had fever. A serious expression
+came into his face, and there was cause.
+
+The sweet rest and heavenly joy of maternity had been denied to his
+young patient. The new-born babe had not been suffered to lie even
+for one blissful moment on her bosom. Hard-hearted family pride and
+cruel worldliness had robbed her of the delight with which God ever
+seeks to dower young motherhood, and now the overtaxed body and
+brain had given way.
+
+For many weeks the frail young creature struggled with
+delirium--struggled and overcame.
+
+"Where is my baby?"
+
+The first thought of returning consciousness was of her baby.
+
+A woman who sat in a distant part of the chamber started up and
+crossed to the bed. She was past middle life, of medium stature,
+with small, clearly cut features and cold blue eyes. Her mouth was
+full, but very firm. Self-poise was visible even in her surprised
+movements. She bent over the bed and looked into Edith's wistful
+eyes.
+
+"Where is my baby, mother?" Mrs. Dinneford put her fingers lightly
+on Edith's lips.
+
+"You must be very quiet," she said, in a low, even voice. "The
+doctor forbids all excitement. You have been extremely ill."
+
+"Can't I see my baby, mother? It won't hurt me to see my baby."
+
+"Not now. The doctor--"
+
+Edith half arose in bed, a look of doubt and fear coming into her
+face.
+
+"I want my baby, mother," she said, interrupting her.
+
+A hard, resolute expression came into the cold blue eyes of Mrs.
+Dinneford. She put her hand firmly against Edith and pressed her
+back upon the pillow.
+
+"You have been very ill for nearly two months," she said, softening
+her voice. "No one thought you could live. Thank God! the crisis is
+over, but not the danger."
+
+"Two months! Oh, mother!"
+
+The slight flush that had come into Edith's wan face faded out, and
+the pallor it had hidden for a few moments became deeper. She shut
+her eyes and lay very still, but it was plain from the expression of
+her face that thought was busy.
+
+"Not two whole months, mother?" she said, at length, in doubtful
+tones. "Oh no! it cannot be."
+
+"It is just as I have said, Edith; and now, my dear child, as you
+value your life, keep quiet; all excitement is dangerous."
+
+But repression was impossible. To Edith's consciousness there was no
+lapse of time. It seemed scarcely an hour since the birth of her
+baby and its removal from her sight. The inflowing tide of
+mother-love, the pressure and yearning sweetness of which she had
+begun to feel when she first called for the baby they had not
+permitted to rest, even for an instant, on her bosom, was now
+flooding her heart. Two months! If that were so, what of the baby?
+To be submissive was impossible.
+
+Starting up half wildly, a vague terror in her face, she cried,
+piteously,
+
+"Oh, mother, bring me my baby. I shall die if you do not!"
+
+"Your baby is in heaven," said Mrs. Dinneford, softening her voice
+to a tone of tender regret.
+
+Edith caught her breath, grew very white, and then, with a low,
+wailing cry that sent a shiver through Mrs. Dinneford's heart, fell
+back, to all appearance dead.
+
+The mother did not call for help, but sat by the bedside of her
+daughter, and waited for the issue of this new struggle between life
+and death. There was no visible excitement, but her mouth was
+closely set and her cold blue eyes fixed in a kind of vacant stare.
+
+Edith was Mrs. Dinneford's only child, and she had loved her with
+the strong, selfish love of a worldly and ambitious woman. In her
+own marriage she had not consulted her heart. Mr. Dinneford's social
+position and wealth were to her far more than his personal
+endowments. She would have rejected him without a quicker pulse-beat
+if these had been all he had to offer. He was disappointed, she was
+not. Strong, self-asserting, yet politic, Mrs Dinneford managed her
+good husband about as she pleased in all external matters, and left
+him to the free enjoyment of his personal tastes, preferences and
+friendships. The house they lived in, the furniture it contained,
+the style and equipage assumed by the family, were all of her
+choice, Mr. Dinneford giving merely a half-constrained or
+half-indifferent consent. He had learned, by painful and sometimes.
+humiliating experience, that any contest with Mrs. Helen Dinneford
+upon which he might enter was sure to end in his defeat.
+
+He was a man of fine moral and intellectual qualities. His wealth
+gave him leisure, and his tastes, feelings and habits of thought
+drew him into the society of some of the best men in the city where
+he lived--best in the true meaning of that word. In all enlightened
+social reform movements you would be sure of finding Mr. Howard
+Dinneford. He was an active and efficient member in many boards of
+public charity, and highly esteemed in them all for his enlightened
+philanthropy and sound judgment. Everywhere but at home he was
+strong and influential; there he was weak, submissive and of little
+account. He had long ago accepted the situation, making a virtue of
+necessity. A different man--one of stronger will and a more
+imperious spirit--would have held his own, even though it wrought
+bitterness and sorrow. But Mr. Dinneford's aversion to strife, and
+gentleness toward every one, held him away from conflict, and so his
+home was at least tranquil.
+
+Mrs. Dinneford had her own way, and so long as her husband made no
+strong opposition to that way all was peaceful.
+
+For Edith, their only child, who was more like her father than her
+mother, Mr. Dinneford had the tenderest regard. The well-springs of
+love, choked up so soon after his marriage, were opened freely
+toward his daughter, and he lived in her a new, sweet and satisfying
+life. The mother was often jealous of her husband's demonstrative
+tenderness for Edith. A yearning instinct of womanhood, long
+repressed by worldliness and a mean social ambition, made her crave
+at times the love she had cast away, and then her cup of life was
+very bitter. But fear of Mr. Dinneford's influence over Edith was
+stronger than any jealousy of his love. She had high views for her
+daughter. In her own marriage she had set aside all considerations
+but those of social rank. She had made it a stepping-stone to a
+higher place in society than the one to which she was born. Still,
+above them stood many millionnaire families, living in palace-homes,
+and through her daughter she meant to rise into one of them. It
+mattered not for the personal quality of the scion of the house; he
+might be as coarse and common as his father before him, or weak,
+mean, selfish, and debased by sensual indulgence. This was of little
+account. To lift Edith to the higher social level was the all in all
+of Mrs. Dinneford's ambition.
+
+But Mr. Dinneford taught Edith a nobler life-lesson than this, gave
+her better views of wedlock, pictured for her loving heart the bliss
+of a true marriage, sighing often as he did so, but unconsciously,
+at the lost fruition of his own sweet hopes. He was careful to do
+this only when alone with Edith, guarding his speech when Mrs.
+Dinneford was present. He had faith in true principles, and with
+these he sought to guard her life. He knew that she would be pushed
+forward into society, and knew but too well that one so pure and
+lovely in mind as well as person would become a centre of
+attraction, and that he, standing on the outside as it were, would
+have no power to save her from the saddest of all fates if she were
+passive and her mother resolute. Her safety must lie in herself.
+
+Edith was brought out early. Mrs. Dinneford could not wait. At
+seventeen she was thrust into society, set up for sale to the
+highest bidder, her condition nearer that of a Circassian than a
+Christian maiden, with her mother as slave-dealer.
+
+So it was and so, it is. You may see the thing every day. But it did
+not come out according to Mrs. Dinneford's programme. There was a
+highest bidder; but when he came for his slave, she was not to be
+found.
+
+Well, the story is trite and brief--the old sad story. Among her
+suitors was a young man named Granger, and to him Edith gave her
+heart. But the mother rejected him with anger and scorn. He was not
+rich, though belonging to a family of high character, and so fell
+far below her requirements. Under a pressure that almost drove the
+girl to despair, she gave her consent to a marriage that looked more
+terrible than death. A month before the time fixed for, its
+consummation, she barred the contract by a secret union with
+Granger.
+
+Edith knew her mother's character too well to hope for any
+reconciliation, so far as Mr. Granger was concerned. Coming in as he
+had done between her and the consummation of her highest ambition,
+she could never feel toward him anything but the most bitter hatred;
+and so, after remaining at home for about a week after her secret
+marriage, she wrote this brief letter to her mother and went away:
+
+"My DEAR MOTHER: I do not love Spencer Wray, and would rather die
+than marry him, and so I have made the marriage to which my heart
+has never consented, an impossibility. You have left me no other
+alternative but this. I am the wife of George Granger, and go to
+cast my lot with his.
+
+"Your loving daughter,
+
+"EDITH."
+
+To her father she wrote:
+
+"My DEAR, DEAR FATHER: If I bring sorrow to your good and loving
+heart by what I have done, I know that it will be tempered with joy
+at my escape from a union with one from whom my soul has ever turned
+with irrepressible dislike. Oh, my father, you can understand, if
+mother cannot, into what a desperate strait I have been brought. I
+am a deer hunted to the edge of a dizzy chasm, and I leap for life
+over the dark abyss, praying for strength to reach the farther edge.
+If I fail in the wild effort, I can only meet destruction; and I
+would rather be bruised to death on the jagged rocks than trust
+myself to the hounds and hunters. I write passionately--you will
+hardly recognize your quiet child; but the repressed instincts of my
+nature are strong, and peril and despair have broken their bonds. I
+did not consult you about the step I have taken, because I dared not
+trust you with my secret. You would have tried to hold me back from
+the perilous leap, fondly hoping for some other way of escape. I had
+resolved on putting an impassable gulf between me and danger, if I
+died in the attempt. I have taken the leap, and may God care for me!
+
+"I have laid up in my heart of hearts, dearest of fathers, the
+precious life-truths that so often fell from your lips. Not a word
+that you ever said about the sacredness of marriage has been
+forgotten. I believe with you that it is a little less than crime to
+marry when no love exists--that she who does so, sells her heart's
+birthright for some mess of pottage, sinks down from the pure level
+of noble womanhood, and traffics away her person, is henceforth
+meaner in quality if not really vile.
+
+"And so, my father, to save myself from such a depth of degradation
+and misery, I take my destiny into my own hands. I have grown very
+strong in my convictions and purposes in the last four weeks. My
+sight has become suddenly clear. I am older by many years.
+
+"As for George Granger, all I can now say is that I love him, and
+believe him to be worthy of my love. I am willing to trust him, and
+am ready to share his lot, however humble.
+
+"Still hold me in your heart, my precious father, as I hold you in
+mine.
+
+"EDITH."
+
+Mr. Dinneford read this letter twice. It took him some time, his
+eyes were so full of tears. In view of her approaching marriage with
+Spencer Wray, his heart had felt very heavy. It was something
+lighter now. Young Granger was not the man he would have chosen for
+Edith, but he liked him far better than he did the other, and felt
+that his child was safe now.
+
+He went to his wife's room, and found her with Edith's letter
+crushed in her hand. She was sitting motionless, her face pale and
+rigid, her eyes fixed and stony and her lips tight against her
+teeth. She did not seem to notice his presence until he put his hand
+upon her, which he did without speaking. At this she started up and
+looked at him with a kind of fierce intentness.
+
+"Are you a party to this frightful things?" she demanded.
+
+Mr. Dinneford weakly handed her the letter he had received from
+Edith. She read it through in half the time it had taken his
+tear-dimmed eyes to make out the touching sentences. After she had
+done so, she stood for a few moments as if surprised or baffled.
+Then she sat down, dropping her head, and remained for a long time
+without speaking.
+
+"The bitter fruit, Mr. Dinneford," she said, at last, in a voice so
+strange and hard that it seemed to his ears as if another had
+spoken. All passion had died out of it.
+
+He waited, but she added nothing more. After a long silence she
+waved her hand slightly, and without looking at her husband, said,
+
+"I would rather be alone."
+
+Mr. Dinneford took Edith's letter from the floor, where it had
+dropped from his wife's hand, and withdrew from her presence. She
+arose quickly as he did so, crossed the room and silently turned the
+key, locking herself in. Then her manner changed; she moved about
+the room in a half-aimless, half-conscious way, as though some
+purpose was beginning to take shape in her mind. Her motions had an
+easy, cat-like grace, in contrast with their immobility a little
+while before. Gradually her step became quicker, while ripples of
+feeling began to pass over her face, which was fast losing its
+pallor. Gleams of light began shooting from her eyes, that were so
+dull and stony when her husband found her with Edith's letter
+crushed in her grasp. Her hands opened and shut upon themselves
+nervously. This went on, the excitement of her forming purpose,
+whatever it was, steadily increasing, until she swept about the room
+like a fury, talking to herself and gesticulating as one half insane
+from the impelling force of an evil passion.
+
+"Baffled, but not defeated." The excitement had died out. She spoke
+these words aloud, and with a bitter satisfaction in her voice, then
+sat down, resting her face in her hands, and remaining for a long
+time in deep thought.
+
+When she met her husband, an hour afterward, there was a veil over
+her face, and he tried in vain to look beneath it. She was greatly
+changed; her countenance had a new expression--something he had
+never seen there before. For years she had been growing away from
+him; now she seemed like one removed to a great distance--to have
+become almost stranger. He felt half afraid of her. She did not
+speak of Edith, but remained cold, silent and absorbed.
+
+Mrs. Dinneford gave no sign of what was in her heart for many weeks.
+The feeling of distance and strangeness perceived by her husband
+went on increasing, until a vague feeling of mystery and fear began
+to oppress him. Several times he had spoken of Edith, but his wife
+made no response, nor could he read in her veiled face the secret
+purposes she was hiding from him.
+
+No wonder that Mr. Dinneford was greatly surprised and overjoyed, on
+coming home one day, to meet his daughter, to feel her arms about
+his neck, and to hold her tearful face on his bosom.
+
+"And I'm not going away again, father dear," she said as she kissed
+him fondly. "Mother has sent for me, and George is to come. Oh, we
+shall be so happy, so happy!"
+
+And father and daughter cried together, like two happy children, in
+very excess of gladness. They had met alone, but Mrs. Dinneford came
+in, her presence falling on them like a cold shadow.
+
+"Two great babies," she said, a covert sneer in her chilling voice.
+
+The joy went slowly out of their faces, though not out of their
+hearts. There it nestled, and warmed the renewing blood. But a
+vague, questioning fear began to creep in, a sense of insecurity, a
+dread of hidden danger. The daughter did not fully trust her mother,
+nor the husband his wife.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II.
+
+
+
+
+
+_THE_ reception of young Granger was as cordial as Mrs. Dinneford
+chose to make it. She wanted to get near enough to study his
+character thoroughly, to discover its weaknesses and defects, not
+its better qualities, so that she might do for him the evil work
+that was in her heart. She hated him with a bitter hatred, and there
+is nothing so subtle and tireless and unrelenting as the hatred of a
+bad woman.
+
+She found him weak and unwary. His kindly nature, his high sense of
+honor, his upright purpose, his loving devotion to Edith, were
+nothing in her eyes. She spurned them in her thoughts, she trampled
+them under her feet with scorn. But she studied his defects, and
+soon knew every weak point in his character. She drew him out to
+speak of himself, of his aims and prospects, of his friends and
+associates, until she understood him altogether. Then she laid her
+plans for his destruction.
+
+Granger was holding a clerkship at the time of his marriage, but was
+anxious to get a start for himself. He had some acquaintance with a
+man named Lloyd Freeling, and often spoke of him in connection with
+business. Freeling had a store on one of the best streets, and, as
+represented by himself, a fine run of trade, but wanted more
+capital. One day he said to Granger,
+
+"If I could find the right man with ten thousand dollars, I would
+take him in. We could double this business in a year."
+
+Granger repeated the remark at home, Mrs. Dinneford listened, laid
+it up in her thought, and on the next day called at the store of Mr.
+Freeling to see what manner of man he was.
+
+Her first impression was favorable--she liked him. On a second visit
+she likes him better. She was not aware that Freeling knew her; in
+this he had something of the advantage. A third time she dropped in,
+asking to see certain goods and buying a small bill, as before. This
+time she drew Mr. Freeling into conversation about business, and put
+some questions the meaning of which he understood quite as well as
+she did.
+
+A woman like Mrs. Dinneford can read character almost as easily as
+she can read a printed page, particularly a weak or bad character.
+She knew perfectly, before the close of this brief interview, that
+Freeling was a man without principle, false and unscrupulous, and
+that if Granger were associated with him in business, he could, if
+he chose, not only involve him in transactions of a dishonest
+nature, but throw upon him the odium and the consequences.
+
+"Do you think," she said to Granger, not long afterward, "that your
+friend, Mr. Freeling, would like to have you for a partner in
+business?"
+
+The question surprised and excited him.
+
+"I know it," he returned; "he has said so more than once."
+
+"How much capital would he require?"
+
+"Ten thousand dollars."
+
+"A large sum to risk."
+
+"Yes; but I do not think there will be any risk. The business is
+well established."
+
+"What do you know about Mr. Freeling?"
+
+"Not a great deal; but if I am any judge of character, he is fair
+and honorable."
+
+Mrs. Dinneford turned her head that Granger might not see the
+expression of her face.
+
+"You had better talk with Mr. Dinneford," she said.
+
+But Mr. Dinneford did not favor it. He had seen too many young men
+go into business and fail.
+
+So the matter was dropped for a little while. But Mrs. Dinneford had
+set her heart on the young man's destruction, and no better way of
+accomplishing the work presented itself than this. He must be
+involved in some way to hurt his good name, to blast his reputation
+and drive him to ruin. Weak, trusting and pliable, a specious
+villain in whom he had confidence might easily get him involved in
+transactions that were criminal under the law. She would be willing
+to sacrifice twice ten thousand dollars to accomplish this result.
+
+Neither Mr. Dinneford nor Edith favored the business connection with
+Freeling, and said all they could against it. In weak natures we
+often find great pertinacity. Granger had this quality. He had set
+his mind on the copartnership, and saw in it a high road to fortune,
+and no argument of Mr. Dinneford, nor opposition of Edith, had power
+to change his views, or to hold him back from the arrangement
+favored by Mrs. Dinneford, and made possible by the capital she
+almost compelled her husband to supply.
+
+In due time the change from clerk to merchant was made, and the new
+connection announced, under the title of "FREELING & GRANGER."
+
+Clear seeing as evil may be in its schemes for hurting others, it is
+always blind to the consequent exactions upon itself; it strikes
+fiercely and desperately, not calculating the force of a rebound. So
+eager was Mrs. Dinneford to compass the ruin of Granger that she
+stepped beyond the limit of common prudence, and sought private
+interviews with Freeling, both before and after the completion of
+the partnership arrangement. These took place in the parlor of a
+fashionable hotel, where the gentleman and lady seemed to meet
+accidentally, and without attracting attention.
+
+Mrs. Dinneford was very confidential in these interviews not
+concealing her aversion to Granger. He had come into the family, she
+said, as an unwelcome intruder; but now that he was there, they had
+to make the best of him. Not in spoken words did Mrs. Dinneford
+convey to Freeling the bitter hatred that was in her heart, nor in
+spoken words let him know that she desired the young man's utter
+ruin, but he understood it all before the close of their first
+private interview. Freeling was exceedingly deferential in the
+beginning and guarded in his speech. He knew by the quick intuitions
+of his nature that Mrs. Dinneford cherished an evil purpose, and had
+chosen him as the agent for its accomplishment. She was rich, and
+occupied a high social position, and his ready conclusion was that,
+be the service what it might, he could make it pay. To get such a
+woman in his power was worth an effort.
+
+One morning--it was a few months after the date of the
+copartnership--Mrs. Dinneford received a note from Freeling. It
+said, briefly,
+
+"At the usual place, 12 M. to-day. Important." There was no
+signature.
+
+The sharp knitting of her brows and the nervous crumpling of the
+note in her hand showed that she was not pleased at the summons. She
+had come already to know her partner in evil too well. At 12 M. she
+was in the hotel parlor. Freeling was already there. They met in
+external cordiality, but it was very evident from the manner of Mrs.
+Dinneford, that she felt herself in the man's power, and had learned
+to be afraid of him.
+
+"It will be impossible to get through to-morrow," he said, in a kind
+of imperative voice, that was half a threat, "unless we have two
+thousand dollars."
+
+"I cannot ask Mr. Dinneford for anything more," Mrs. Dinneford
+replied; "we have already furnished ten thousand dollars beyond the
+original investment."
+
+"But it is all safe enough--that is, if we do not break down just
+here for lack of so small a sum."
+
+Mrs. Dinneford gave a start.
+
+"Break down!" She repeated the words in a husky, voice, with a
+paling face. "What do you mean?"
+
+"Only that in consequence of having in store a large stock of
+unsalable goods bought by your indiscreet son-in-law, who knows no
+more about business than a child, we are in a temporary strait."
+
+"Why did you trust him to buy?" asked Mrs. Dinneford.
+
+"I didn't trust him. He bought without consulting me," was replied,
+almost rudely.
+
+"Will two thousand be the end of this thing?"
+
+"I think so."
+
+"You only think so?"
+
+"I am sure of it."
+
+"Very well; I will see what can be done. But all this must have an
+end, Mr. Freeling. We cannot supply any more money. You must look
+elsewhere if you have further need. Mr. Dinneford is getting very
+much annoyed and worried. You surely have other resources."
+
+"I have drawn to the utmost on all my resources," said the man,
+coldly.
+
+Mrs. Dinneford remained silent for a good while, her eyes upon the
+floor. Freeling watched her face intently, trying to read what was
+in her thoughts. At last she said, in a suggestive tone,
+
+"There are many ways of getting money known to business-men--a
+little risky some of them, perhaps, but desperate cases require
+desperate expedients. You understand me?"
+
+Freeling took a little time to consider before replying.
+
+"Yes," he said, at length, speaking slowly, as one careful of his
+words. "But all expedients are 'risky,' as you say--some of them
+very risky. It takes a long, cool head to manage them safely."
+
+"I don't know a longer or cooler head than yours," returned Mrs.
+Dinneford, a faint smile playing about her lips.
+
+"Thank you for the compliment," said Freeling, his lips reflecting
+the smile on hers.
+
+"You must think of some expedient." Mrs. Dinneford's manner grew
+impressive. She spoke with emphasis and deliberation. "Beyond the
+sum of two thousand dollars, which I will get for you by to-morrow,
+I shall not advance a single penny. You may set that down as sure.
+If you are not sharp enough and strong enough, with the advantage
+you possess, to hold your own, then you must go under; as for me, I
+have done all that I can or will."
+
+Freeling saw that she was wholly in earnest, and understood what she
+meant by "desperate expedients." Granger was to be ruined, and she
+was growing impatient of delay. He had no desire to hurt the young
+man--he rather liked him. Up to this time he had been content with
+what he could draw out of Mrs. Dinneford. There was no risk in this
+sort of business. Moreover, he enjoyed his interviews and
+confidences with the elegant lady, and of late the power he seemed
+to be gaining over her; this power he regarded as capital laid up
+for another use, and at another time.
+
+But it was plain that he had reached the end of his present
+financial policy, and must decide whether to adopt the new one
+suggested by Mrs. Dinneford or make a failure, and so get rid of his
+partner. The question he had to settle with himself was whether he
+could make more by a failure than by using Granger a while longer,
+and then throwing him overboard, disgraced and ruined. Selfish and
+unscrupulous as he was, Freeling hesitated to do this. And besides,
+the "desperate expedients" he would have to adopt in the new line of
+policy were fraught with peril to all who took part in them. He
+might fall into the snare set for another--might involve himself so
+deeply as not to find a way of escape.
+
+"To-morrow we will talk this matter over," he said in reply to Mrs.
+Dinneford's last remark; "in the mean time I will examine the ground
+thoroughly and see how it looks."
+
+"Don't hesitate to make any use you can of Granger," suggested the
+lady. "He has done his part toward getting things tangled, and must
+help to untangle them."
+
+"All right, ma'am."
+
+And they separated, Mrs. Dinneford reaching the street by one door
+of the hotel, and Freeling by another.
+
+On the following day they met again, Mrs. Dinneford bringing the two
+thousand dollars.
+
+"And now what next?" she asked, after handing over the money and
+taking the receipt of "Freeling & Granger." Her eyes had a hard
+glitter, and her face was almost stern in its expression. "How are
+you going to raise money and keep afloat?"
+
+"Only some desperate expedient is left me now," answered Freeling,
+though not in the tone of a man who felt himself at bay. It was said
+with a wicked kind of levity.
+
+Mrs. Dinneford looked at him keenly. She was beginning to mistrust
+the man. They gazed into each other's faces in silence for some
+moments, each trying to read what was in the other's thought. At
+length Freeling said,
+
+"There is one thing more that you will have to do, Mrs. Dinneford."
+
+"What?" she asked.
+
+"Get your husband to draw two or three notes in Mr. Granger's favor.
+They should not be for less than five hundred or a thousand dollars
+each. The dates must be short--not over thirty or sixty days."
+
+"It can't be done," was the emphatic answer.
+
+"It must be done," replied Freeling; "they need not be for the
+business. You can manage the matter if you will; your daughter wants
+an India shawl, or a set of diamonds, or a new carriage--anything
+you choose. Mr. Dinneford hasn't the ready cash, but we can throw
+his notes into bank and get the money; don't you see?"
+
+But Mrs. Dinneford didn't see.
+
+"I don't mean," said Freeling, "that we are to use the money. Let
+the shawl, or the diamond, or the what-not, be bought and paid for.
+We get the discounts for your use, not ours."
+
+"All very well," answered Mrs. Dinneford; "but how is that going to
+help you?"
+
+"Leave that to me. You get the notes," said Freeling.
+
+"Never walk blindfold, Mr. Freeling," replied the lady, drawing
+herself up, with a dignified air. "We ought to understand each other
+by this time. I must see beyond the mere use of these notes."
+
+Freeling shut his mouth tightly and knit his heavy brows. Mrs.
+Dinneford watched him, closely.
+
+"It's a desperate expedient," he said, at length.
+
+"All well as far as that is concerned; but if I am to have a hand in
+it, I must know all about it," she replied, firmly. "As I said just
+now, I never walk blindfold."
+
+Freeling leaned close to Mrs. Dinneford, and uttered a few sentences
+in a low tone, speaking rapidly. The color went and came in her
+face, but she sat motionless, and so continued for some time after
+he had ceased speaking.
+
+"You will get the notes?" Freeling put the question as one who has
+little doubt of the answer.
+
+"I will get them," replied Mrs. Dinneford.
+
+"When?"
+
+"It will take time."
+
+"We cannot wait long. If the thing is done at all, it must be done
+quickly. 'Strike while the iron is hot' is the best of all maxims."
+
+"There shall be no needless delay on my part. You may trust me for
+that," was answered.
+
+Within a week Mrs. Dinneford brought two notes, drawn by her husband
+in favor of George Granger--one for five hundred and the other for
+one thousand dollars. The time was short--thirty and sixty days. On
+this occasion she came to the store and asked for her son-in-law.
+The meeting between her and Freeling was reserved and formal. She
+expressed regret for the trouble she was giving the firm in
+procuring a discount for her use, and said that if she could
+reciprocate the favor in any way she would be happy to do so.
+
+"The notes are drawn to your order," remarked Freeling as soon as
+the lady had retired. Granger endorsed them, and was about handing
+them to his partner, when the latter said:
+
+"Put our name on them while you are about it." And the young man
+wrote also the endorsement of the firm.
+
+After this, Mr. Freeling put the bank business into Granger's hands.
+Nearly all checks were drawn and all business paper endorsed by the
+younger partner, who became the financier of the concern, and had
+the management of all negotiations for money in and out of bank.
+
+One morning, shortly after the first of Mr. Dinneford's notes was
+paid, Granger saw his mother-in-law come into the store. Freeling
+was at the counter. They talked together for some time, and then
+Mrs. Dinneford went out.
+
+On the next day Granger saw Mrs. Dinneford in the store again. After
+she had gone away, Freeling came back, and laying a note-of-hand on
+his partner's desk, said, in a pleased, confidential way.
+
+"Look at that, my friend."
+
+Granger read the face of the note with a start of surprise. It was
+drawn to his order, for three thousand dollars, and bore the
+signature of Howard Dinneford.
+
+"A thing that is worth having is worth asking for," said Freeling.
+"We obliged your mother-in-law, and now she has returned the favor.
+It didn't come very easily, she said, and your father-in-law isn't
+feeling rather comfortable about it; so she doesn't care about your
+speaking of it at home."
+
+Granger was confounded.
+
+"I can't understand it," he said.
+
+"You can understand that we have the note, and that it has come in
+the nick of time," returned Freeling.
+
+"Yes, I can see all that."
+
+"Well, don't look a gift-horse in the mouth, but spring into the
+saddle and take a ride. Your mother-in-law is a trump. If she will,
+she will, you may depend on't."
+
+Freeling was unusually excited. Granger looked the note over and
+over in a way that seemed to annoy his partner, who said, presently,
+with a shade of ill-nature in his voice,
+
+"What's the matter? Isn't the signature all right?"
+
+"That's right enough," returned the young man, "after looking at it
+closely. "But I can't understand it."
+
+"You will when you see the proceeds passed to our accounted in
+bank--ha! ha!"
+
+Granger looked up at his partner quickly, the laugh had so strange a
+sound, but saw nothing new in his face.
+
+In about a month Freeling had in his possession another note, signed
+by Mr. Dinneford and drawn to the order of George Granger. This one
+was for five thousand dollars. He handed it to his partner soon
+after the latter had observed Mrs. Dinneford in the store.
+
+A little over six weeks from this time Mrs. Dinneford was in the
+store again. After she had gone away, Freeling handed Granger three
+more notes drawn by Mr. Dinneford to his order, amounting in all to
+fifteen thousand dollars. They were at short dates.
+
+Granger took these notes without any remark, and was about putting
+them in his desk, when Freeling said,
+
+"I think you had better offer one in the People's Bank and another
+in the Fourth National. They discount to-morrow."
+
+"Our line is full in both of these banks," replied Granger.
+
+"That may or may not be. Paper like this is not often thrown out.
+Call on the president of the Fourth National and the cashier of the
+People's Bank. Say that we particularly want the money, and would
+like them to see that the notes go through. Star & Giltedge can
+easily place the other."
+
+Granger's manner did not altogether please his partner. The notes
+lay before him on his desk, and he looked at them in a kind of dazed
+way.
+
+"What's the matter?" asked Freeling, rather sharply.
+
+"Nothing," was the quiet answer.
+
+"You saw Mrs. Dinneford in the store just now. I told her last week
+that I should claim another favor at her hands. She tried to beg
+off, but I pushed the matter hard. It must end here, she says. Mr.
+Dinneford won't go any farther."
+
+"I should think not," replied Granger. "I wouldn't if I were he. The
+wonder to me is that he has gone so far. What about the renewal of
+these notes?"
+
+"Oh, that is all arranged," returned Freeling, a little hurriedly.
+Granger looked at him for some moments. He was not satisfied.
+
+"See that they go in bank," said Freeling, in a positive way.
+
+Granger took up his pen in an abstracted manner and endorsed the
+notes, after which he laid them in his bank-book. An important
+customer coming in at the moment, Freeling went forward to see him.
+After Granger was left alone, he took the notes from his bank-book
+and examined them with great care. Suspicion was aroused. He felt
+sure that something was wrong. A good many things in Freeling's
+conduct of late had seemed strange. After thinking for a while, he
+determined to take the notes at once to Mr. Dinneford and ask him if
+all was right. As soon as his mind had reached this conclusion he
+hurried through the work he had on hand, and then putting his
+bank-book in his pocket, left the store.
+
+On that very morning Mr. Dinneford received notice that he had a
+note for three thousand dollars falling due at one of the banks. He
+went immediately and asked to see the note. When it was shown to
+him, he was observed to become very pale, but he left the desk of
+the note-clerk without any remark, and returned home. He met his
+wife at the door, just coming in.
+
+"What's the matter?" she asked, seeing how pale he was. "Not sick, I
+hope?"
+
+"Worse than sick," he replied as they passed into the house
+together. "George has been forging my name."
+
+"Impossible!" exclaimed Mrs. Dinneford.
+
+"I wish it were," replied Mr. Dinneford, sadly; "but, alas! it is
+too true. I have just returned from the Fourth National Bank. They
+have a note for three thousand dollars, bearing my signature. It is
+drawn to the order of George Granger, and endorsed by him. The note
+is a forgery."
+
+Mrs. Dinneford became almost wild with excitement. Her fair face
+grew purple. Her eyes shone with a fierce light.
+
+"Have you had him arrested?" she asked.
+
+"Oh no, no, no!" Mr. Dinneford answered. "For poor Edith's sake, if
+for nothing else, this dreadful business must be kept secret. I will
+take up the note when due, and the public need be none the wiser."
+
+"If," said Mrs. Dinneford, "he has forged your name once, he has, in
+all probability, done it again and again. No, no; the thing can't be
+hushed up, and it must not be. Is he less a thief and a robber
+because he is our son-in-law? My daughter the wife of a forger!
+Great heavens! has it come to this Mr. Dinneford?" she added, after
+a pause, and with intense bitterness and rejection in her voice.
+"The die is cast! Never again, if I can prevent it, shall that
+scoundrel cross our threshold. Let the law have its course. It is a
+crime to conceal crime."
+
+"It will kill our poor child!" answered Mr. Dinneford in a broken
+voice.
+
+"Death is better than the degradation of living with a criminal,"
+replied his wife. "I say it solemnly, and I mean it; the die is
+cast! Come what will, George Granger stands now and for ever on the
+outside! Go at once and give information to the bank officers. If
+you do not, I will."
+
+With a heavy heart Mr. Dinneford returned to the bank and informed
+the president that the note in question was a forgery. He had been
+gone from home a little over half an hour, when Granger, who had
+come to ask him about the three notes given him that morning by
+Freeling, put his key in the door, and found, a little to his
+surprise, that the latch was down. He rang the bell, and in a few
+moments the servant appeared. Granger was about passing in, when the
+man said, respectfully but firmly, as he held the door partly
+closed,
+
+"My orders are not to let you come in."
+
+"Who gave you those orders?" demanded Granger, turning white.
+
+"Mrs. Dinneford."
+
+"I wish to see Mr. Dinneford, and I must see him immediately."
+
+"Mr. Dinneford is not at home," answered the servant.
+
+"Shut that door instantly!"
+
+It was the voice of Mrs. Dinneford, speaking from within. Granger
+heard it; in the next moment the door was shut in his face.
+
+The young man hardly knew how he got back to the store. On his
+arrival he found himself under arrest, charged with forgery, and
+with fresh evidence of the crime on his person in the three notes
+received that morning from his partner, who denied all knowledge of
+their existence, and appeared as a witness against him at the
+hearing before a magistrate. Granger was held to bail to answer the
+charge at the next term of court.
+
+It would have been impossible to keep all this from Edith, even if
+there had been a purpose to do so. Mrs. Dinneford chose to break the
+dreadful news at her own time and in her own way. The shock was
+fearful. On the night that followed her baby was born.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III.
+
+
+
+
+
+"_IT_ is a splendid boy," said the nurse as she came in with the
+new-born baby in her arms, "and perfect as a bit of sculpture. Just
+look at that hand."
+
+"Faugh!" ejaculated Mrs. Dinneford, to whom this was addressed. Her
+countenance expressed disgust. She turned her head away. "Hide the
+thing from my sight!" she added, angrily. "Cover it up! smother it
+if you will!"
+
+"You are still determined?" said the nurse.
+
+"Determined, Mrs. Bray; I am not the woman to look back when I have
+once resolved. You know me." Mrs. Dinneford said this passionately.
+
+The two women were silent for a little while. Mrs. Bray, the nurse,
+kept her face partly turned from Mrs. Dinneford. She was a short,
+dry, wiry little woman, with French features, a sallow complexion
+and very black eyes.
+
+The doctor looked in. Mrs. Dinneford went quickly to the door, and
+putting her hand on his arm, pressed him back, going out into the
+entry with him and closing the door behind them. They talked for a
+short time very earnestly.
+
+"The whole thing is wrong," said the doctor as he turned to go, "and
+I will not be answerable for the consequences."
+
+"No one will require them at your hand, Doctor Radcliffe," replied
+Mrs. Dinneford. "Do the best you can for Edith. As for the rest,
+know nothing, say nothing. You understand."
+
+Doctor Burt Radcliffe had a large practice among rich and
+fashionable people. He had learned to be very considerate of their
+weaknesses, peculiarities and moral obliquities. His business was to
+doctor them when sick, to humor them when they only thought
+themselves sick, and to get the largest possible fees for his,
+services. A great deal came under his observation that he did not
+care to see, and of which he saw as little as possible. From policy
+he had learned to be reticent. He held family secrets enough to
+make, in the hands of a skillful writer, more than a dozen romances
+of the saddest and most exciting character.
+
+Mrs. Dinneford knew him thoroughly, and just how far to trust him.
+"Know nothing, say nothing" was a good maxim in the case, and so she
+divulged only the fact that the baby was to be cast adrift. His weak
+remonstrance might as well not have been spoken, and he knew it.
+
+While this brief interview was in progress, Nurse Bray sat with the
+baby on her lap. She had taken the soft little hands into her own;
+and evil and cruel though she was, an impulse of tenderness flowed
+into her heart from the angels who were present with the innocent
+child. It grew lovely in her eyes. Its helplessness stirred in her a
+latent instinct of protection. "No no, it must not be," she was
+saying to herself, when the door opened and Mrs. Dinneford came
+back.
+
+Mrs. Bray did not lift her head, but sat looking down at the baby
+and toying with its hands.
+
+"Pshaw!" ejaculated Mrs. Dinneford, in angry disgust, as she noticed
+this manifestation of interest. "Bundle the thing up and throw into
+that basket. Is the woman down stairs?"
+
+"Yes," replied Mrs. Bray as she slowly drew a light blanket over the
+baby.
+
+"Very well. Put it in the basket, and let her take it away."
+
+"She is not a good woman," said the nurse, whose heart was failing
+her at the last moment.
+
+"She may be the devil for all I care," returned Mrs. Dinneford.
+
+Mrs. Bray did as she was ordered, but with an evident reluctance
+that irritated Mrs. Dinneford.
+
+"Go now and bring up the woman," she said, sharply.
+
+The woman was brought. She was past the prime of life, and had an
+evil face. You read in it the record of bad passions indulged and
+the signs of a cruel nature. She was poorly clad, and her garments
+unclean.
+
+"You will take this child?" said Mrs. Dinneford abruptly, as the
+woman came into her presence.
+
+"I have agreed to do so," she replied, looking toward Mrs. Bray.
+
+"She is to have fifty dollars," said the nurse.
+
+"And that is to be the last of it!" Mrs. Dinneford's face was pale,
+and she spoke in a hard, husky voice.
+
+Opening her purse, she took from it a small roll of bills, and as
+she held out the money said, slowly and with a hard emphasis,
+
+"You understand the terms. I do not know you--not even your name. I
+don't wish to know you. For this consideration you take the child
+away. That is the end of it between you and me. The child is your
+own as much as if he were born to you, and you can do with him as
+you please. And now go." Mrs. Dinneford waved her hand.
+
+"His name?" queried the woman.
+
+"He has no name!" Mrs. Dinneford stamped her foot in angry
+impatience.
+
+The woman stooped down, and taking up the basket, tucked the
+covering that had been laid over the baby close about its head, so
+that no one could see what she carried, and went off without
+uttering another word.
+
+It was some moments before either Mrs. Dinneford or the nurse spoke.
+Mrs. Bray was first to break silence.
+
+"All this means a great deal more than you have counted on," she
+said, in a voice that betrayed some little feeling. "To throw a
+tender baby out like that is a hard thing. I am afraid--"
+
+"There, there! no more of that," returned Mrs. Dinneford,
+impatiently. "It's ugly work, I own, but it had to be done--like
+cutting off a diseased limb. He will die, of course, and the sooner
+it is over, the better for him and every one else."
+
+"He will have a hard struggle for life, poor little thing!" said the
+nurse. "I would rather see him dead."
+
+Mrs. Dinneford, now that this wicked and cruel deed was done, felt
+ill at ease. She pushed the subject away, and tried to bury it out
+of sight as we bury the dead, but did not find the task an easy one.
+
+What followed the birth and removal of Edith's baby up to the time
+of her return to reason after long struggle for life, has already
+been told. Her demand to have her baby--"Oh, mother, bring me my
+baby! I shall die if you do not!" and the answer, "Your baby is in
+heaven!"--sent the feeble life-currents back again upon her heart.
+There was another long period of oblivion, out of which she came
+very slowly, her mind almost as much a blank as the mind of a child.
+
+She had to learn again the names of things, and to be taught their
+use. It was touching to see the untiring devotion of her father, and
+the pleasure he took in every new evidence of mental growth. He went
+over the alphabet with her, letter by letter, many times each day,
+encouraging her and holding her thought down to the unintelligible
+signs with a patient tenderness sad yet beautiful to see; and when
+she began to combine letters into words, and at last to put words
+together, his delight was unbounded.
+
+Very slowly went on the new process of mental growth, and it was
+months before thought began to reach out beyond the little world
+that lay just around her.
+
+Meanwhile, Edith's husband had been brought to trial for forgery,
+convicted and sentenced to the State's prison for a term of years.
+His partner came forward as the chief witness, swearing that he had
+believed the notes genuine, the firm having several times had the
+use of Mr. Dinneford's paper, drawn to the order of Granger.
+
+Ere the day of trial came the poor young man was nearly
+broken-hearted. Public disgrace like this, added to the terrible
+private wrongs he was suffering, was more than he had the moral
+strength to bear. Utterly repudiated by his wife's family, and not
+even permitted to see Edith, he only knew that she was very ill. Of
+the birth of his baby he had but a vague intimation. A rumor was
+abroad that it had died, but he could learn nothing certain. In his
+distress and uncertainty he called on Dr. Radcliffe, who replied to
+his questions with a cold evasion. "It was put out to nurse," said
+the doctor, "and that is all I know about it." Beyond this he would
+say nothing.
+
+Granger was not taken to the State's prison after his sentence, but
+to an insane asylum. Reason gave way under the terrible ordeal
+through which he had been made to pass.
+
+"Mother," said Edith, one day, in a tone that caused Mrs.
+Dinneford's heart to leap. She was reading a child's simple
+story-book, and looked up as she spoke. Her eyes were wide open and
+full of questions.
+
+"What, my dear?" asked Mrs. Dinneford, repressing her feelings and
+trying to keep her voice calm.
+
+"There's something I can't understand, mother." She looked down at
+herself, then about the room. Her manner was becoming nervous.
+
+"What can't you understand?"
+
+Edith shut her hands over her eyes and remained very still. When she
+removed them, and her mother looked into her face the childlike
+sweetness and content were all gone, and a conscious woman was
+before her. The transformation was as sudden as it was marvelous.
+
+Both remained silent for the space of nearly a minute. Mrs.
+Dinneford knew not what to say, and waited for some sign from her
+daughter.
+
+"Where is my baby, mother?" Edith said this in a low, tremulous
+whisper, leaning forward as she spoke, repressed and eager.
+
+"Have you forgotten?" asked Mrs. Dinneford, with regained composure.
+
+"Forgotten what?"
+
+"You were very ill after your baby was born; no one thought you
+could live; you were ill for a long time. And the baby--"
+
+"What of the baby, mother?" asked Edith, beginning to tremble
+violently. Her mother, perceiving her agitation, held back the word
+that was on her lips.
+
+"What of the baby, mother?" Edith repeated the question.
+
+"It died," said Mrs. Dinneford, turning partly away. She could not
+look at her child and utter this cruel falsehood.
+
+"Dead! Oh, mother, don't say that! The baby can't be dead!"
+
+A swift flash of suspicion came into her eyes.
+
+"I have said it, my child," was the almost stern response of Mrs.
+Dinneford. "The baby is dead."
+
+A weight seemed to fall on Edith. She bent forward, crouching down
+until her elbows rested on her knees and her hands supported her
+head. Thus she sat, rocking her body with a slight motion. Mrs.
+Dinneford watched her without speaking.
+
+"And what of George?" asked Edith, checking her nervous movement at
+last.
+
+Her mother did not reply. Edith waited a moment, and then lifted
+herself erect.
+
+"What of George?" she demanded.
+
+"My poor child!" exclaimed Mrs. Dinneford, with a gush of genuine
+pity, putting her arms about Edith and drawing her head against her
+bosom. "It is more than you have strength to bear."
+
+"You must tell me," the daughter said, disengaging herself. "I have
+asked for my husband."
+
+"Hush! You must not utter that word again;" and Mrs. Dinneford put
+her fingers on Edith's lips. "The wretched man you once called by
+that name is a disgraced criminal. It is better that you know the
+worst."
+
+When Mr. Dinneford came home, instead of the quiet, happy child he
+had left in the morning, he found a sad, almost broken-hearted
+woman, refusing to be comforted. The wonder was that under the shock
+of this terrible awakening, reason had not been again and hopelessly
+dethroned.
+
+After a period of intense suffering, pain seemed to deaden
+sensibility. She grew calm and passive. And now Mrs. Dinneford set
+herself to the completion of the work she had begun. She had
+compassed the ruin of Granger in order to make a divorce possible;
+she had cast the baby adrift that no sign of the social disgrace
+might remain as an impediment to her first ambition. She would yet
+see her daughter in the position to which she had from the beginning
+resolved to lift her, cost what it might. But the task was not to be
+an easy one.
+
+After a period of intense suffering, as we have said, Edith grew
+calm and passive. But she was never at ease with her mother, and
+seemed to be afraid of her. To her father she was tender and
+confiding. Mrs. Dinneford soon saw that if Edith's consent to a
+divorce from her husband was to be obtained, it must come through
+her father's influence; for if she but hinted at the subject, it was
+met with a flash of almost indignant rejection. So her first work
+was to bring her husband over to her side. This was not difficult,
+for Mr. Dinneford felt the disgrace of having for a son-in-law a
+condemned criminal, who was only saved from the State's prison by
+insanity. An insane criminal was not worthy to hold the relation of
+husband to his pure and lovely child.
+
+After a feeble opposition to her father's arguments and persuasions,
+Edith yielded her consent. An application for a divorce was made,
+and speedily granted.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV.
+
+
+
+
+
+_OUT_ of this furnace Edith came with a new and purer spirit. She
+had been thrust in a shrinking and frightened girl; she came out a
+woman in mental stature, in feeling and self-consciousness.
+
+The river of her life, which had cut for itself a deeper channel,
+lay now so far down that it was out of the sight of common
+observation. Even her mother failed to apprehend its drift and
+strength. Her father knew her better. To her mother she was reserved
+and distant; to her father, warm and confiding. With the former she
+would sit for hours without speaking unless addressed; with the
+latter she was pleased and social, and grew to be interested in what
+interested him. As mentioned, Mr. Dinneford was a man of wealth and
+leisure, and active in many public charities. He had come to be much
+concerned for the neglected and cast-off children of poor and
+vicious parents, thousands upon thousands of whom were going to
+hopeless ruin, unthought of and uncared for by Church or State, and
+their condition often formed the subject of his conversation as well
+at home as elsewhere.
+
+Mrs. Dinneford had no sympathy with her husband in this direction. A
+dirty, vicious child was an offence to her, not an object of pity,
+and she felt more like, spurning it with her foot than touching it
+with her hand. But it was not so with Edith; she listened to her
+father, and became deeply interested in the poor, suffering,
+neglected little ones whose sad condition he could so vividly
+portray, for the public duties of charity to which he was giving a
+large part of his time made him familiar with much that was sad and
+terrible in human suffering and degradation.
+
+One day Edith said to her father,
+
+"I saw a sight this morning that made me sick. It has haunted me
+ever since. Oh, it was dreadful!"
+
+"What was it?" asked Mr. Dinneford.
+
+"A sick baby in the arms of a half-drunken woman. It made me shiver
+to look at its poor little face, wasted by hunger and sickness and
+purple with cold. The woman sat at the street corner begging, and
+the people went by, no one seeming to care for the helpless,
+starving baby in her arms. I saw a police-officer almost touch the
+woman as he passed. Why did he not arrest her?"
+
+"That was not his business," replied Mr. Dinneford. "So long as she
+did not disturb the peace, the officer had nothing to do with her."
+
+"Who, then, has?"
+
+"Nobody."
+
+"Why, father!" exclaimed Edith. "Nobody?"
+
+"The woman was engaged in business. She was a beggar, and the sick,
+half-starved baby was her capital in trade," replied Mr. Dinneford.
+"That policeman had no more authority to arrest her than he had to
+arrest the organ-man or the peanut-vender."
+
+"But somebody should see after a poor baby like that. Is there no
+law to meet such cases?"
+
+"The poor baby has no vote," replied Mr. Dinneford, "and law-makers
+don't concern themselves much about that sort of constituency; and
+even if they did, the executors of law would be found indifferent.
+They are much more careful to protect those whose business it is to
+make drunken beggars like the one you saw, who, if men, can vote and
+give them place and power. The poor baby is far beneath their
+consideration."
+
+"But not of Him," said Edith, with eyes full of tears, "who took
+little children in his arms and blessed them, and said, Suffer them
+to come unto me and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of
+heaven."
+
+"Our law-makers are not, I fear, of his kingdom," answered Mr.
+Dinneford, gravely, "but of the kingdom of this world."
+
+A little while after, Edith, who had remained silent and thoughtful,
+said, with a tremor in her voice,
+
+"Father, did you see my baby?"
+
+Mr. Dinneford started at so unexpected a question, surprised and
+disturbed. He did not reply, and Edith put the question again.
+
+"No, my dear," he answered, with a hesitation of manner that was
+almost painful.
+
+After looking into his face steadily for some moments, Edith dropped
+her eyes to the floor, and there was a constrained silence between
+them for a good while.
+
+"You never saw it?" she queried, again lifting her eyes to her
+father's face. Her own was much paler than when she first put the
+question.
+
+"Never."
+
+"Why?" asked Edith.
+
+She waited for a little while, and then said,
+
+"Why don't you answer me, father?"
+
+"It was never brought to me."
+
+"Oh, father!"
+
+"You were very ill, and a nurse was procured immediately."
+
+"I was not too sick to see my baby," said Edith, with white,
+quivering lips. "If they had laid it in my bosom as soon as it was
+born, I would never have been so ill, and the baby would not have
+died. If--if--"
+
+She held back what she was about saying, shutting her lips tightly.
+Her face remained very pale and strangely agitated. Nothing more was
+then said.
+
+A day or two afterward, Edith asked her mother, with an abruptness
+that sent the color to her face, "Where was my baby buried?"
+
+"In our lot at Fairview," was replied, after a moment's pause.
+
+Edith said no more, but on that very day, regardless of a heavy rain
+that was falling, went out to the cemetery alone and searched in the
+family lot for the little mound that covered her baby--searched, but
+did not find it. She came back so changed in appearance that when
+her mother saw her she exclaimed,
+
+"Why, Edith! Are you sick?"
+
+"I have been looking for my baby's grave and cannot find it," she
+answered. "There is something wrong, mother. What was done with my
+baby? I must know." And she caught her mother's wrists with both of
+her hands in a tight grip, and sent searching glances down through
+her eyes.
+
+"Your baby is dead," returned Mrs. Dinneford, speaking slowly and
+with a hard deliberation. "As for its grave--well, if you will drag
+up the miserable past, know that in my anger at your wretched
+_mesalliance_ I rejected even the dead body of your miserable
+husband's child, and would not even suffer it to lie in our family
+ground. You know how bitterly I was disappointed, and I am not one
+of the kind that forgets or forgives easily. I may have been wrong,
+but it is too late now, and the past may as well be covered out of
+sight."
+
+"Where, then, was my baby buried?" asked Edith, with a calm
+resolution of manner that was not to be denied.
+
+"I do not know. I did not care at the time, and never asked."
+
+"Who can tell me?"
+
+"I don't know."
+
+"Who took my baby to nurse?"
+
+"I have forgotten the woman's name. All I know is that she is dead.
+When the child died, I sent her money, and told her to bury it
+decently."
+
+"Where did she live?"
+
+"I never knew precisely. Somewhere down town."
+
+"Who brought her here? who recommended her?" said Edith, pushing her
+inquiries rapidly.
+
+"I have forgotten that also," replied Mrs. Dinneford, maintaining
+her coldness of manner.
+
+"My nurse, I presume," said Edith. "I have a faint recollection of
+her--a dark little woman with black eyes whom I had never seen
+before. What was her name?"
+
+"Bodine," answered Mrs. Dinneford, without a moment's hesitation.
+
+"Where does she live?"
+
+"She went to Havana with a Cuban lady several months ago."
+
+"Do you know the lady's name?"
+
+"It was Casteline, I think."
+
+Edith questioned no further. The mother and daughter were still
+sitting together, both deeply absorbed in thought, when a servant
+opened the door and said to Mrs. Dinneford,
+
+"A lady wishes to see you."
+
+"Didn't she give you her card?"
+
+"No ma'am."
+
+"Nor send up her name?"
+
+"No, ma'am."
+
+"Go down and ask her name."
+
+The servant left the room. On returning, she said,
+
+"Her name is Mrs. Bray."
+
+Mrs. Dinneford turned her face quickly, but not in time to prevent
+Edith from seeing by its expression that she knew her visitor, and
+that her call was felt to be an unwelcome one. She went from the
+room without speaking. On entering the parlor, Mrs. Dinneford said,
+in a low, hurried voice,
+
+"I don't want you to come here, Mrs. Bray. If you wish to see me
+send me word, and I will call on you, but you must on no account
+come here."
+
+"Why? Is anything wrong?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"What?"
+
+"Edith isn't satisfied about the baby, has been out to Fairview
+looking for its grave, wants to know who her nurse was."
+
+"What did you tell her?"
+
+"I said that your name was Mrs. Bodine, and that you had gone to
+Cuba."
+
+"Do you think she would know me?"
+
+"Can't tell; wouldn't like to run the risk of her seeing you here.
+Pull down your veil. There! close. She said, a little while ago,
+that she had a faint recollection of you as a dark little woman with
+black eyes whom she had never seen before."
+
+"Indeed!" and Mrs. Bray gathered her veil close about her face.
+
+"The baby isn't living?" Mrs. Dinneford asked the question in a
+whisper.
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Oh, it can't be! Are you sure?"
+
+"Yes; I saw it day before yesterday."
+
+"You did! Where?"
+
+"On the street, in the arms of a beggar-woman."
+
+"You are deceiving me!" Mrs. Dinneford spoke with a throb of anger
+in her voice.
+
+"As I live, no! Poor little thing! half starved and half frozen. It
+'most made me sick."
+
+"It's impossible! You could not know that it was Edith's baby."
+
+"I do know," replied Mrs. Bray, in a voice that left no doubt on
+Mrs. Dinneford's mind.
+
+"Was the woman the same to whom we gave the baby?"
+
+"No; she got rid of it in less than a month."
+
+"What did she do with it?"
+
+"Sold it for five dollars, after she had spent all the money she
+received from you in drink and lottery-policies."
+
+"Sold it for five dollars!"
+
+"Yes, to two beggar-women, who use it every day, one in the morning
+and the other in the afternoon, and get drunk on the money they
+receive, lying all night in some miserable den."
+
+Mrs. Dinneford gave a little shiver.
+
+"What becomes of the baby when they are not using it?" she asked.
+
+"They pay a woman a dollar a week to take care of it at night."
+
+"Do you know where this woman lives?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Were you ever there?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"What kind of a place is it?"
+
+"Worse than a dog-kennel."
+
+"What does all this mean?" demanded Mrs. Dinneford, with repressed
+excitement. "Why have you so kept on the track of this baby, when
+you knew I wished it lost sight of?"
+
+"I had my own reasons," replied Mrs. Bray. "One doesn't know what
+may come of an affair like this, and it's safe to keep well up with
+it."
+
+Mrs. Dinneford bit her lips till the blood almost came through. A
+faint rustle of garments in the hall caused her to start. An
+expression of alarm crossed her face.
+
+"Go now," she said, hurriedly, to her visitor; "I will call and see
+you this afternoon."
+
+Mrs. Bray quietly arose, saying, as she did so, "I shall expect
+you," and went away.
+
+There was a menace in her tone as she said, "I shall expect you,"
+that did not escape the ears of Mrs. Dinneford.
+
+Edith was in the hall, at some distance from the parlor door. Mrs.
+Bray had to pass her as she went out. Edith looked at her intently.
+
+"Who is that woman?" she asked, confronting her mother, after the
+visitor was gone.
+
+"If you ask the question in a proper manner, I shall have no
+objection to answer," said Mrs. Dinneford, with a dignified and
+slightly offended air; "but my daughter is assuming rather, too
+much."
+
+"Mrs. Bray, the servant said."
+
+"No, Mrs. Gray."
+
+"I understood her to say Mrs. Bray."
+
+"I can't help what you understood." The mother spoke with some
+asperity of manner. "She calls herself Gray, but you can have it
+anything you please; it won't change her identity."
+
+"What did she want?"
+
+"To see me."
+
+"I know." Edith was turning away with an expression on her face that
+Mrs. Dinneford did not like, so she said,
+
+"She is in trouble, and wants me to help her, if you must know. She
+used to be a dressmaker, and worked for me before you were born; she
+got married, and then her troubles began. Now she is a widow with a
+house full of little children, and not half bread enough to feed
+them. I've helped her a number of times already, but I'm getting
+tired of it; she must look somewhere else, and I told her so."
+
+Edith turned from her mother with an unsatisfied manner, and went up
+stairs. Mrs. Dinneford was surprised, not long afterward, to meet
+her at her chamber door, dressed to go out. This was something
+unusual.
+
+"Where are you going?" she asked, not concealing her surprise.
+
+"I have a little errand out," Edith replied.
+
+This was not satisfactory to her mother. She asked other questions,
+but Edith gave only evasive answers.
+
+On leaving the house, Edith walked quickly, like one in earnest
+about something; her veil was closely drawn. Only a few blocks from
+where she lived was the office of Dr. Radcliffe. Hither she directed
+her steps.
+
+"Why, Edith, child!" exclaimed the doctor, not concealing the
+surprise he felt at seeing her. "Nobody sick, I hope?"
+
+"No one," she answered.
+
+There was a momentary pause; then Edith said, abruptly,
+
+"Doctor, what became of my baby?"
+
+"It died," answered Doctor Radcliffe, but not without betraying some
+confusion. The question had fallen upon him too suddenly.
+
+"Did you see it after it was dead?" She spoke in a firm voice,
+looking him steadily in the face.
+
+"No," he replied, after a slight hesitation.
+
+"Then how do you know that it died?" Edith asked.
+
+"I had your mother's word for it," said the doctor.
+
+"What was done with my baby after it was born?"
+
+"It was given out to nurse."
+
+"With your consent?"
+
+"I did not advise it. Your mother had her own views in the case. It
+was something over which I had no control."
+
+"And you never saw it after it was taken away?"
+
+"Never."
+
+"And do not really know whether it be dead or living?"
+
+"Oh, it's dead, of course, my child. There is no doubt of that,"
+said the doctor, with sudden earnestness of manner.
+
+"Have you any evidence of the fact?"
+
+"My dear, dear child," answered the doctor, with much feeling, "it
+is all wrong. Why go back over this unhappy ground? why torture
+yourself for nothing? Your baby died long ago, and is in heaven."
+
+"Would God I could believe it!" she exclaimed, in strong agitation.
+"If it were so, why is not the evidence set before me? I question my
+mother; I ask for the nurse who was with me when my baby was born,
+and for the nurse to whom it was given afterward, and am told that
+they are dead or out of the country. I ask for my baby's grave, but
+it cannot be found. I have searched for it where my mother told me
+it was, but the grave is not there. Why all this hiding and mystery?
+Doctor, you said that my baby was in heaven, and I answered, 'Would
+God it were so!' for I saw a baby in hell not long ago!"
+
+The doctor was scared. He feared that Edith was losing her mind, she
+looked and spoke so wildly.
+
+"A puny, half-starved, half-frozen little thing, in the arms of a
+drunken beggar," she added. "And, doctor, an awful thought has
+haunted me ever since."
+
+"Hush, hush!" said the doctor, who saw what was in her mind. "You
+must not indulge such morbid fancies."
+
+"It is that I may not indulge them that I have come to you. I want
+certainty, Dr. Radcliffe. Somebody knows all about my baby. Who was
+my nurse?"
+
+"I never saw her before the night of your baby's birth, and have
+never seen her since. Your mother procured her."
+
+"Did you hear her name?"
+
+"No."
+
+"And so you cannot help me at all?" said Edith, in a disappointed
+voice.
+
+"I cannot, my poor child," answered the doctor.
+
+All the flush and excitement died out of Edith's face. When she
+arose to go, she was pale and haggard, like one exhausted by pain,
+and her steps uneven, like the steps of an invalid walking for the
+first time. Dr. Radcliffe went with her in silence to the door.
+
+"Oh, doctor," said Edith, in a choking voice, as she lingered a
+moment on the steps, "can't you bring out of this frightful mystery
+something for my heart to rest upon? I want the truth. Oh, doctor,
+in pity help me to find the truth!"
+
+"I am powerless to help you," the doctor replied. "Your only hope
+lies in your mother. She knows all about it; I do not."
+
+And he turned and left her standing at the door. Slowly she
+descended the steps, drawing her veil as she did so about her face,
+and walked away more like one in a dream than conscious of the tide
+of life setting so strongly all about her.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V.
+
+
+
+
+
+_MEANTIME_, obeying the unwelcome summons, Mrs. Dinneford had gone
+to see Mrs. Bray. She found her in a small third-story room in the
+lower part of the city, over a mile away from her own residence. The
+meeting between the two women was not over-gracious, but in keeping
+with their relations to each other. Mrs. Dinneford was half angry
+and impatient; Mrs. Bray cool and self-possessed.
+
+"And now what is it you have to say?" asked the former, almost as
+soon as she had entered.
+
+"The woman to whom you gave that baby was here yesterday."
+
+A frightened expression came into Mrs. Dinneford's face. Mrs. Bray
+watched her keenly as, with lips slightly apart, she waited for what
+more was to come.
+
+"Unfortunately, she met me just as I was at my own door, and so
+found out my residence," continued Mrs. Bray. "I was in hopes I
+should never see her again. We shall have trouble, I'm afraid."
+
+"In what way?"
+
+"A bad woman who has you in her power can trouble you in many ways,"
+answered Mrs. Bray.
+
+"She did not know my name--you assured me of that. It was one of the
+stipulations."
+
+"She does know, and your daughter's name also. And she knows where
+the baby is. She's deeper than I supposed. It's never safe to trust
+such people; they have no honor."
+
+Fear sent all the color out of Mrs. Dinneford's face.
+
+"What does she want?"
+
+"Money."
+
+"She was paid liberally."
+
+"That has nothing to do with it. These people have no honor, as I
+said; they will get all they can."
+
+"How much does she want?"
+
+"A hundred dollars; and it won't end there, I'm thinking. If she is
+refused, she will go to your house; she gave me that
+alternative--would have gone yesterday, if good luck had not thrown
+her in my way. I promised to call on you and see what could be
+done."
+
+Mrs. Dinneford actually groaned in her fear and distress.
+
+"Would you like to see her yourself?" coolly asked Mrs. Bray.
+
+"Oh dear! no, no!" and the lady put up her hands in dismay.
+
+"It might be best," said her wily companion.
+
+"No, no, no! I will have nothing to do with her! You must keep her
+away from me," replied Mrs. Dinneford, with increasing agitation.
+
+"I cannot keep her away without satisfying her demands. If you were
+to see her yourself, you would know just what her demands were. If
+you do not see her, you will only have my word for it, and I am left
+open to misapprehension, if not worse. I don't like to be placed in
+such a position."
+
+And Mrs. Bray put on a dignified, half-injured manner.
+
+"It's a wretched business in every way," she added, "and I'm sorry
+that I ever had anything to do with it. It's something dreadful, as
+I told you at the time, to cast a helpless baby adrift in such a
+way. Poor little soul! I shall never feel right about it."
+
+"That's neither here nor there;" and Mrs. Dinneford waved her hand
+impatiently. "The thing now in hand is to deal with this woman."
+
+"Yes, that's it--and as I said just now, I would rather have you
+deal with her yourself; you may be able to do it better than I can."
+
+"It's no use to talk, Mrs. Bray. I will not see the woman."
+
+"Very well; you must be your own judge in the case."
+
+"Can't you bind her up to something, or get her out of the city? I'd
+pay almost anything to have her a thousand miles away. See if you
+can't induce her to go to New Orleans. I'll pay her passage, and
+give her a hundred dollars besides, if she'll go."
+
+Mrs. Bray smiled a faint, sinister smile:
+
+"If you could get her off there, it would be the end of her. She'd
+never stand the fever."
+
+"Then get her off, cost what it may," said Mrs. Dinneford.
+
+"She will be here in less than half an hour." Mrs. Bray looked at
+the face of a small cheap clock that stood on the mantel.
+
+"She will?" Mrs. Dinneford became uneasy, and arose from her chair.
+
+"Yes; what shall I say to her?"
+
+"Manage her the best you can. Here are thirty dollars--all the money
+I have with me. Give her that, and promise more if necessary. I will
+see you again."
+
+"When?" asked Mrs. Bray.
+
+"At any time you desire."
+
+"Then you had better come to-morrow morning. I shall not go out."
+
+"I will be here at eleven o'clock. Induce her if possible to leave
+the city--to go South, so that she may never come back."
+
+"The best I can shall be done," replied Mrs. Bray as she folded the
+bank-bills she had received from Mrs. Dinneford in a fond, tender
+sort of way and put them into her pocket.
+
+Mrs. Dinneford retired, saying as she did so,
+
+"I will be here in the morning."
+
+An instant change came over the shallow face of the wiry little
+woman as the form of Mrs. Dinneford vanished through the door. A
+veil seemed to fall away from it. All its virtuous sobriety was
+gone, and a smile of evil satisfaction curved about her lips and
+danced in her keen black eyes. She stood still, listening to the
+retiring steps of her visitor, until she heard the street door shut.
+Then, with a quick, cat-like step, she crossed to the opposite side
+of the room, and pushed open a door that led to an adjoining
+chamber. A woman came forward to meet her. This woman was taller and
+stouter than Mrs. Bray, and had a soft, sensual face, but a resolute
+mouth, the under jaw slightly protruding. Her eyes were small and
+close together, and had that peculiar wily and alert expression you
+sometimes see, making you think of a serpent's eyes. She was dressed
+in common finery and adorned by cheap jewelry.
+
+"What do you think of that, Pinky Swett?" exclaimed Mrs. Bray, in a
+voice of exultation. "Got her all right, haven't I?"
+
+"Well, you have!" answered the woman, shaking all over with
+unrestrained laughter. "The fattest pigeon I've happened to see for
+a month of Sundays. Is she very rich?"
+
+"Her husband is, and that's all the same. And now, Pinky"--Mrs. Bray
+assumed a mock gravity of tone and manner--"you know your fate--New
+Orleans and the yellow fever. You must pack right off. Passage free
+and a hundred dollars for funeral expenses. Nice wet graves down
+there--keep off the fire;" and she gave a low chuckle.
+
+"Oh yes; all settled. When does the next steamer sail?" and Pinky
+almost screamed with merriment. She had been drinking.
+
+"H-u-s-h! h-u-s-h! None of that here, Pinky. The people down stairs
+are good Methodists, and think me a saint."
+
+"You a saint? Oh dear!" and she shook with repressed enjoyment.
+
+After this the two women grew serious, and put their heads together
+for business.
+
+"Who is this woman, Fan? What's her name, and where does she live?"
+asked Pinky Swett.
+
+"That's my secret, Pinky," replied Mrs. Bray, "and I can't let it
+go; it wouldn't be safe. You get a little off the handle sometimes,
+and don't know what you say--might let the cat out of the bag. Sally
+Long took the baby away, and she died two months ago; so I'm the
+only one now in the secret. All I want of you is to keep track of
+the baby. Here is a five-dollar bill; I can't trust you with more at
+a time. I know your weakness, Pinky;" and she touched her under the
+chin in a familiar, patronizing way.
+
+Pinky wasn't satisfied with this, and growled a little, just showing
+her teeth like an unquiet dog.
+
+"Give me ten," she said; "the woman gave you thirty. I heard her say
+so. And she's going to bring you seventy to-morrow."
+
+"You'll only waste it, Pinky," remonstrated Mrs. Bray. "It will all
+be gone before morning."
+
+"Fan," said the woman, leaning toward Mrs. Bray and speaking in a
+low, confidential tone, "I dreamed of a cow last night, and that's
+good luck, you know. Tom Oaks made a splendid hit last
+Saturday--drew twenty dollars--and Sue Minty got ten. They're all
+buzzing about it down in our street, and going to Sam McFaddon's
+office in a stream."
+
+"Do they have good luck at Sam McFaddon's?" asked Mrs. Bray, with
+considerable interest in her manner.
+
+"It's the luckiest place that I know. Never dreamed of a cow or a
+hen that I didn't make a hit, and I dreamed of a cow last night. She
+was giving such a splendid pail of milk, full to the brim, just as
+old Spot and Brindle used to give. You remember our Spot and
+Brindle, Fan?"
+
+"Oh yes." There was a falling inflection in Mrs. Bray's voice, as if
+the reference had sent her thoughts away back to other and more
+innocent days.
+
+The two women sat silent for some moments after that; and when Pinky
+spoke, which she did first, it was in lower and softer tones:
+
+"I don't like to think much about them old times, Fan; do you? I
+might have done better. But it's no use grizzling about it now.
+What's done's done, and can't be helped. Water doesn't run up hill
+again after it's once run down. I've got going, and can't stop, you
+see. There's nothing to catch at that won't break as soon as you
+touch it. So I mean to be jolly as I move along."
+
+"Laughing is better than crying at any time," returned Mrs. Bray;
+"here are five more;" and she handed Pinky Swett another bank-bill.
+"I'm going to try my luck. Put half a dollar on ten different rows,
+and we'll go shares on what is drawn. I dreamed the other night that
+I saw a flock of sheep, and that's good luck, isn't it?"
+
+Pinky thrust her hand into her pocket and drew out a worn and soiled
+dream-book.
+
+"A flock of sheep; let me see;" and she commenced turning over the
+leaves. "Sheep; here it is: 'To see them is a sign of sorrow--11,
+20, 40, 48. To be surrounded by many sheep denotes good luck--2, 11,
+55.' That's your row; put down 2, 11, 55. We'll try that. Next put
+down 41 11, 44--that's the lucky row when you dream of a cow."
+
+As Pinky leaned toward her friend she dropped her parasol.
+
+"That's for luck, maybe," she said, with a brightening face. "Let's
+see what it says about a parasol;" and she turned over her
+dream-book.
+
+"For a maiden to dream she loses her parasol shows that her
+sweetheart is false and will never marry her--5, 51, 56."
+
+"But you didn't dream about a parasol, Pinky."
+
+"That's no matter; it's just as good as a dream. 5, 51, 56 is the
+row. Put that down for the second, Fan."
+
+As Mrs. Bray was writing out these numbers the clock on the mantel
+struck five.
+
+"8, 12, 60," said Pinky, turning to the clock; "that's the clock
+row."
+
+And Mrs. Bray put down these figures also.
+
+"That's three rows," said Pinky, "and we want ten." She arose, as
+she spoke, and going to the front window, looked down upon the
+street.
+
+"There's an organ-grinder; it's the first thing I saw;" and she came
+back fingering the leaves of her dream-book. "Put down 40, 50, 26."
+
+Mrs. Bray wrote the numbers on her slip of paper.
+
+"It's November; let's find the November row." Pinky consulted her
+book again. "Signifies you will have trouble through life--7, 9, 63.
+That's true as preaching; I was born in November, and I've had it
+all trouble. How many rows does that make?"
+
+"Five."
+
+"Then we will cut cards for the rest;" and Pinky drew a soiled pack
+from her pocket, shuffled the cards and let her friends cut them.
+
+"Ten of diamonds;" she referred to the dream-book. "10, 13, 31; put
+that down."
+
+The cards were shuffled and cut again.
+
+"Six of clubs--6, 35, 39."
+
+Again they were cut and shuffled. This time the knave of clubs was
+turned up.
+
+"That's 17, 19, 28," said Pinky, reading from her book.
+
+The next cut gave the ace of clubs, and the policy numbers were 18,
+63, 75.
+
+"Once more, and the ten rows will be full;" and the cards were cut
+again.
+
+"Five of hearts--5, 12, 60;" and the ten rows were complete.
+
+"There's luck there, Fan; sure to make a hit," said Pinky, with
+almost childish confidence, as she gazed at the ten rows of figures.
+'One of 'em can't help coming out right, and that would be fifty
+dollars--twenty-five for me and twenty-five for you; two rows would
+give a hundred dollars, and the whole ten a thousand. Think of that,
+Fan! five hundred dollars apiece."
+
+"It would break Sam McFaddon, I'm afraid," remarked Mrs. Bray.
+
+"Sam's got nothing to do with it," returned Pinky.
+
+"He hasn't?"
+
+"No."
+
+"Who has, then?"
+
+"His backer."
+
+"What's that?"
+
+"Oh, I found it all out--I know how it's done. Sam's got a backer--a
+man that puts up the money. Sam only sells for his backer. When
+there's a hit, the backer pays."
+
+"Who's Sam's backer, as you call him?"
+
+"Couldn't get him to tell; tried him hard, but he was close as an
+oyster. Drives in the Park and wears a two thousand dollar diamond
+pin; he let that out. So he's good for the hits. Sam always puts the
+money down, fair and square."
+
+"Very well; you get the policy, and do it right off, Pinky, or the
+money'll slip through your fingers."
+
+"All right," answered Pinky as she folded the slip of paper
+containing the lucky rows. "Never you fear. I'll be at Sam
+McFaddon's in ten minutes after I leave here."
+
+"And be sure," said Mrs. Bray, "to look after the baby to-night, and
+see that it doesn't perish with cold; the air's getting sharp."
+
+"It ought to have something warmer than cotton rags on its poor
+little body," returned Pinky. "Can't you get it some flannel? It
+will die if you don't."
+
+"I sent it a warm petticoat last week," said Mrs. Bray.
+
+"You did?"
+
+"Yes; I bought one at a Jew shop, and had it sent to the woman."
+
+"Was it a nice warm one?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+Pinky drew a sigh. "I saw the poor baby last night; hadn't anything
+on but dirty cotton rags. It was lying asleep in a cold cellar on a
+little heap of straw. The woman had given it something, I guess, by
+the way it slept. The petticoat had gone, most likely, to Sam
+McFaddon's. She spends everything she can lay her hands on in
+policies and whisky."
+
+"She's paid a dollar a week for taking care of the baby at night and
+on Sundays," said Mrs. Bray.
+
+"It wouldn't help the baby any if she got ten dollars," returned
+Pinky. "It ought to be taken away from her."
+
+"But who's to do that? Sally Long sold it to the two beggar women,
+and they board it out. I have no right to interfere; they own the
+baby, and can do as they please with it."
+
+"It could be got to the almshouse," said Pinky; "it would be a
+thousand times better off."
+
+"It mustn't go to the almshouse," replied Mrs. Bray; "I might lose
+track of it, and that would never do."
+
+"You'll lose track of it for good and all before long, if you don't
+get it out of them women's bands. No baby can hold out being begged
+with long; it's too hard on the little things. For you know how it
+is, Fan; they must keep 'em half starved and as sick as they will
+bear without dying right off, so as to make 'em look pitiful. You
+can't do much at begging with a fat, hearty-looking baby."
+
+"What's to be done about it?" asked Mrs. Bray. "I don't want that
+baby to die."
+
+"Would its mother know it if she saw it?" asked Pinky.
+
+"No; for she never set eyes on it."
+
+"Then, if it dies, get another baby, and keep track of that. You can
+steal one from a drunken mother any night in the week. I'll do it
+for you. One baby is as good as another."
+
+"It will be safer to have the real one," replied Mrs. Bray. "And
+now, Pinky that you have put this thing into my head, I guess I'll
+commission you to get the baby away from that woman."
+
+"All right!"
+
+"But what are we to do with it? I can't have it here."
+
+"Of course you can't. But that's easily managed, if your're willing
+to pay for it."
+
+"Pay for it?"
+
+"Yes; if it isn't begged with, and made to pay its way and earn
+something into the bargain, it's got to be a dead weight on
+somebody. So you see how it is, Fan. Now, if you'll take a fool's
+advice, you'll let 'it go to the almshouse, or let it alone to die
+and get out of its misery as soon as possible. You can find another
+baby that will do just as well, if you should ever need one."
+
+"How much would it cost, do you think, to have it boarded with some
+one who wouldn't abuse it? She might beg with it herself, or hire it
+out two or three times a week. I guess it would stand that."
+
+"Beggars don't belong to the merciful kind," answered Pinky;
+"there's no trusting any of them. A baby in their hands is never
+safe. I've seen 'em brought in at night more dead than alive, and
+tossed on a dirty rag-heap to die before morning. I'm always glad
+when they're out of their misery, poor things! The fact is, Fan, if
+you expect that baby to live, you've got to take it clean out of the
+hands of beggars."
+
+"What could I get it boarded for outright?" asked Mrs. Bray.
+
+"For 'most anything, 'cording to how it's done. But why not, while
+you're about it, bleed the old lady, its grandmother, a little
+deeper, and take a few drops for the baby?"
+
+"Guess you're kind o' right about that, Fan; anyhow, we'll make a
+start on it. You find another place for the brat."
+
+"'Greed; when shall I do it?"
+
+"The sooner, the better. It might die of cold any night in that
+horrible den. Ugh!"
+
+"I've been in worse places. Bedlow street is full of them, and so is
+Briar street and Dirty alley. You don't know anything about it."
+
+"Maybe not, and maybe I don't care to know. At present I want to
+settle about this baby. You'll find another place for it?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"And then steal it from the woman who has it now?"
+
+"Yes; no trouble in the world. She's drunk every night," answered
+Pinky Swett, rising to go.
+
+"You'll see me to-morrow?" said Mrs. Bray.
+
+"Oh yes."
+
+"And you won't forget about the policies?"
+
+"Not I. We shall make a grand hit, or I'm a fool. Day-day!" Pinky
+waved her hand gayly, and then retired.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI.
+
+
+
+
+
+_A COLD_ wet drizzling rain was beginning to fall when Pinky Swett
+emerged from the house. Twilight was gathering drearily. She drew
+her thin shawl closely, and shivered as the east wind struck her
+with a chill.
+
+At hurried walk of five or ten minutes brought her to a part of the
+town as little known to its citizens generally as if it were in the
+centre of Africa--a part of the town where vice, crime, drunkenness
+and beggary herd together in the closest and most shameless contact;
+where men and women, living in all foulness, and more like wild
+beasts than human beings, prey greedily upon each other, hurting,
+depraving and marring God's image in all over whom they can get
+power or influenced--_a very hell upon the earth!_--at part of the
+town where theft and robbery and murder are plotted, and from which
+prisons and almshouses draw their chief population.
+
+That such a herding together, almost in the centre of a great
+Christian city, of the utterly vicious and degraded, should be
+permitted, when every day's police and criminal records give warning
+of its cost and danger, is a marvel and a reproach. Almost every
+other house, in portions of this locality, is a dram-shop, where the
+vilest liquors are sold. Policy-offices, doing business in direct
+violation of law, are in every street and block, their work of
+plunder and demoralization going on with open doors and under the
+very eyes of the police. Every one of them is known to these
+officers. But arrest is useless. A hidden and malign influence, more
+potent than justice, has power to protect the traffic and hold the
+guilty offenders harmless. Conviction is rarely, if ever, reached.
+
+The poor wretches, depraved and plundered through drink and
+policy-gambling, are driven into crime. They rob and steal and
+debase themselves for money with which to buy rum and policies, and
+sooner or later the prison or death removes the greater number of
+them from their vile companions. But drifting toward this fatal
+locality under the attraction of affinity, or lured thither by
+harpies in search of new supplies of human victims to repair the
+frightful waste perpetually made, the region keeps up its dense
+population, and the work of destroying human souls goes on. It is an
+awful thing to contemplate. Thousands of men and women, boys and
+girls, once innocent as the babes upon whom Christ laid his hand in
+blessing, are drawn into this whirlpool of evil every year, and few
+come out except by the way of prison or death.
+
+It was toward this locality that Pinky Swett directed her feet,
+after parting with Mrs. Bray. Darkness was beginning to settle down
+as she turned off from one of the most populous streets, crowded at
+the time by citizens on their way to quiet and comfortable homes,
+few if any of whom had ever turned aside to look upon and get
+knowledge of the world or crime and wretchedness so near at hand,
+but girdled in and concealed from common observation.
+
+Down a narrow street she turned from the great thoroughfare, walking
+with quick steps, and shivering a little as the penetrating east
+wind sent a chill of dampness through the thin shawl she drew closer
+and closer about her shoulders. Nothing could be in stronger
+contrast than the rows of handsome dwellings and stores that lined
+the streets through which she had just passed, and the forlorn,
+rickety, unsightly and tumble-down houses amid which she now found
+herself.
+
+Pinky had gone only a little way when the sharp cries of a child cut
+the air suddenly, the shrill, angry voice of a woman and the rapid
+fall of lashes mingled with the cries. The child begged for mercy in
+tones of agony, but the loud voice, uttering curses and
+imprecations, and the cruel blows, ceased not. Pinky stopped and
+shivered. She felt the pain of these blows, in her quickly-aroused
+sympathy, almost as much as if they had been falling on her own
+person. Opposite to where she had paused was a one-story frame
+house, or enclosed shed, as unsightly without as a pig-pen, and
+almost as filthy within. It contained two small rooms with very low
+ceilings. The only things in these rooms that could be called
+furniture were an old bench, two chairs from which the backs had
+been broken, a tin cup black with smoke and dirt, two or three tin
+pans in the same condition, some broken crockery and an iron
+skillet. Pinky stood still for a moment, shivering, as we have said.
+She knew what the blows and the curses and the cries of pain meant;
+she had heard them before. A depraved and drunken woman and a child
+ten years old, who might or might not be her daughter, lived there.
+The child was sent out every day to beg or steal, and if she failed
+to bring home a certain sum of money, was cruelly beaten by the
+woman. Almost every day the poor child was cut with lashes, often on
+the bare flesh; almost every day her shrieks rang out from the
+miserable hovel. But there was no one to interfere, no one to save
+her from the smarting blows, no one to care what she suffered.
+
+Pinky Swett could stand it no longer. She had often noticed the
+ragged child, with her pale, starved face and large, wistful eyes,
+passing in and out of this miserable woman's den, sometimes going to
+the liquor-shops and sometimes to the nearest policy-office to spend
+for her mother, if such the woman really was, the money she had
+gained by begging.
+
+With a sudden impulse, as a deep wail and a more piteous cry for
+mercy smote upon her ears, Pinky sprang across the street and into
+the hovel. The sight that met her eyes left no hesitation in her
+mind. Holding up with one strong arm the naked body of the poor
+child--she had drawn the clothes over her head--the infuriated woman
+was raining down blows from a short piece of rattan upon the
+quivering flesh, already covered with welts and bruises.
+
+"Devil!" cried Pinky as she rushed upon this fiend in human shape
+and snatched the little girl from her arm. "Do you want to kill the
+child?"
+
+She might almost as well have assaulted a tigress.
+
+The woman was larger, stronger, more desperate and more thoroughly
+given over to evil passions than she. To thwart her in anything was
+to rouse her into a fury. A moment she stood in surprise and
+bewilderment; in the next, and ere Pinky had time to put herself on
+guard, she had sprung upon her with a passionate cry that sounded
+more like that of a wild beast than anything human. Clutching her by
+the throat with one hand, and with the other tearing the child from
+her grasp, she threw the frightened little thing across the room.
+
+"Devil, ha!" screamed the woman; "devil!" and she tightened her
+grasp on Pinky's throat, at the same time striking her in the face
+with her clenched fist.
+
+Like a war-horse that snuffs the battle afar off and rushes to the
+conflict, so rushed the inhabitants of that foul neighborhood to the
+spot from whence had come to their ears the familiar and not
+unwelcome sound of strife. Even before Pinky had time to shake off
+her assailant, the door of the hovel was darkened by a screen of
+eager faces. And such faces! How little of God's image remained in
+them to tell of their divine origination!--bloated and scarred,
+ashen pale and wasted, hollow-eyed and red-eyed, disease looking out
+from all, yet all lighted up with the keenest interest and
+expectancy.
+
+Outside, the crowd swelled with a marvelous rapidity. Every cellar
+and room and garret, every little alley and hidden rookery, "hawk's
+nest" and "wren's nest," poured out its unseemly denizens, white and
+black, old and young, male and female, the child of three years old,
+keen, alert and self-protective, running to see the "row" side by
+side with the toothless crone of seventy; or most likely passing her
+on the way. Thieves, beggars, pick-pockets, vile women, rag-pickers
+and the like, with the harpies who prey upon them, all were there to
+enjoy the show.
+
+Within, a desperate fight was going on between Pinky Swett and the
+woman from whose hands she had attempted to rescue the child--a
+fight in which Pinky was getting the worst of it. One garment after
+another was torn from her person, until little more than a single
+one remained.
+
+"Here's the police! look out!" was cried at this juncture.
+
+"Who cares for the police? Let 'em come," boldly retorted the woman.
+"I haven't done nothing; it's her that's come in drunk and got up a
+row."
+
+Pushing the crowd aside, a policeman entered the hovel.
+
+"Here she is!" cried the woman, pointing toward Pinky, from whom she
+had sprung back the moment she heard the word police. "She came in
+here drunk and got up a row. I'm a decent woman, as don't meddle
+with nobody. But she's awful when she gets drunk. Just look at
+her--been tearing her clothes off!"
+
+At this there was a shout of merriment from the crowd who had
+witnessed the fight.
+
+"Good for old Sal! she's one of 'em! Can't get ahead of old Sal,
+drunk or sober!" and like expressions were shouted by one and
+another.
+
+Poor Pinky, nearly stripped of her clothing, and with a great bruise
+swelling under one of her eyes, bewildered and frightened at the
+aspect of things around her, could make no acceptable defence.
+
+"She ran over and pitched into Sal, so she did! I saw her! She made
+the fight, she did!" testified one of the crowd; and acting on this
+testimony and his own judgment of the case, the policeman said
+roughly, as he laid his hand on Pinky.
+
+"Pick up your duds and come along."
+
+Pinky lifted her torn garments from the dirty floor and gathered
+them about her person as best she could, the crowd jeering all the
+time. A pin here and there, furnished by some of the women, enabled
+her to get them into a sort of shape and adjustment. Then she tried
+to explain the affair to the policeman, but he would not listen.
+
+"Come!" he said, sternly.
+
+"What are you going to do with me?" she asked, not moving from where
+she stood.
+
+"Lock you up," replied the policeman. "So come along."
+
+"What's the matter here?" demanded a tall, strongly-built woman,
+pressing forward. She spoke with a foreign accent, and in a tone of
+command. The motley crowd, above whom she towered, gave way for her
+as she approached. Everything about the woman showed her to be
+superior in mind and moral force to the unsightly wretches about
+her. She had the fair skin, blue eyes and light hair of her nation.
+Her features were strong, but not masculine. You saw in them no
+trace of coarse sensuality or vicious indulgence.
+
+"Here's Norah! here's the queen!" shouted a voice from the crowd.
+
+"What's the matter here?" asked the woman as she gained an entrance
+to the hovel.
+
+"Going to lock up Pinky Swett," said a ragged little girl who had
+forced her way in.
+
+"What for?" demanded the woman, speaking with the air of one in
+authority.
+
+"'Cause she wouldn't let old Sal beat Kit half to death," answered
+the child.
+
+"Ho! Sal's a devil and Pinky's a fool to meddle with her." Then
+turning to the policeman, who still had his hand on the girl, she
+said,
+
+"What're you goin' to do, John?"
+
+"Goin' to lock her up. She's drunk an' bin a-fightin'."
+
+"You're not goin' to do any such thing."
+
+"I'm not drunk, and it's a lie if anybody says so," broke in Pinky.
+"I tried to keep this devil from beating the life out of poor little
+Kit, and she pitched into me and tore my clothes off. That's what's
+the matter."
+
+The policeman quietly removed his hand from Pinky's shoulder, and
+glanced toward the woman named Sal, and stood as if waiting orders.
+
+"Better lock _her_ up," said the "queen," as she had been called.
+Sal snarled like a fretted wild beast.
+
+"It's awful, the way she beats poor Kit," chimed in the little girl
+who had before spoken against her. "If I was Kit, I'd run away, so I
+would."
+
+"I'll wring your neck off," growled Sal, in a fierce undertone,
+making a dash toward the girl, and swearing frightfully. But the
+child shrank to the side of the policeman.
+
+"If you lay a finger on Kit to-night," said the queen, "I'll have
+her taken away, and you locked up into the the bargain."
+
+Sal responded with another snarl.
+
+"Come." The queen moved toward the door. Pinky followed, the
+policeman offering no resistance. A few minutes later, and the
+miserable crowd of depraved human beings had been absorbed again
+into cellar and garret, hovel and rookery, to take up the thread of
+their evil and sensual lives, and to plot wickedness, and to prey
+upon and deprave each other--to dwell as to their inner and real
+lives among infernals, to be in hell as to their spirits, while
+their bodies yet remained upon the earth.
+
+Pinky and her rescuer passed down the street for a short distance
+until they came to another that was still narrower. On each side dim
+lights shone from the houses, and made some revelation of what was
+going on within. Here liquor was sold, and there policies. Here was
+a junk-shop, and there an eating-saloon where for six cents you
+could make a meal out of the cullings from beggars' baskets. Not
+very tempting to an ordinary appetite was the display inside, nor
+agreeable to the nostrils the odors that filled the atmosphere. But
+hunger like the swines', that was not over-nice, satisfied itself
+amid these disgusting conglomerations, and kept off starvation.
+
+Along this wretched street, with scarcely an apology for a sidewalk,
+moved Pinky and the queen, until they reached a small two-story
+frame house that presented a different aspect from the wretched
+tenements amid which it stood. It was clean upon the outside, and
+had, as contrasted with its neighbors, an air of superiority. This
+was the queen's residence. Inside, all was plain and homely, but
+clean and in order.
+
+The excitement into which Pinky had been thrown was nearly over by
+this time.
+
+"You've done me a good turn, Norah," she said as the door closed
+upon them, "and I'll not soon forget you."
+
+"Ugh!" ejaculated Norah as she looked into Pinky's bruised face;
+"Sal's hit you square in the eye; it'll be black as y'r boot by
+morning. I'll get some cold water."
+
+A basin of cold water was brought, and Pinky held a wet cloth to the
+swollen spot for a long time, hoping thereby not only to reduce the
+swelling, but to prevent discoloration.
+
+"Y'r a fool to meddle with Sal," said Norah as she set the basin of
+water before Pinky.
+
+"Why don't you meddle with her? Why do you let her beat poor little
+Kit the way she does?" demanded Pinky.
+
+Norah shrugged her shoulders, and answered with no more feeling in
+her voice than if she had been speaking of inanimate things:
+
+"She's got to keep Kit up to her work."
+
+"Up to her work!"
+
+"Yes; that's just it. Kit's lazy and cheats--buys cakes and candies;
+and Sal has to come down on her; it's the way, you know. If Sal
+didn't come down sharp on her all the while, Kit wouldn't bring her
+ten cents a day. They all have to do it--so much a day or a lickin';
+and a little lickin' isn't any use--got to 'most kill some of 'em.
+We're used to it in here. Hark!"
+
+The screams of a child in pain rang out wildly, the sounds coming
+from across the narrow street. Quick, hard strokes of a lash were
+heard at the same time. Pinky turned a little pale.
+
+"Only Mother Quig," said Norah, with an indifferent air; "she has to
+do it 'most every night--no getting along any other way with Tom. It
+beats all how much he can stand."
+
+"Oh, Norah, won't she never stop?" cried Pinky, starting up. "I
+can't bear it a minute longer."
+
+"Shut y'r ears. You've got to," answered the woman, with some
+impatience in her voice. "Tom has to be kept to his work as well as
+the rest of 'em. Half the fuss he's making is put on, anyhow; he
+doesn't mind a beating any more than a horse. I know his hollers.
+There's Flanagan's Nell getting it now," added Norah as the cries
+and entreaties of another child were heard. She drew herself up and
+listened, a slight shade of concern drifting across her face.
+
+A long, agonizing wail shivered through the air.
+
+"Nell's Sick, and can't do her work." The woman rose as she spoke.
+"I saw her goin' off to-day, and told Flanagan she'd better keep her
+at home."
+
+Saying this, Norah went out quickly, Pinky following. With head
+erect and mouth set firmly, the queen strode across the street and a
+little way down the pavement, to the entrance of a cellar, from
+which the cries and sounds of whipping came. Down the five or six
+rotten and broken steps she plunged, Pinky close after her.
+
+"Stop!" shouted Norah, in a tone of command.
+
+Instantly the blows ceased, and the cries were hushed.
+
+"You'll be hanged for murder if you don't take care," said Norah.
+"What's Nell been doin'?"
+
+"Doin', the slut!" ejaculated the woman, a short, bloated, revolting
+creature, with scarcely anything human in her face. "Doin', did ye
+say? It's nothin' she's been doin', the lazy, trapsing huzzy! Who's
+that intrudin' herself in here?" she added fiercely, as she saw
+Pinky, making at the same time a movement toward the girl. "Get out
+o' here, or I'll spile y'r pictur'!"
+
+"Keep quiet, will you?" said Norah, putting her hand on the woman
+and pushing her back as easily as if she had been a child. "Now come
+here, Nell, and let me look at you."
+
+Out of the far corner of the cellar into which Flanagan had thrown
+her when she heard Norah's voice, and into the small circle of light
+made by a single tallow candle, there crept slowly the figure of a
+child literally clothed in rags. Norah reached out her hand to her
+as she came up--there was a scared look on her pinched face--and
+drew her close to the light.
+
+"Gracious! your hand's like an ice-ball!" exclaimed Norah.
+
+Pinky looked at the child, and grew faint at heart. She had large
+hazel eyes, that gleamed with a singular lustre out of the
+suffering, grimed and wasted little face, so pale and sad and
+pitiful that the sight of it was enough to draw tears from any but
+the brutal and hardened.
+
+"Are you sick?" asked Norah.
+
+"No, she's not sick; she's only shamming," growled Flanagan.
+
+"You shut up!" retorted Norah. "I wasn't speaking to you." Then she
+repeated her question:
+
+"Are you sick, Nell?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Where?"
+
+"I don't know."
+
+Norah laid her hand on the child's head:
+
+"Does it hurt here?"
+
+"Oh yes! It hurts so I can't see good," answered Nell.
+
+"It's all a lie! I know her; she's shamming."
+
+"Oh no, Norah!" cried the child, a sudden hope blending with the
+fear in her voice. "I ain't shamming at all. I fell down ever so
+many times in the street, and 'most got run over. Oh dear! oh dear!"
+and she clung to the woman with a gesture of despair piteous to see.
+
+"I don't believe you are, Nell," said Norah, kindly. Then, to the
+woman, "Now mind, Flanagan, Nell's sick; d'ye hear?"
+
+The woman only uttered a defiant growl.
+
+"She's not to be licked again to-night." Norah spoke as one having
+authority.
+
+"I wish ye'd be mindin' y'r own business, and not come interfarin'
+wid me. She's my gal, and I've a right to lick her if I plaze."
+
+"Maybe she is and maybe she isn't," retorted Norah.
+
+"Who says she isn't my gal?" screamed the woman, firing up at this
+and reaching out for Nell, who shrunk closer to Norah.
+
+"Maybe she is and maybe she isn't," said the queen, quietly
+repeating her last sentence; "and I think maybe she isn't. So take
+care and mind what I say. Nell isn't to be licked any more
+to-night."
+
+"Oh, Norah," sobbed the child, in a husky, choking voice, "take me,
+won't you? She'll pinch me, and she'll hit my head on the wall, and
+she'll choke me and knock me. Oh, Norah, Norah!"
+
+Pinky could stand this no longer. Catching up the bundle of rags in
+her arms, she sprang out of the cellar and ran across the street to
+the queen's house, Norah and Flanagan coming quickly after her. At
+the door, through which Pinky had passed, Norah paused, and turning
+to the infuriated Irish woman, said, sternly,
+
+"Go back! I won't have you in here; and if you make a row, I'll tell
+John to lock you up."
+
+"I want my Nell," said the woman, her manner changing. There was a
+shade of alarm in her voice.
+
+"You can't have her to-night; so that's settled. And if there's any
+row, you'll be locked up." Saying which, Norah went in and shut the
+door, leaving Flanagan on the outside.
+
+The bundle of dirty rags with the wasted body of a child inside, the
+body scarcely heavier than the rags, was laid by Pinky in the corner
+of a settee, and the unsightly mass shrunk together like something
+inanimate.
+
+"I thought you'd had enough with old Sal," said Norah, in a tone of
+reproof, as she came in.
+
+"Couldn't help it," replied Pinky. "I'm bad enough, but I can't
+stand to see a child abused like that--no, not if I die for it."
+
+Norah crossed to the settee and spoke to Nell. But there was no
+answer, nor did the bundle of rags stir.
+
+"Nell! Nell!" She called to deaf ears. Then she put her hand on the
+child and raised one of the arms. It dropped away limp as a withered
+stalk, showing the ashen white face across which it had lain.
+
+The two women manifested no excitement. The child had fainted or was
+dead--which, they did not know. Norah straightened out the wasted
+little form and turned up the face. The eyes were shut, the mouth
+closed, the pinched features rigid, as if still giving expression to
+pain, but there was no mistaking the sign that life had gone out of
+them. It might be for a brief season, it might be for ever.
+
+A little water was thrown into the child's face. Its only effect was
+to streak the grimy skin.
+
+"Poor little thing!" said Pinky. "I hope she's dead."
+
+"They're tough. They don't die easy," returned Norah.
+
+"She isn't one of the tough kind."
+
+"Maybe not. They say Flanagan stole her when she was a little thing,
+just toddling."
+
+"Don't let's do anything to try to bring her to," said Pinky.
+
+Norah stood for some moment's with an irresolute air, then bent over
+the child and examined her more carefully. She could feel no pulse
+beat, nor any motion of the heart,
+
+"I don't want the coroner here," she said, in a tone of annoyance.
+"Take her back to Flanagan; it's her work, and she must stand by
+it."
+
+"Is she really dead?" asked Pinky.
+
+"Looks like it, and serves Flanagan right. I've told her over and
+over that Nell wouldn't stand it long if she didn't ease up a
+little. Flesh isn't iron."
+
+Again she examined the child carefully, but without the slightest
+sign of feeling.
+
+"It's all the same now who has her," she said, turning off from the
+settee. "Take her back to Flanagan."
+
+But Pinky would not touch the child, nor could threat or persuasion
+lead her to do so. While they were contending, Flanagan, who had
+fired herself up with half a pint of whisky, came storming through
+the door in a blind rage and screaming out,
+
+"Where's my Nell? I want my Nell!"
+
+Catching sight of the child's inanimate form lying on the settee,
+she pounced down upon it like some foul bird and bore it off,
+cursing and striking the senseless clay in her insane fury.
+
+Pinky, horrified at the dreadful sight, and not sure that the child
+was really dead, and so insensible to pain, made a movement to
+follow, but Norah caught her arm with a tight grip and held her
+back.
+
+"Are you a fool?" said the queen, sternly. "Let Flanagan alone.
+Nell's out of her reach, and I'm glad of it."
+
+"If I was only sure!" exclaimed Pinky.
+
+"You may be. I know death--I've seen it often enough. They'll have
+the coroner over there in the morning. It's Flanagan's concern, not
+yours or mine, so keep out of it if you know when you're well off."
+
+"I'll appear against her at the inquest," said Pinky.
+
+"You'll do no such thing. Keep your tongue behind your teeth. It's
+time enough to show it when it's pulled out. Take my advice, and
+mind your own business. You'll have enough to do caring for your own
+head, without looking after other people's."
+
+"I'm not one of that kind," answered Pinky, a little tartly; "and if
+there's any way to keep Flanagan from murdering another child, I'm
+going to find it out."
+
+"You'll find out something else first," said Norah, with a slight
+curl of her lip.
+
+"What?"
+
+"The way to prison."
+
+"Pshaw! I'm not afraid."
+
+"You'd better be. If you appear against Flanagan, she'll have you
+caged before to-morrow night."
+
+"How can she do it?"
+
+"Swear against you before an alderman, and he'll send you down if
+it's only to get his fee. She knows her man."
+
+"Suppose murder is proved against her?"
+
+"Suppose!" Norah gave a little derisive laugh.
+
+"They don't look after things in here as they do outside.
+Everybody's got the screws on, and things must break sometimes, but
+it isn't called murder. The coroner understands it all. He's used to
+seeing things break."
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII.
+
+
+
+
+
+_FOR_ a short time the sounds of cruel exultation came over from
+Flanagan's; then all was still.
+
+"Sal's put her mark on you," said Norah, looking steadily into
+Pinky's face, and laughing in a cold, half-amused way.
+
+Pinky raised her hand to her swollen cheek. "Does it look very bad?"
+she asked.
+
+"Spoils your beauty some."
+
+"Will it get black?"
+
+"Shouldn't wonder. But what can't be helped, can't. You'll mind your
+own business next time, and keep out of Sal's way. She's dangerous.
+What's the matter?"
+
+"Got a sort of chill," replied the girl, who from nervous reaction
+was beginning to shiver.
+
+"Oh, want something to warm you up." Norah brought out a bottle of
+spirits. Pinky poured a glass nearly half full, added some water,
+and then drank off the fiery mixture.
+
+"None of your common stuff," said Norah, with a smile, as Pinky
+smacked her lips. The girl drew her handkerchief from her pocket,
+and as she did so a piece of paper dropped on the floor.
+
+"Oh, there it is!" she exclaimed, light flashing into her face.
+"Going to make a splendid hit. Just look at them rows."
+
+Norah threw an indifferent glance on the paper.
+
+"They're lucky, every one of them," said Pinky. "Going to put half a
+dollar on each row--sure to make a hit."
+
+The queen gave one of her peculiar shrugs.
+
+"Going to break Sam McFaddon," continued Pinky, her spirits rising
+under the influence of Norah's treat.
+
+"Soft heads don't often break hard rocks," returned the woman, with
+a covert sneer.
+
+"That's an insult!" cried Pinky, on whom the liquor she had just
+taken was beginning to have a marked effect, "and I won't stand an
+insult from you or anybody else."
+
+"Well, I wouldn't if I was you," returned Norah, coolly. A hard
+expression began settling about her mouth.
+
+"And I don't mean to. I'm as good as you are, any day!"
+
+"You may be a great deal better, for all I care," answered Norah.
+"Only take my advice, and keep a civil tongue in your head." There
+was a threatening undertone in the woman's voice. She drew her tall
+person more erect, and shook herself like a wild beast aroused from
+inaction.
+
+Pinky was too blind to see the change that had come so suddenly. A
+stinging retort fell from her lips. But the words had scarcely died
+on the air ere she found herself in the grip of vice-like hands.
+Resistance was of no more avail than if she had been a child. In
+what seemed but a moment of time she was pushed back through the
+door and dropped upon the pavement. Then the door shut, and she was
+alone on the outside--no, not alone, for scores of the denizens who
+huddle together in that foul region were abroad, and gathered around
+her as quickly as flies about a heap of offal, curious, insolent and
+aggressive. As she arose to her feet she found herself hemmed in by
+a jeering crowd.
+
+"Ho! it's Pinky Swett!" cried a girl, pressing toward her. "Hi,
+Pinky! what's the matter? What's up?"
+
+"Norah pitched her out! I saw it!" screamed a boy, one of the young
+thieves that harbored in the quarter.
+
+"It's a lie!" Pinky answered back as she confronted the crowd.
+
+At this moment another boy, who had come up behind Pinky, gave her
+dress so violent a jerk that she fell over backward on the pavement,
+striking her head on a stone and cutting it badly. She lay there,
+unable to rise, the crowd laughing with as much enjoyment as if
+witnessing a dog-fight.
+
+"Give her a dose of mud!" shouted one of the boys; and almost as
+soon as the words were out of his mouth her face was covered with a
+paste of filthy dirt from the gutter. This, instead of exciting
+pity, only gave a keener zest to the show. The street rang with
+shouts and peals of merriment, bringing a new and larger crowd to
+see the fun. With them came one or two policemen.
+
+Seeing that it was only a drunken woman, they pushed back the crowd
+and raised her to her feet. As they did so the blood streamed from
+the back of her head and stained her dress to the waist. She was
+taken to the nearest station-house.
+
+At eleven o'clock on the next morning, punctual to the minute, came
+Mrs. Dinneford to the little third-story room in which she had met
+Mrs. Bray. She repeated her rap at the door before it was opened,
+and noticed that a key was turned in the lock.
+
+"You have seen the woman?" she said as she took an offered seat,
+coming at once to the object of her visit.
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Well?"
+
+"I gave her the money."
+
+"Well?"
+
+Mrs. Bray shook her head:
+
+"Afraid I can't do much with her."
+
+"Why?" an anxious expression coming into Mrs. Dinneford's face.
+
+"These people suspect everybody; there is no honor nor truth in
+them, and they judge every one by themselves. She half accused me of
+getting a larger amount of money from you, and putting her off with
+the paltry sum of thirty dollars."
+
+Mrs. Bray looked exceedingly hurt and annoyed.
+
+"Threatened," she went on, "to go to you herself--didn't want any
+go-betweens nor brokers. I expected to hear you say that she'd been
+at your house this morning."
+
+"Good Gracious! no!" Mrs. Dinneford's face was almost distorted with
+alarm.
+
+"It's the way with all these people," coolly remarked Mrs. Bray.
+"You're never safe with them."
+
+"Did you hint at her leaving the city?--going to New Orleans, for
+instance?"
+
+"Oh dear, no! She isn't to be managed in that way--is deeper and
+more set than I thought. The fact is, Mrs. Dinneford"--and Mrs. Bray
+lowered her voice and looked shocked and mysterious--"I'm beginning
+to suspect her as being connected with a gang."
+
+"With a gang? What kind of a gang?" Mrs. Dinneford turned slightly
+pale.
+
+"A gang of thieves. She isn't the right thing; I found that out long
+ago. You remember what I said when you gave her the child. I told
+you that she was not a good woman, and that it was a cruel thing to
+put a helpless, new-born baby into her hands."
+
+"Never mind about that." Mrs. Dinneford waved her hand impatiently.
+"The baby's out of her hands, so far as that is concerned. A gang of
+thieves!"
+
+"Yes, I'm 'most sure of it. Goes to people's houses on one excuse
+and another, and finds out where the silver is kept and how to get
+in. You don't know half the wickedness that's going on. So you see
+it's no use trying to get her away."
+
+Mrs. Bray was watching the face of her visitor with covert scrutiny,
+gauging, as she did so, by its weak alarms, the measure of her power
+over her.
+
+"Dreadful! dreadful!" ejaculated Mrs. Dinneford, with dismay.
+
+"It's bad enough," said Mrs. Bray, "and I don't see the end of it.
+She's got you in her power, and no mistake, and she isn't one of the
+kind to give up so splendid an advantage. I'm only surprised that
+she's kept away so long."
+
+"What's to be done about it?" asked Mrs. Dinneford, her alarm and
+distress increasing.
+
+"Ah! that's more than I can tell," coolly returned Mrs. Bray. "One
+thing is certain--I don't want to have anything more to do with her.
+It isn't safe to let her come here. You'll have to manage her
+yourself."
+
+"No, no, no, Mrs. Bray! You mustn't desert me!" answered Mrs.
+Dinneford, her face growing pallid with fear. "Money is of no
+account. I'll pay 'most anything, reasonable or unreasonable, to
+have her kept away."
+
+And she drew out her pocket-book while speaking. At this moment
+there came two distinct raps on the door. It had been locked after
+Mrs. Dinneford's entrance. Mrs. Bray started and changed
+countenance, turning her face quickly from observation. But she was
+self-possessed in an instant. Rising, she said in a whisper,
+
+"Go silently into the next room, and remain perfectly still. I
+believe that's the woman now. I'll manage her as best I can."
+
+Almost as quick as thought, Mrs. Dinneford vanished through a door
+that led into an adjoining room, and closing it noiselessly, turned
+a key that stood in the lock, then sat down, trembling with nervous
+alarm. The room in which she found herself was small, and overlooked
+the street; it was scantily furnished as a bed-room. In one corner,
+partly hid by a curtain that hung from a hoop fastened to the wall,
+was an old wooden chest, such as are used by sailors. Under the bed,
+and pushed as far back as possible, was another of the same kind.
+The air of the room was close, and she noticed the stale smell of a
+cigar.
+
+A murmur of voices from the room she had left so hastily soon
+reached her ears; but though she listened intently, standing close
+to the door, she was not able to distinguish a word. Once or twice
+she was sure that she heard the sound of a man's voice. It was
+nearly a quarter of an hour by her watch--it seemed two
+hours--before Mrs. Bray's visitor or visitors retired; then there
+came a light rap on the door. She opened it, and stood face to face
+again with the dark-eyed little woman.
+
+"You kept me here a long time," said Mrs. Dinneford, with
+ill-concealed impatience.
+
+"No longer than I could help," replied Mrs. Bray. "Affairs of this
+kind are not settled in a minute."
+
+"Then it was that miserable woman?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Well, what did you make out of her?"
+
+"Not much; she's too greedy. The taste of blood has sharpened her
+appetite."
+
+"What does she want?"
+
+"She wants two hundred dollars paid into her hand to-day, and says
+that if the money isn't here by sundown, you'll have a visit from
+her in less than an hour afterward."
+
+"Will that be the end of it?"
+
+A sinister smile curved Mrs. Bray's lips slightly.
+
+"More than I can say," she answered.
+
+"Two hundred dollars?"
+
+"Yes. She put the amount higher, but I told her she'd better not go
+for too big a slice or she might get nothing--that there was such a
+thing as setting the police after her. She laughed at this in such a
+wicked, sneering way that I felt my flesh creep, and said she knew
+the police, and some of their masters, too, and wasn't afraid of
+them. She's a dreadful woman;" and Mrs. Bray shivered in a very
+natural manner.
+
+"If I thought this would be the last of it!" said Mrs. Dinneford as
+she moved about the room in a disturbed way, and with an anxious
+look on her face.
+
+"Perhaps," suggested her companion, "it would be best for you to
+grapple with this thing at the outset--to take our vampire by the
+throat and strangle her at once. The knife is the only remedy for
+some forms of disease. If left to grow and prey upon the body, they
+gradually suck away its life and destroy it in the end."
+
+"If I only knew how to do it," replied Mrs. Dinneford. "If I could
+only get her in my power, I'd make short works of her." Her eyes
+flashed with a cruel light.
+
+"It might be done."
+
+"How?"
+
+"Mr. Dinneford knows the chief of police."
+
+The light went out of Mrs. Dinneford's eyes:
+
+"It can't be done in that way, and you know it as well as I do."
+
+Mrs. Dinneford turned upon Mrs. Bray sharply, and with a gleam of
+suspicion in her face.
+
+"I don't know any other way, unless you go to the chief yourself,"
+replied Mrs. Bray, coolly. "There is no protection in cases like
+this except through the law. Without police interference, you are
+wholly in this woman's power."
+
+Mrs. Dinneford grew very pale.
+
+"It is always dangerous," went on Mrs. Bray, "to have anything to do
+with people of this class. A woman who for hire will take a new-born
+baby and sell it to a beggar-woman will not stop at anything. It is
+very unfortunate that you are mixed up with her."
+
+"I'm indebted to you for the trouble," replied. Mrs. Dinneford, with
+considerable asperity of manner. "You ought to have known something
+about the woman before employing her in a delicate affair of this
+kind."
+
+"Saints don't hire themselves to put away new-born babies," retorted
+Mrs. Bray, with an ugly gurgle in her throat. "I told you at the
+time that she was a bad woman, and have not forgotten your answer."
+
+"What did I answer?"
+
+"That she might be the devil for all you cared!"
+
+"You are mistaken."
+
+"No; I repeat your very words. They surprised and shocked me at the
+time, and I have not forgotten them. People who deal with the devil
+usually have the devil to pay; and your case, it seems, is not to be
+an exception."
+
+Mrs. Bray had assumed an air of entire equality with her visitor.
+
+A long silence followed, during which Mrs. Dinneford walked the
+floor with the quick, restless motions of a caged animal.
+
+"How long do you think two hundred dollars will satisfy her?" she
+asked, at length, pausing and turning to her companion.
+
+"It is impossible for me to say," was answered; "not long, unless
+you can manage to frighten her off; you must threaten hard."
+
+Another silence followed.
+
+"I did not expect to be called on for so large a sum," Mrs.
+Dinneford said at length, in a husky voice, taking out her
+pocket-book as she spoke. "I have only a hundred dollars with me.
+Give her that, and put her off until to-morrow."
+
+"I will do the best I can with her," replied Mrs. Bray, reaching out
+her hand for the money, "but I think it will be safer for you to let
+me have the balance to-day. She will, most likely, take it into her
+head that I have received the whole sum from you, and think I am
+trying to cheat her. In that case she will be as good as her word,
+and come down on you."
+
+"Mrs. Bray!" exclaimed Mrs. Dinneford, suspicion blazing from her
+eyes. "Mrs. Bray!"--and she turned upon her and caught her by the
+arms with a fierce grip--"as I live, you are deceiving me. There is
+no woman but yourself. You are the vampire!"
+
+She held the unresisting little woman in her vigorous grasp for some
+moments, gazing at her in stern and angry accusation.
+
+Mrs. Bray stood very quit and with scarcely a change of countenance
+until this outburst of passion had subsided. She was still holding
+the money she had taken from Mrs. Dinneford. As the latter released
+her she extended her hand, saying, in a low resolute voice, in which
+not the faintest thrill of anger could be detected,
+
+"Take your money." She waited for a moment, and then let the little
+roll of bank-bills fall at Mrs. Dinneford's feet and turned away.
+
+Mrs. Dinneford had made a mistake, and she saw it--saw that she was
+now more than ever in the power of this woman, whether she was true
+or false. If false, more fatally in her power.
+
+At this dead-lock in the interview between these women there came a
+diversion. The sound of feet was heard on the stairs, then a
+hurrying along the narrow passage; a hand was on the door, but the
+key had been prudently turned on the inside.
+
+With a quick motion, Mrs. Bray waved her hand toward the adjoining
+chamber. Mrs. Dinneford did not hesitate, but glided in noiselessly,
+shutting and locking the door behind her.
+
+"Pinky Swett!" exclaimed Mrs. Bray, in a low voice, putting her
+finger to her lips, as she admitted her visitor, at the same time
+giving a warning glance toward the other room. Eyeing her from head
+to foot, she added, "Well, you are an object!"
+
+Pinky had drawn aside a close veil, exhibiting a bruised and swollen
+face. A dark band lay under one of her eyes, and there was a cut
+with red, angry margins on the cheek.
+
+"You are an object," repeated Mrs. Bray as Pinky moved forward into
+the room.
+
+"Well, I am, and no mistake," answered Pinky, with a light laugh.
+She had been drinking enough to overcome the depression and
+discomfort of her feelings consequent on the hard usage she had
+received and a night in one of the city station-houses. "Who's in
+there?"
+
+Mrs. Bray's finger went again to her lips. "No matter," was replied.
+"You must go away until the coast is clear. Come back in half an
+hour."
+
+And she hurried Pinky out of the door, locking it as the girl
+retired. When Mrs. Dinneford came out of the room into which he had
+gone so hastily, the roll of bank-notes still lay upon the floor.
+Mrs. Bray had prudently slipped them into her pocket before
+admitting Pinky, but as soon as she was alone had thrown them down
+again.
+
+The face of Mrs. Dinneford was pale, and exhibited no ordinary signs
+of discomfiture and anxiety.
+
+"Who was that?" she asked.
+
+"A friend," replied Mrs. Bray, in a cold, self-possessed manner.
+
+A few moments of embarrassed silence followed. Mrs. Bray crossed the
+room, touching with her foot the bank-bills, as if they were of no
+account to her.
+
+"I am half beside myself," said Mrs. Dinneford.
+
+Mrs. Bray made no response, did not even turn toward her visitor.
+
+"I spoke hastily."
+
+"A vampire!" Mrs. Bray swept round upon her fiercely. "A
+blood-sucker!" and she ground her teeth in well-feigned passion.
+
+Mrs. Dinneford sat down trembling.
+
+"Take your money and go," said Mrs. Bray, and she lifted the bills
+from the floor and tossed them into her visitor's lap. "I am served
+right. It was evil work, and good never comes of evil."
+
+But Mrs. Dinneford did not stir. To go away at enmity with this
+woman was, so far as she could see, to meet exposure and unutterable
+disgrace. Anything but that.
+
+"I shall leave this money, trusting still to your good offices," she
+said, at length, rising. Her manner was much subdued. "I spoke
+hastily, in a sort of blind desperation. We should not weigh too
+carefully the words that are extorted by pain or fear. In less than
+an hour I will send you a hundred dollars more."
+
+Mrs. Dinneford laid the bank-bills on a table, and then moved to the
+door, but she dared not leave in this uncertainty. Looking back, she
+said, with an appealing humility of voice and manner foreign to her
+character,
+
+"Let us be friends still, Mrs. Bray; we shall gain nothing by being
+enemies. I can serve you, and you can serve me. My suspicions were
+ill founded. I felt wild and desperate, and hardly knew what I was
+saying."
+
+She stood anxiously regarding the little dark-eyed woman, who did
+not respond by word or movement.
+
+Taking her hand from the door she was about opening, Mrs. Dinneford
+came back into the room, and stood close to Mrs. Bray:
+
+"Shall I send you the money?"
+
+"You can do as you please," was replied, with chilling indifference.
+
+"Are you implacable?"
+
+"I am not used to suspicion, much less denunciation and assault. A
+vampire! Do you know what that means?"
+
+"It meant, as used by me, only madness. I did not know what I was
+saying. It was a cry of pain--nothing more. Consider how I stand,
+how much I have at stake, in what a wretched affair I have become
+involved. It is all new to me, and I am bewildered and at fault. Do
+not desert me in this crisis. I must have some one to stand between
+me and this woman; and if you step aside, to whom can I go?"
+
+Mrs. Bray relented just a little. Mrs. Dinneford pleaded and
+humiliated herself, and drifted farther into the toils of her
+confederate.
+
+"You are not rich, Mrs. Bray," she said, at parting, "independent in
+spirit as you are. I shall add a hundred dollars for your own use;
+and if ever you stand in need, you will know where to find an
+unfailing friend."
+
+Mrs. Bray put up her hands, and replied, "No, no, no; don't think of
+such a thing. I am not mercenary. I never serve a friend for money."
+
+But Mrs. Dinneford heard the "yes" which flushed into the voice that
+said "no." She was not deceived.
+
+A rapid change passed over Mrs. Bray on the instant her visitor left
+the room. Her first act was to lock the door; her next, to take the
+roll of bank-bills from the table and put it into her pocket. Over
+her face a gleam of evil satisfaction had swept.
+
+"Got you all right now, my lady!" fell with a chuckle from her lips.
+"A vampire, ha!" The chuckle was changed for a kind of hiss. "Well,
+have it so. There is rich blood in your veins, and it will be no
+fault of mine if I do not fatten upon it. As for pity, you shall
+have as much of it as you gave to that helpless baby. Saints don't
+work in this kind of business, and I'm not a saint."
+
+And she chuckled and hissed and muttered to herself, with many signs
+of evil satisfaction.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII.
+
+
+
+
+
+_FOR_ an hour Mrs. Bray waited the reappearance of Pinky Swett, but
+the girl did not come back. At the end of this time a package which
+had been left at the door was brought to her room. It came from Mrs.
+Dinneford, and contained two hundred dollars. A note that
+accompanied the package read as follows:
+
+"Forgive my little fault of temper. It is your interest to be my
+friend. The woman must not, on any account, be suffered to come near
+me."
+
+Of course there was no signature. Mrs. Bray's countenance was
+radiant as she fingered the money.
+
+"Good luck for me, but bad for the baby," she said, in a low,
+pleased murmur, talking to herself. "Poor baby! I must see better to
+its comfort. It deserves to be looked after. I wonder why Pinky
+doesn't come?"
+
+Mrs. Bray listened, but no sound of feet from the stairs or entries,
+no opening or shutting of doors, broke the silence that reigned
+through the house.
+
+"Pinky's getting too low down--drinks too much; can't count on her
+any more." Mrs. Bray went on talking to herself. "No rest; no quiet;
+never satisfied; for ever knocking round, and for ever getting the
+worst of it. She was a real nice girl once, and I always liked her.
+But she doesn't take any care of herself."
+
+As Pinky went out, an hour before, she met a fresh-looking girl, not
+over seventeen, and evidently from the country. She was standing on
+the pavement, not far from the house in which Mrs. Bray lived, and
+had a traveling-bag in her hand. Her perplexed face and uncertain
+manner attracted Pinky's attention.
+
+"Are you looking for anybody?" she asked.
+
+"I'm trying to find a Mrs. Bray," the girl answered. "I'm a stranger
+from the country."
+
+"Oh, you are?" said Pinky, drawing her veil more tightly so that her
+disfigured face could not be seen.
+
+"Yes I'm from L----."
+
+"Indeed? I used to know some people there."
+
+"Then you've been in L----?" said the girl, with a pleased, trustful
+manner, as of one who had met a friend at the right time.
+
+"Yes, I've visited there."
+
+"Indeed? Who did you know in L----?"
+
+"Are you acquainted with the Cartwrights?"
+
+"I know of them. They are among our first people," returned the
+girl.
+
+"I spent a week in their family a few years ago, and had a very
+pleasant time," said Pinky.
+
+"Oh, I'm glad to know that," remarked the girl. "I'm a stranger
+here; and if I can't find Mrs. Bray, I don't see what I am to do. A
+lady from here who was staying at the hotel gave me at letter to
+Mrs. Bray. I was living at the hotel, but I didn't like it; it was
+too public. I told the lady that I wanted to learn a trade or get
+into a store, and she said the city was just the place for me, and
+that she would give me a letter to a particular friend, who would,
+on her recommendation, interest he self for me. It's somewhere along
+here that she lived, I'm sure;" and she took a letter from her
+pocket and examined the direction.
+
+The girl was fresh and young and pretty, and had an artless,
+confiding manner. It was plain she knew little of the world, and
+nothing of its evils and dangers.
+
+"Let me see;" and Pinky reached out her hand for the letter. She put
+it under her veil, and read,
+
+"MRS. FANNY BRAY, "No. 631----street, "----
+
+"By the hand of Miss Flora Bond."
+
+"Flora Bond," said Pinky, in a kind, familiar tone.
+
+"Yes, that is my name," replied the girl; "isn't this----street?"
+
+"Yes; and there, is the number you are looking for."
+
+"Oh, thank you! I'm so glad to find the place. I was beginning to
+feel scared."
+
+"I will ring the bell for you," said Pinky, going to the door of No.
+631. A servant answered the summons.
+
+"Is Mrs. Bray at home?" inquired Pinky.
+
+"I don't know," replied the servant, looking annoyed. "Her rooms are
+in the third story;" and she held the door wide open for them to
+enter. As they passed into the hall Pinky said to her companion,
+
+"Just wait here a moment, and I will run up stairs and see if she is
+in."
+
+The girl stood in the hall until Pinky came back.
+
+"Not at home, I'm sorry to say."
+
+"Oh dear! that's bad; what shall I do?" and the girl looked
+distressed.
+
+"She'll be back soon, no doubt," said Pinky, in a light, assuring
+voice. "I'll go around with you a little and see things."
+
+The girl looked down at her traveling-bag.
+
+"Oh, that's nothing; I'll help you to carry it;" and Pinky took it
+from her hand.
+
+"Couldn't we leave it here?" asked Flora.
+
+"It might not be safe; servants are not always to be trusted, and
+Mrs. Bray's rooms are locked; we can easily carry it between us. I'm
+strong--got good country blood in my veins. You see I'm from the
+country as well as you; right glad we met. Don't know what you would
+have done."
+
+And she drew the girl out, talking familiarly, as they went.
+
+"Haven't had your dinner yet?"
+
+"No; just arrived in the cars, and came right here."
+
+"You must have something to eat, then. I know a nice place; often
+get dinner there when I'm out."
+
+The girl did not feel wholly at ease. She had not yet been able to
+get sight of Pinky's closely-veiled features, and there was
+something in her voice that made her feel uncomfortable.
+
+"I don't care for any dinner," she said; "I'm not hungry."
+
+"Well, I am, then, so come. Do you like oysters?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Cook them splendidly. Best place in the city. And you'd like to get
+into a store or learn a trade?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"What trade did you think of?"
+
+"None in particular."
+
+"How would you like to get into a book-bindery? I know two or three
+girls in binderies, and they can make from five to ten dollars a
+week. It's the nicest, cleanest work I know of."
+
+"Oh, do you?" returned Flora, with newly-awakening interest.
+
+"Yes; we'll talk it all over while we're eating dinner. This way."
+
+And Pinky turned the corner of a small street that led away from the
+more crowded thoroughfare along which they had been passing.
+
+"It's a quiet and retired place, where only the nicest kind of
+people go," she added. "Many working-girls and girls in stores get
+their dinners there. We'll meet some of them, no doubt; and if any
+that I know should happen in, we might hear of a good place. Just
+the thing, isn't it? I'm right glad I met you."
+
+They had gone halfway down the square, when Pinky stopped before the
+shop of a confectioner. In the window was a display of cakes, pies
+and candies, and a sign with the words, "LADIES' RESTAURANT."
+
+"This is the place," she said, and opening the door, passed in, the
+young stranger following.
+
+A sign of caution, unseen by Flora, was made to a girl who stood
+behind the counter. Then Pinky turned, saying,
+
+"How will you have your oysters? stewed, fried, broiled or roasted?"
+
+"I'm not particular--any way," replied Flora.
+
+"I like them fried. Will you have them the same way?"
+
+Flora nodded assent.
+
+"Let them be fried, then. Come, we'll go up stairs. Anybody there?"
+
+"Two or three only."
+
+"Any girls from the bindery?"
+
+"Yes; I think so."
+
+"Oh. I'm glad of that! Want to see some of them. Come, Miss Bond."
+
+And Pinky, after a whispered word to the attendant, led the way to a
+room up stairs in which were a number of small tables. At one of
+these were two girls eating, at another a girl sitting by herself,
+and at another a young man and a girl. As Pinky and her companion
+entered, the inmates of the room stared at them familiarly, and then
+winked and leered at each other. Flora did not observe this, but she
+felt a sudden oppression and fear. They sat down at a table not far
+from one of the windows. Flora looked for the veil to be removed, so
+that she might see the face of her new friend. But Pinky kept it
+closely down.
+
+In about ten minutes the oysters were served. Accompanying them were
+two glasses of some kind of liquor. Floating on one of these was a
+small bit of cork. Pinky took this and handed the other to her
+companion, saying,
+
+"Only a weak sangaree. It will refresh you after your fatigue; and I
+always like something with oysters, it helps to make them lay
+lighter on the stomach."
+
+Meantime, one of the girls had crossed over and spoken to Pinky.
+After word or two, the latter said,
+
+"Don't you work in a bindery, Miss Peter?"
+
+"Yes," was answered, without hesitation.
+
+"I thought so. Let me introduce you to my friend, Miss Flora Bond.
+She's from the country, and wants to get into some good
+establishment. She talked about a store, but I think a bindery is
+better."
+
+"A great deal better," was replied by Miss Peter. "I've tried them
+both, and wouldn't go back to a store again on any account. If I can
+serve your friend, I shall be most happy."
+
+"Thank you!" returned Flora; "you are very kind."
+
+"Not at all; I'm always glad when I can be of service to any one.
+You think you'd like to go into a bindery?"
+
+"Yes. I've come to the city to get employment, and haven't much
+choice."
+
+"There's no place like the city," remarked the other. "I'd die in
+the country--nothing going on. But you won't stagnate here. When did
+you arrive?"
+
+"To-day."
+
+"Have you friends here?"
+
+"No. I brought a letter of introduction to a lady who resides in the
+city."
+
+"What's her name?"
+
+"Mrs. Bray."
+
+Miss Peter turned her head so that Flora could not see her face. It
+was plain from its expression that she knew Mrs. Bray.
+
+"Have you seen her yet?" she asked.
+
+"No. She was out when I called. I'm going back in a little while."
+
+The girl sat down, and went on talking while the others were eating.
+Pinky had emptied her glass of sangaree before she was half through
+with her oysters, and kept urging Flora to drink.
+
+"Don't be afraid of it, dear," she said, in a kind, persuasive way;
+"there's hardly a thimbleful of wine in the whole glass. It will
+soothe your nerves, and make you feel ever so much better."
+
+There was something in the taste of the sangaree that Flora did not
+like--a flavor that was not of wine. But urged repeatedly by her
+companion, whose empty glass gave her encouragement and confidence,
+she sipped and drank until she had taken the whole of it. By this
+time she was beginning to have a sense of fullness and confusion in
+the head, and to feel oppressed and uncomfortable. Her appetite
+suddenly left her, and she laid down her knife and fork and leaned
+her head upon her hand.
+
+"What's the matter?" asked Pinky.
+
+"Nothing," answered the girl; "only my head feels a little
+strangely. It will pass off in a moment."
+
+"Riding in the cars, maybe," said Pinky. "I always feel bad after
+being in the cars; it kind of stirs me up."
+
+Flora sat very quietly at the table, still resting her head upon her
+hands. Pinky and the girl who had joined them exchanged looks of
+intelligence. The former had drawn her veil partly aside, yet
+concealing as much as possible the bruises on her face.
+
+"My! but you're battered!" exclaimed Miss Peter, in a whisper that
+was unheard by Flora.
+
+Pinky only answered by a grimace. Then she said to Flora, with
+well-affected concern,
+
+"I'm afraid you are ill, dear? How do you feel?"
+
+"I don't know," answered the poor girl, in a voice that betrayed
+great anxiety, if not alarm. "It came over me all at once. I'm
+afraid that wine was too strong; I am not used to taking anything."
+
+"Oh dear, no! it wasn't that. I drank a glass, and don't feel it any
+more than if it had been water."
+
+"Let's go," said Flora, starting up. "Mrs. Bray must be home by this
+time."
+
+"All right, if you feel well enough," returned Pinky, rising at the
+same time.
+
+"Oh dear! how my head swims!" exclaimed Flora, putting both hands to
+her temples. She stood for a few moments in an uncertain attitude,
+then reached out in a blind, eager way.
+
+Pinky drew quickly to her side, and put one arm about her waist.
+
+"Come," she said, "the air is too close for you here;" and with the
+assistance of the girl who had joined them, she steadied Flora down
+stairs.
+
+"Doctored a little too high," whispered Miss Peter, with her mouth
+close to Pinky's ear.
+
+"All right," Pinky whispered back; "they know how to do it."
+
+At the foot of the stairs Pinky said,
+
+"You take her out through the yard, while I pay for the oysters.
+I'll be with you in a moment."
+
+Poor Flora, was already too much confused by the drugged liquor she
+had taken to know what they were doing with her.
+
+Hastily paying for the oysters and liquor, Pinky was on hand in a
+few moments. From the back door of the house they entered a small
+yard, and passed from this through a gate into a narrow private
+alley shut in on each side by a high fence. This alley ran for a
+considerable distance, and had many gates opening into it from
+yards, hovels and rear buildings, all of the most forlorn and
+wretched character. It terminated in a small street.
+
+Along this alley Pinky and the girl she had met at the restaurant
+supported Flora, who was fast losing strength and consciousness.
+When halfway down, they held a brief consultation.
+
+"It won't do," said Pinky, "to take her through to----street. She's
+too far gone, and the police will be down on us and carry her off."
+
+"Norah's got some place in there," said the other, pointing to an
+old wooden building close by.
+
+"I'm out with Norah," replied Pinky, "and don't mean to have
+anything more to do with her."
+
+"Where's your room?"
+
+"That isn't the go. Don't want her there. Pat Maley's cellar is just
+over yonder. We can get in from the alley."
+
+"Pat's too greedy a devil. There wouldn't be anything left of her
+when he got through. No, no, Pinky; I'll have nothing to do with it
+if she's to go into Pat Maley's cellar."
+
+"Not much to choose between 'em," answered Pinky. "But it won't do
+to parley here. We must get her in somewhere."
+
+And she pushed open a gate as she spoke. It swung back on one hinge
+and struck the fence with a bang, disclosing a yard that beggared
+description in its disorder and filth. In the back part of this yard
+was a one-and-a-half-story frame building, without windows, looking
+more like an old chicken-house or pig-stye than a place for human
+beings to live in. The loft over the first story was reached by
+ladder on the outside. Above and below the hovel was laid off in
+kind of stalls or bunks furnished with straw. There were about
+twenty of these. It was a ten-cent lodging-house, filled nightly. If
+this wretched hut or stye--call it what you will--had been torn
+down, it would not have brought ten dollars as kindling-wood. Yet
+its owner, a gentleman (?) living handsomely up town, received for
+it the annual rent of two hundred and fifty dollars. Subletted at an
+average of two dollars a night, it gave an income of nearly seven
+hundred dollars a year. It was known as the "Hawk's Nest," and no
+bird of prey ever had a fouler nest than this.
+
+As the gate banged on the fence a coarse, evil-looking man, wearing
+a dirty Scotch cap and a red shirt, pushed his head up from the
+cellar of the house that fronted on the street.
+
+"What's wanted?" he asked, in a kind of growl, his upper lip
+twitching and drawing up at one side in a nervous way, letting his
+teeth appear.
+
+"We want to get this girl in for a little while," said Pinky. "We'll
+take her away when she comes round. Is anybody in there?" and she
+pointed to the hovel. 
+
+The man shook his head.
+
+"How much?" asked Pinky.
+
+"Ten cents apiece;" and he held out his hand.
+
+Pinky gave him thirty cents. He took a key from his pocket, and
+opened the door that led into the lower room. The stench that came
+out as the door swung back was dreadful. But poor Flora Bond was by
+this time so relaxed in every muscle, and so dead to outward things,
+that it was impossible to get her any farther. So they bore her into
+this horrible den, and laid her down in one of the stalls on a bed
+of loose straw. Inside, there was nothing but these stalls and
+straw--not a table or chair, or any article of furniture. They
+filled up nearly the entire room, leaving only a narrow passage
+between them. The only means of ventilation was by the door.
+
+As soon as Pinky and her companion in this terrible wickedness were
+alone with their victim, they searched her pocket for the key of her
+traveling-bag. On finding it, Pinky was going to open it, when the
+other said,
+
+"Never mind about that; we can examine her baggage in safer place.
+Let's go for the movables."
+
+And saying this, she fell quickly to work on the person of Flora,
+slipping out the ear-rings first, then removing her breast-pin and
+finger-rings, while Pinky unbuttoned the new gaiter boots, and drew
+off both boots and stockings, leaving upon the damp straw the small,
+bare feet, pink and soft almost as a baby's.
+
+It did not take these harpies five minutes to possess themselves of
+everything but the poor girl's dress and undergarments. Cloth
+oversack, pocket-book, collar, linen cuffs, hat, shoes and
+stockings--all these were taken.
+
+"Hallo!" cried the keeper of this foul den as the two girls hurried
+out with the traveling-bag and a large bundle sooner than he had
+expected; and he came quickly forth from the cellar in which he
+lived like a cruel spider and tried to intercept them, but they
+glided through the gate and were out of his reach before he could
+get near. He could follow them only with obscene invectives and
+horrible oaths. Well he knew what had been done--that there had been
+a robbery in the "Hawk's Nest," and he not in to share the booty.
+
+Growling like a savage dog, this wretch, in whom every instinct of
+humanity had long since died--this human beast, who looked on
+innocence and helplessness as a wolf looks upon a lamb--strode
+across the yard and entered the den. Lying in one of the stalls upon
+the foul, damp straw he found Flora Bond. Cruel beast that he was,
+even he felt himself held back as by an invisible hand, as he looked
+at the pure face of the insensible girl. Rarely had his eyes rested
+on a countenance so full of innocence. But the wolf has no pity for
+the lamb, nor the hawk for the dove. The instinct of his nature
+quickly asserted itself.
+
+Avarice first. From the face his eyes turned to see what had been
+left by the two girls. An angry imprecation fell from his lips when
+he saw how little remained for him. But when he lifted Flora's head
+and unbound her hair, a gleam of pleasure came info his foul face.
+It was a full suit of rich chestnut brown, nearly three feet long,
+and fell in thick masses over her breast and shoulders. He caught it
+up eagerly, drew it through his great ugly hands, and gloated over
+it with something of a miser's pleasure as he counts his gold. Then
+taking a pair of scissors from his pocket, he ran them over the
+girl's head with the quickness and skill of a barber, cutting close
+down, that he might not lose even the sixteenth part of an inch of
+her rich tresses. An Indian scalping his victim could not have shown
+more eagerness. An Indian's wild pleasure was in his face as he
+lifted the heavy mass of brown hair and held it above his head. It
+was not a trophy--not a sign of conquest and triumph over an
+enemy--but simply plunder, and had a market value of fifteen or
+twenty dollars.
+
+The dress was next examined; it was new, but not of a costly
+material. Removing this, the man went out with his portion of the
+spoils, and locked the door, leaving the half-clothed, unconscious
+girl lying on the damp, filthy straw, that swarmed with vermin. It
+was cold as well as damp, and the chill of a bleak November day
+began creeping into her warm blood. But the stupefying draught had
+been well compounded, and held her senses locked.
+
+Of what followed we cannot write, and we shiver as we draw a veil
+over scenes that should make the heart of all Christendom
+ache--scenes that are repeated in thousands of instances year by
+year in our large cities, and no hand is stretched forth to succor
+and no arm to save. Under the very eyes of the courts and the
+churches things worse than we have described--worse than the reader
+can imagine--are done every day. The foul dens into which crime goes
+freely, and into which innocence is betrayed, are known to the
+police, and the evil work that is done is ever before them. From one
+victim to another their keepers pass unquestioned, and plunder,
+debauch, ruin and murder with an impunity frightful to contemplate.
+As was said by a distinguished author, speaking of a kindred social
+enormity, "There is not a country throughout the earth on which a
+state of things like this would not bring a curse. There is no
+religion upon earth that it would not deny; there is no people on
+earth that it would not put to shame."
+
+And we are Christians!
+
+No. Of what followed we cannot write. Those who were near the
+"Hawk's Nest" heard that evening, soon after nightfall, the single
+wild, prolonged cry of a woman. It was so full of terror and despair
+that even the hardened ears that heard it felt a sudden pain. But
+they were used to such things in that region, and no one took the
+trouble to learn what it meant. Even the policeman moving on his
+beat stood listening for only a moment, and then passed on.
+
+Next day, in the local columns of a city paper, appeared the
+following:
+
+"FOUL PLAY.--About eleven o'clock last night the body of a beautiful
+young girl, who could not have been over seventeen years of age, was
+discovered lying on the pavement in----street. No one knew how she
+came there. She was quite dead when found. There was nothing by
+which she could be identified. All her clothes but a single
+undergarment had been removed, and her hair cut off close to her
+head. There were marks of brutal violence on her person. The body
+was placed in charge of the coroner, who will investigate the
+matter."
+
+On the day after, this paragraph appeared:
+
+"SUSPICION OF FOUL PLAY.--The coroner's inquest elicited nothing in
+regard to the young girl mentioned yesterday as having been found
+dead and stripped of her clothing in----street. No one was able to
+identify her. A foul deed at which the heart shudders has been done;
+but the wretches by whom it was committed have been able to cover
+their tracks."
+
+And that was the last of it. The whole nation gives a shudder of
+fear at the announcement of an Indian massacre and outrage. But in
+all our large cities are savages more cruel and brutal in their
+instincts than the Comanches, and they torture and outrage and
+murder a hundred poor victims for every one that is exposed to
+Indian brutality, and there comes no succor. Is it from ignorance of
+the fact? No, no, no! There is not a Judge on the bench, not a
+lawyer at the bar, not a legislator at the State capital, not a
+mayor or police-officer, not a minister who preaches the gospel of
+Christ, who came to seek and to save, not an intelligent citizen,
+but knows of all this.
+
+What then? Who is responsible? The whole nation arouses itself at
+news of an Indian assault upon some defenseless frontier settlement,
+and the general government sends troops to succor and to punish. But
+who takes note of the worse than Indian massacres going on daily and
+nightly in the heart of our great cities? Who hunts down and
+punishes the human wolves in our midst whose mouths are red with the
+blood of innocence? Their deeds of cruelty outnumber every year a
+hundred--nay, a thousand--fold the deeds of our red savages. Their
+haunts are known, and their work is known. They lie in wait for the
+unwary, they gather in the price of human souls, none hindering, at
+our very church doors. Is no one responsible for all this? Is there
+no help? Is evil stronger than good, hell stronger than heaven? Have
+the churches nothing to do in this matter? Christ came to seek and
+to save that which was lost--came to the lowliest, the poorest and
+the vilest, to those over whom devils had gained power, and cast out
+the devils. Are those who call themselves by his name diligent in
+the work to which he put his blessed hands? Millions of dollars go
+yearly into magnificent churches, but how little to the work of
+saving and succoring the weak, the helpless, the betrayed, the
+outcast and the dying, who lie uncared for at the mercy of human
+fiends, and often so near to the temples of God that their agonized
+appeals for help are drowned by the organ and choir!
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX.
+
+
+
+
+
+_THE_ two girls, on leaving the "Hawk's Nest" with their plunder,
+did not pass from the narrow private alley into the small street at
+its termination, but hurried along the way they had come, and
+re-entered the restaurant by means of the gate opening into the
+yard. Through the back door they gained a small, dark room, from
+which a narrow stairway led to the second and third stories of the
+rear building. They seemed to be entirely familiar with the place.
+
+On reaching the third story, Pinky gave two quick raps and then a
+single rap on a closed door. No movement being heard within, she
+rapped again, reversing the order--that is, giving one distinct rap,
+and then two in quick succession. At this the door came slowly open,
+and the two girls passed in with their bundle of clothing and the
+traveling-bag.
+
+The occupant of this room was a small, thin, well-dressed man, with
+cold, restless gray eyes and the air of one who was alert and
+suspicious. His hair was streaked with gray, as were also his full
+beard and moustache. A diamond pin of considerable value was in his
+shirt bosom. The room contained but few articles. There was a worn
+and faded carpet on the floor, a writing-table and two or three
+chairs, and a small bookcase with a few books, but no evidence
+whatever of business--not a box or bundle or article of merchandise
+was to be seen.
+
+As the two girls entered he, shut the door noiselessly, and turned
+the key inside. Then his manner changed; his eyes lighted, and there
+was an expression of interest in his face. He looked toward the bag
+and bundle.
+
+Pinky sat down upon the floor and hurriedly unlocked the
+traveling-bag. Thrusting in her hand, she drew out first a muslin
+nightgown and threw it down, then a light shawl, a new barege dress,
+a pair of slippers, collars, cuffs, ribbons and a variety of
+underclothing, and last of all a small Bible and a prayer-book.
+These latter she tossed from her with a low derisive laugh, which
+was echoed by her companion, Miss Peter.
+
+The bundle was next opened, and the cloth sacque, the hat, the boots
+and stockings and the collar and cuffs thrown upon the floor with
+the contents of the bag.
+
+"How much?" asked Pinky, glancing up at the man.
+
+They were the first words that had been spoken. At this the man knit
+his brows in an earnest way, and looked business. He lifted each
+article from the floor, examined it carefully and seemed to be
+making a close estimate of its value. The traveling-bag was new, and
+had cost probably five dollars. The cloth sacque could not have been
+made for less than twelve dollars. A fair valuation of the whole
+would have been near forty dollars.
+
+"How much?" repeated Pinky, an impatient quiver in her voice.
+
+"Six dollars," replied the man.
+
+"Six devils!" exclaimed Pinky, in a loud, angry voice.
+
+"Six devils! you old swindler!" chimed in Miss Peter.
+
+"You can take them away. Just as you like," returned the man, with
+cool indifference. "Perhaps the police will give you more. It's the
+best I can do."
+
+"But see here, Jerkin," said Pinky: "that sacque is worth twice the
+money."
+
+"Not to me. I haven't a store up town. I can't offer it for sale in
+the open market. Don't you understand?"
+
+"Say ten dollars."
+
+"Six."
+
+"Here's a breast-pin and a pair of ear-rings," said Miss Peter;
+"we'll throw them in;" and she handed Jerkin, as he was called, the
+bits of jewelry she had taken from the person of Flora Bond. He
+looked at them almost contemptuously as he replied,
+
+"Wouldn't give you a dollar for the set."
+
+"Say eight dollars for the whole," urged Pinky.
+
+"Six fifty, and not a cent more," answered Jerkin.
+
+"Hand over, then, you old cormorant!" returned the girl, fretfully.
+"It's a shame to swindle us in this way."
+
+The man took out his pocket-book and paid the money, giving half to
+each of the girls.
+
+"It's just a swindle!" repeated Pinky. "You're an old hard-fisted
+money-grubber, and no better than a robber. Three dollars and a
+quarter for all that work! It doesn't pay for the trouble. We ought
+to have had ten apiece."
+
+"You can make it ten or twenty, or maybe a hundred, if you will,"
+said Jerkin, with a knowing twinkle in his eyes. He gave his thumb a
+little movement over his shoulder as he spoke.
+
+"That's so!" exclaimed Pinky, her manner undergoing a change, and
+her face growing bright--at least as much of it as could brighten.
+"Look here, Nell," speaking to Miss Peter, and drawing a piece of
+paper from her pocket, "I've got ten rows here. Fanny Bray gave me
+five dollars to go a half on each row. Meant to have gone to Sam
+McFaddon's last night, but got into a muss with old Sal and Norah,
+and was locked up."
+
+"They make ten hits up there to one at Sam McFaddon's," said Jerkin,
+again twitching his thumb over his shoulder. "It's the luckiest
+office I ever heard of. Two or three hits every day for a week
+past--got a lucky streak, somehow. If you go in anywhere, take my
+advice and go in there," lifting his hand and twitching his thumb
+upward and over his shoulder again.
+
+The two girls passed from the room, and the door was shut and locked
+inside. No sooner had they done so than Jerkin made a new
+examination of the articles, and after satisfying himself as to
+their value proceeded to put them out of sight. Lifting aside a
+screen that covered the fireplace, he removed from the chimney back,
+just above the line of sight, a few loose bricks, and through the
+hole thus made thrust the articles he had bought, letting them drop
+into a fireplace on the other side.
+
+On leaving the room of this professional receiver of stolen goods,
+Pinky and her friend descended to the second story, and by a door
+which had been cut through into the adjoining property passed to the
+rear building of the house next door. They found themselves on a
+landing, or little square hall, with a stairway passing down to the
+lower story and another leading to the room above. A number of
+persons were going up and coming down--a forlorn set, for the most
+part, of all sexes, ages and colors. Those who were going up
+appeared eager and hopeful, while those who were coming down looked
+disappointed, sorrowful, angry or desperate. There was a "policy
+shop" in one of the rooms above, and these were some of its
+miserable customers. It was the hour when the morning drawings of
+the lotteries were received at the office, or "shop," and the poor
+infatuated dupes who had bet on their favorite "rows" were crowding
+in to learn the result.
+
+Poor old men and women in scant or wretched clothing, young girls
+with faces marred by evil, blotched and bloated creatures of both
+sexes, with little that was human in their countenances, except the
+bare features, boys and girls not yet in their teens, but old in
+vice and crime, and drunkards with shaking nerves,--all these were
+going up in hope and coming down in disappointment. Here and there
+was one of a different quality, a scantily-dressed woman with a
+thin, wasted face and hollow eyes, who had been fighting the wolf
+and keeping fast hold of her integrity, or a tender,
+innocent-looking girl, the messenger of a weak and shiftless mother,
+or a pale, bright-eyed boy whose much-worn but clean and well-kept
+garments gave sad evidence of a home out of which prop and stay had
+been removed. The strong and the weak, the pure and the defiled,
+were there. A poor washerwoman who in a moment of weakness has
+pawned the garments entrusted to her care, that she might venture
+upon a "row" of which she had dreamed, comes shrinking down with a
+pale, frightened face, and the bitterness of despair in her heart.
+She has lost. What then? She has no friend from whom she can borrow
+enough money to redeem the clothing, and if it is not taken home she
+may be arrested as a thief and sent to prison. She goes away, and
+temptation lies close at her feet. It is her extremity and the evil
+one's opportunity. So far she has kept herself pure, but the
+disgrace of a public prosecution and a sentence to prison are
+terrible things to contemplate. She is in peril of her soul. God
+help her!
+
+Who is this dressed in rusty black garments and closely veiled, who
+comes up from the restaurant, one of the convenient and unsuspected
+entrances to this robber's den?--for a "policy-shop" is simply a
+robbery shop, and is so regarded by the law, which sets a penalty
+upon the "writer" and the "backer" as upon other criminals. But who
+is this veiled woman in faded mourning garments who comes gliding as
+noiselessly as a ghost out from one of the rooms of the restaurant,
+and along the narrow entry leading to the stairway, now so thronged
+with visitors? Every day she comes and goes, no one seeing her face,
+and every day, with rare exceptions, her step is slower and her form
+visibly more shrunken when she goes out than when she comes in. She
+is a broken-down gentlewoman, the widow of an officer, who left her
+at his death a moderate fortune, and quite sufficient for the
+comfortable maintenance of herself and two nearly grown-up
+daughters. But she had lived at the South, and there acquired a
+taste for lottery gambling. During her husband's lifetime she wasted
+considerable money in lottery tickets, once or twice drawing small
+prizes, but like all lottery dupes spending a hundred dollars for
+one gained. The thing had become a sort of mania with her. She
+thought so much of prizes and drawn numbers through the day that she
+dreamed of them all night. She had a memorandum-book in which were
+all the combinations she had ever heard of as taking prizes. It
+contained page after page of lucky numbers and fancy "rows," and was
+oftener in her hand than any other book.
+
+There being no public sale of lottery tickets in Northern cities,
+this weak and infatuated woman found out where some of the
+"policy-shops" were kept, and instead of buying tickets, as before,
+risked her money on numbers that might or might not come out of the
+wheel in lotteries said to be drawn in certain Southern States, but
+chiefly in Kentucky. The numbers rarely if ever came out. The
+chances were too remote. After her husband's death she began
+fretting over the smallness of her income. It was not sufficient to
+give her daughters the advantages she desired them to have, and she
+knew of but one way to increase it. That way was through the
+policy-shops. So she gave her whole mind to this business, with as
+much earnestness and self-absorption as a merchant gives himself to
+trade. She had a dream-book, gotten up especially for policy buyers,
+and consulted it as regularly as a merchant does his price-current
+or a broker the sales of stock. Every day she bet on some "row" or
+series of "rows," rarely venturing less than five dollars, and
+sometimes, when she felt more than usually confident, laying down a
+twenty-dollar bill, for the "hit" when made gave from fifty to two
+hundred dollars for each dollar put down, varying according to the
+nature of the combinations. So the more faith a policy buyer had in
+his "row," the larger the venture he would feel inclined to make.
+
+Usually it went all one way with the infatuated lady. Day after day
+she ventured, and day after day she lost, until from hundreds the
+sums she was spending had aggregated themselves into thousands. She
+changed from one policy-shop to another, hoping for better luck. It
+was her business to find them out, and this she was able to do by
+questioning some of those whom she met at the shops. One of these
+was in a building on a principal street, the second story of which
+was occupied by a milliner. It was visited mostly by ladies, who
+could pass in from the street, no one suspecting their errand.
+Another was in the attic of a house in which were many offices and
+places of business, with people going in and coming out all the
+while, none but the initiated being in the secret; while another was
+to be found in the rear of a photograph gallery. Every day and often
+twice a day, as punctually as any man of business, did this lady
+make her calls at one and another of these policy-offices to get the
+drawings or make new ventures. At remote intervals she would make a
+"hit;" once she drew twenty dollars, and once fifty. But for these
+small gains she had paid thousands of dollars.
+
+After a "hit" the betting on numbers would be bolder. Once she
+selected what was known as a "lucky row," and determined to double
+on it until it came out a prize. She began by putting down fifty
+cents. On the next day she put down a dollar upon the same
+combination, losing, of course, Two dollars were ventured on the
+next day; and so she went on doubling, until, in her desperate
+infatuation, she doubled for the ninth time, putting down two
+hundred and fifty-six dollars.
+
+If successful now, she would draw over twenty-five thousand dollars.
+There was no sleep for the poor lady during the night that followed.
+She walked the floor of her chamber in a state of intense nervous
+excitement, sometimes in a condition of high hope and confidence and
+sometimes haunted by demons of despair. She sold five shares of
+stock on which she had been receiving an annual dividend of ten per
+cent., in order to get funds for this desperate gambling venture, in
+which over five hundred dollars had now been absorbed.
+
+Pale and nervous, she made her appearance at the breakfast-table on
+the next morning, unable to take a mouthful of food. It was in vain
+that her anxious daughters urged her to eat.
+
+A little after twelve o'clock she was at the policy-office. The
+drawn numbers for the morning were already in. Her combination was
+4, 10, 40. With an eagerness that could not be repressed, she caught
+up the slip of paper containing the thirteen numbers out of
+seventy-five, which purported to have been drawn that morning
+somewhere in "Kentucky," and reported by telegraph--caught it up
+with hands that shook so violently that she could not read the
+figures. She had to lay the piece of paper down upon the little
+counter before which she stood, in order that it might be still, so
+that she could read her fate.
+
+The first drawn number was 4. What a wild leap her heart gave! The
+next was 24; the next 8; the next 70; the next 41, and the next 39.
+Her heart grew almost still; the pressure as of a great hand was on
+her bosom. 10 came next. Two numbers of her row were out. A quiver
+of excitement ran through her frame. She caught up the paper, but it
+shook as before, so that she could not see the figures. Dashing it
+back upon the counter, and holding it down almost violently, she
+bent over, with eyes starting from their sockets, and read the line
+of figures to the end, then sank over upon the counter with a groan,
+and lay there half fainting and too weak to lift herself up. If the
+40 had been there, she would have made a hit of twenty-five thousand
+dollars. But the 40 was not there, and this made all the difference.
+
+"Once more," said the policy-dealer, in a tone of encouragement, as
+he bent over the miserable woman. Yesterday, 4 came out; to-day, 4,
+10; tomorrow will be the lucky chance; 4, 10, 40 will surely be
+drawn. I never knew this order to fail. If it had been 10 first, and
+then 4, 10, or 10, 4, I would not advise you to go on. But 4, 10, 40
+will be drawn to-morrow as sure as fate."
+
+"What numbers did you say? 4, 10, 40?" asked an old man, ragged and
+bloated, who came shuffling in as the last remarks was made.
+
+"Yes," answered the dealer. "This lady has been doubling, and as the
+chances go, her row is certain to make a hit to-morrow."
+
+"Ha! What's the row? 4, 10, 40?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+The old man fumbled in his pocket, and brought out ten cents.
+
+"I'll go that on the row. Give me a piece."
+
+The dealer took a narrow slip of paper and wrote on it the date, the
+sum risked and the combination of figures, and handed it to the old
+man, saying,
+
+"Come here to-morrow; and if the bottom of the world doesn't drop
+out, you'll find ten dollars waiting for you."
+
+Two or three others were in by this time, eager to look over the
+list of drawn numbers and to make new bets.
+
+"Glory!" cried one of them, a vile-looking young woman, and she
+commenced dancing about the room.
+
+All was excitement now. "A hit! a hit!" was cried. "How much? how
+much?" and they gathered to the little counter and desk of the
+policy-dealer.
+
+"1, 2, 3," cried the girl, dancing about and waving her little slip
+of paper over her head. "I knew it would come--dreamed of them
+numbers three nights hand running! Hand over the money, old chap!
+Fifteen dollars for fifteen cents! That's the go!"
+
+The policy-dealer took the girl's "piece," and after comparing it
+with the record of drawn numbers, said, in a pleased voice,
+
+"All right! A hit, sure enough. You're in luck to-day."
+
+The girl took the money, that was promptly paid down, and as she
+counted it over the dealer remarked,
+
+"There's a doubling game going on, and it's to be up to-morrow,
+sure."
+
+"What's the row?" inquired the girl.
+
+"4, 10, 40," said the dealer.
+
+"Then count me in;" and she laid down five dollars on the counter.
+
+"Take my advice and go ten," urged the policy-dealer.
+
+"No, thank you! shouldn't know what to do with more than five
+hundred dollars. I'll only go five dollars this time."
+
+The "writer," as a policy-seller is called, took the money and gave
+the usual written slip of paper containing the selected numbers;
+loudly proclaiming her good luck, the girl then went away. She was
+an accomplice to whom a "piece" had been secretly given after the
+drawn numbers were in.
+
+Of course this hit was the sensation of the day among the
+policy-buyers at that office, and brought in large gains.
+
+The wretched woman who had just seen five hundred dollars vanish
+into nothing instead of becoming, as under the wand of an enchanter,
+a great heap of gold, listened in a kind of maze to what passed
+around her--listened and let the tempter get to her ear again. She
+went away, stooping in her gait as one bearing a heavy burden.
+Before an hour had passed hope had lifted her again into confidence.
+She had to make but one venture more to double on the risk of the
+day previous, and secure a fortune that would make both herself and
+daughters independent for life.
+
+Another sale of good stocks, another gambling venture and another
+loss, swelling the aggregate in this wild and hopeless "doubling"
+experiment to over a thousand dollars.
+
+But she was not cured. As regularly as a drunkard goes to the bar
+went she to the policy-shops, every day her fortune growing less.
+Poverty began to pinch. The house in which she lived with her
+daughters was sold, and the unhappy family shrunk into a single room
+in a third-rate boarding-house. But their income soon became
+insufficient to meet the weekly demand for board. Long before this
+the daughters had sought for something to do by which to earn a
+little money. Pride struggled hard with them, but necessity was
+stronger than pride.
+
+We finish the story in a few words. In a moment of weakness, with
+want and hard work staring her in the face, one of the daughters
+married a man who broke her heart and buried her in less than two
+years. The other, a weak and sickly girl, got a situation as day
+governess in the family of an old friend of her father's, where she
+was kindly treated, but she lived only a short time after her
+sister's death.
+
+And still there was no abatement of the mother's infatuation. She
+was more than half insane on the subject of policy gambling, and
+confident of yet retrieving her fortunes.
+
+At the time Pinky Swett and her friend in evil saw her come gliding
+up from the restaurant in faded mourning garments and closely
+veiled, she was living alone in a small, meagrely furnished room,
+and cooking her own food.
+
+Everything left to her at her husband's death was gone. She earned a
+dollar or two each week by making shirts and drawers for the
+slop-shops, spending every cent of this in policies. A few old
+friends who pitied her, but did not know of the vice in which she
+indulged, paid her rent and made occasional contributions for her
+support. All of these contributions, beyond the amount required for
+a very limited supply of food, went to the policy-shops. It was a
+mystery to her friends how she had managed to waste the handsome
+property left by her husband, but no one suspected the truth.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X.
+
+
+
+
+
+"_WHO'S_ that, I wonder?" asked Nell Peter as the dark, close-veiled
+figure glided past them on the stairs.
+
+"Oh, she's a policy-drunkard," answered Pinky, loud enough to be
+heard by the woman, who, as if surprised or alarmed, stopped and
+turned her head, her veil falling partly away, and disclosing
+features so pale and wasted that she looked more like a ghost than
+living flesh and blood. There was a strange gleam in her eyes. She
+paused only for an instant, but her steps were slower as she went on
+climbing the steep and narrow stairs that led to the policy-office.
+
+"Good Gracious, Pinky! did you ever see such a face?" exclaimed Nell
+Peter. "It's a walking ghost, I should say, and no woman at all."
+
+"Oh, I've seen lots of 'em," answered Pinky. "She's a
+policy-drunkard. Bad as drinking when it once gets hold of 'em. They
+tipple all the time, sell anything, beg, borrow, steal or starve
+themselves to get money to buy policies. She's one of 'em that's
+starving."
+
+By this time they had reached the policy-office. It was in a small
+room on the third floor of the back building, yet as well known to
+the police of the district as if it had been on the front street.
+One of these public guardians soon after his appointment through
+political influence, and while some wholesome sense of duty and
+moral responsibility yet remained, caused the "writer" in this
+particular office to be arrested. He thought that he had done a good
+thing, and looked for approval and encouragement. But to his
+surprise and chagrin he found that he had blundered. The case got no
+farther than the alderman's. Just how it was managed he did not
+know, but it was managed, and the business of the office went on as
+before.
+
+A little light came to him soon after, on meeting a prominent
+politician to whom he was chiefly indebted for his appointment. Said
+this individual, with a look of warning and a threat in his voice,
+
+"See here, my good fellow; I'm told that you've been going out of
+your way and meddling with the policy-dealers. Take my advice, and
+mind your own business. If you don't. it will be all day with you.
+There isn't a man in town strong enough to fight this thing, so
+you'd better let it alone."
+
+And he did let it alone. He had a wife and three little children,
+and couldn't afford to lose his place. So he minded his own
+business, and let it alone.
+
+Pinky and her friend entered this small third-story back room.
+Behind a narrow, unpainted counter, having a desk at one end, stood
+a middle-aged man, with dark, restless eyes that rarely looked you
+in the face. He wore a thick but rather closely-cut beard and
+moustache. The police knew him very well; so did the criminal
+lawyers, when he happened to come in their way; so did the officials
+of two or three State prisons in which he had served out partial
+sentences. He was too valuable to political "rings" and associations
+antagonistic to moral and social well-being to be left idle in the
+cell of a penitentiary for the whole term of a commitment.
+Politicians have great influence, and governors are human.
+
+On the walls of the room were pasted a few pictures cut from the
+illustrated papers, some of them portraits of leading politicians,
+and some of them portraits of noted pugilists and sporting-men. The
+picture of a certain judge, who had made himself obnoxious to the
+fraternity of criminals by his severe sentences, was turned upside
+down. There was neither table nor chair in the room.
+
+The woman in black had passed in just before the girls, and was
+waiting her turn to examine the drawn numbers. She had not tasted
+food since the day before, having ventured her only dime on a
+policy, and was feeling strangely faint and bewildered. She did not
+have to wait long. It was the old story. Her combination had not
+come out, and she was starving. As she moved back toward the door
+she staggered a little. Pinky, who had become curious about her,
+noticed this, and watched her as she went out.
+
+"It's about up with the old lady, I guess," she said to her
+companion, with an unfeeling laugh.
+
+And she was right. On the next morning the poor old woman was found
+dead in her room, and those who prepared her for burial said that
+she was wasted to a skeleton. She had, in fact, starved herself in
+her infatuation, spending day after day in policies what she should
+have spent for food. Pinky's strange remark was but too true. She
+had become a policy-drunkard--a vice almost as disastrous in its
+effects as its kindred, vice, intemperance, though less brutalizing
+and less openly indulged.
+
+"Where now?" was the question of Pinky's friend as they came down,
+after spending in policies all the money they had received from the
+sale of Flora Bond's clothing. "Any other game?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"What?"
+
+"Come along to my room, and I'll tell you."
+
+"Round in Ewing street?"
+
+"Yes. Great game up, if I can only get on the track."
+
+"What is it?"
+
+"There's a cast-off baby in Dirty Alley, and Fan Bray knows its
+mother, and she's rich."
+
+"What?"
+
+"Fan's getting lots of hush-money."
+
+"Goody! but that is game!"
+
+"Isn't it? The baby's owned by two beggar-women who board it in
+Dirty Alley. It's 'most starved and frozen to death, and Fan's awful
+'fraid it may die. She wants me to steal it for her, so that she may
+have it better taken care of, and I was going to do it last night,
+when I got into a muss."
+
+"Who's the woman that boards it?"
+
+"She lives in a cellar, and is drunk every night. Can steal the brat
+easily enough; but if I can't find out who it belongs to, you see it
+will be trouble for nothing."
+
+"No, I don't see any such thing," answered Nell Peter. "If you can't
+get hush-money out of its mother, you can bleed Fanny Bray."
+
+"That's so, and I'm going to bleed her. The mother, you see, thinks
+the baby's dead. The proud old grandmother gave it away, as soon as
+was born, to a woman that Fan Bray found for her. Its mother was out
+of her head, and didn't know nothing. That woman sold the baby to
+the women who keep it to beg with. She's gone up the spout now, and
+nobody knows who the mother and grandmother are but Fan, and nobody
+knows where the baby is but me and Fan. She's bleeding the old lady,
+and promises to share with me if I keep track of the baby and see
+that it isn't killed or starved to death. But I don't trust her. She
+puts me off with fives and tens, when I'm sure she gets hundreds.
+Now, if we have the baby all to ourselves, and find out the mother
+and grandmother, won't we have a splendid chance? I'll bet you on
+that."
+
+"Won't we? Why, Pinky, this is a gold-mine!"
+
+"Didn't I tell you there was great game up? I was just wanting some
+one to help me. Met you in the nick of time."
+
+The two girls had now reached Pinky's room in Ewing street, where
+they continued in conference for a long time before settling their
+plans.
+
+"Does Fan know where you live?" queried Nell Peter.
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Then you will have to change your quarters."
+
+"Easily done. Doesn't take half a dozen furniture-cars to move me."
+
+"I know a room."
+
+"Where?"
+
+"It's a little too much out of the way, you'll think, maybe, but
+it's just the dandy for hiding in. You cart keep the brat there, and
+nobody--"
+
+"Me keep the brat?" interrupted Pinky, with a derisive laugh.
+"That's a good one! I see myself turned baby-tender! Ha! ha! that's
+funny!"
+
+"What do you expect to do with the child after you steal it?" asked
+Pinky's friend.
+
+"I don't intend to nurse it or have it about me."
+
+"What then?"
+
+"Board if with some one who doesn't get drunk or buy policies."
+
+"You'll hunt for a long time."
+
+"Maybe, but I'll try. Anyhow, it can't be worse off than it is now.
+What I'm afraid of is that it will be out of its misery before we
+can get hold of it. The woman who is paid for keeping it at night
+doesn't give it any milk--just feeds it on bread soaked in water,
+and that is slow starvation. It's the way them that don't want to
+keep their babies get rid of them about here."
+
+"The game's up if the baby dies," said Nell Peter, growing excited
+under this view of the case. "If it only gets bread soaked in water,
+it can't live. I've seen that done over and over again. They're
+starving a baby on bread and water now just over from my room, and
+it cries and frets and moans all the time it's awake, poor little
+wretch! I've been in hopes for a week that they'd give it an
+overdose of paregoric or something else."
+
+"We must fix it to-night in some way," answered Pinky. "Where's the
+room you spoke of?"
+
+"In Grubb's court. You know Grubb's court?--a kind of elbow going
+off from Rider's court. There's a room up there that you can get
+where even the police would hardly find you out."
+
+"Thieves live there," said Pinky.
+
+"No matter. They'll not trouble you or the baby."
+
+"Is the room furnished?"
+
+"Yes. There's a bed and a table and two chairs."
+
+After farther consultation it was decided that Pinky should move at
+once from her present lodgings to the room in Grubb's court, and
+get, if possible, possession of the baby that very night. The moving
+was easily accomplished after the room was secured. Two small
+bundles of clothing constituted Pinky's entire effects; and taking
+these, the two girls went quietly out, leaving a week's rent unpaid.
+
+The night that closed this early winter day was raw and cold, the
+easterly wind still prevailing, with occasional dashes of rain. In a
+cellar without fire, except a few bits of smouldering wood in an old
+clay furnace, that gave no warmth to the damp atmosphere, and with
+scarcely an article of furniture, a woman half stupid from drink sat
+on a heap of straw, her bed, with her hands clasped about her knees.
+She was rocking her body backward and forward, and crooning to
+herself in a maudlin way. A lighted tallow candle stood on the floor
+of the cellar, and near it a cup of water, in which was a spoon and
+some bread soaking.
+
+"Mother Hewitt!" called a voice from the cellar door that opened on
+the street. "Here, take the baby!"
+
+Mother Hewitt, as she was called, started up and made her way with
+an unsteady gait to the front part of the cellar, where a woman in
+not much better condition than herself stood holding out a bundle of
+rags in which a fretting baby was wrapped.
+
+"Quick, quick!" called the woman. "And see here," she continued as
+Mother Hewitt reached her arms for the baby; "I don't believe you're
+doing the right thing. Did he have plenty of milk last night and
+this morning?"
+
+"Just as much as he would take."
+
+"I don't believe it. He's been frettin' and chawin' at the strings
+of his hood all the afternoon, when he ought to have been asleep,
+and he's looking punier every day. I believe you're giving him only
+bread and water."
+
+But Mother Hewitt protested that she gave him the best of new milk,
+and as much as he would take.
+
+"Well, here's a quarter," said the woman, handing Mother Hewitt some
+money; "and see that he is well fed to-night and to-morrow morning.
+He's getting 'most too deathly in his face. The people won't stand
+it if they think a baby's going to die--the women 'specially, and
+most of all the young things that have lost babies. One of these--I
+know 'em by the way they look out of their eyes--came twice to-day
+and stood over him sad and sorrowful like; she didn't give me
+anything. I've seen her before. Maybe she's his mother. As like as
+nor, for nobody knows where he came from. Wasn't Sally Long's baby;
+always thought she'd stole him from somebody. Now, mind, he's to
+have good milk every day, or I'll change his boarding-house. D'ye
+hear!"
+
+And laughing at this sally, the woman turned away to spend in a
+night's debauch the money she had gained in half a day's begging.
+
+Left to herself, Mother Hewitt went staggering back with the baby in
+her arms, and seated herself on the ground beside the cup of bread
+and water, which was mixed to the consistence of cream. As she did
+so the light of her poor candle fell on the baby's face. It was
+pinched and hungry and ashen pale, the thin lips wrought by want and
+suffering into such sad expressions of pain that none but the most
+stupid and hardened could look at them and keep back a gush of
+tears.
+
+But Mother Hewitt saw nothing of this--felt nothing of this. Pity
+and tenderness had long since died out of her heart. As she laid the
+baby back on one arm she took a spoonful of the mixture prepared for
+its supper, and pushed it roughly into its mouth. The baby swallowed
+it with a kind of starving eagerness, but with no sign of
+satisfaction on its sorrowful little face. But Mother Hewitt was too
+impatient to get through with her work of feeding the child, and
+thrust in spoonful after spoonful until it choked, when she shook it
+angrily, calling it vile names.
+
+The baby cried feebly at this. when she shook it again and slapped
+it with her heavy hand. Then it grew still. She put the spoon again
+to its lips, but it shut them tightly and turned its head away.
+
+"Very well," said Mother Hewitt. "If you won't, you won't;" and she
+tossed the helpless thing as she would have tossed a senseless
+bundle over upon the heap of straw that served as a bed, adding, as
+she did so, "I never coaxed my own brats."
+
+The baby did not cry. Mother Hewitt then blew out the candle, and
+groping her way to the door of the cellar that opened on the street,
+went out, shutting down the heavy door behind her, and leaving the
+child alone in that dark and noisome den--alone in its foul and wet
+garments, but, thanks to kindly drugs, only partially conscious of
+its misery.
+
+Mother Hewitt's first visit was to the nearest dram-shop. Here she
+spent for liquor five cents of the money she had received. From the
+dram-shop she went to Sam McFaddon's policy-office. This was not
+hidden away, like most of the offices, in an upper room or a back
+building or in some remote cellar, concealed from public
+observation, but stood with open door on the very street, its
+customers going in and out as freely and unquestioned as the
+customers of its next-door neighbor, the dram-shop. Policemen passed
+Sam's door a hundred times in every twenty-four hours, saw his
+customers going in and out, knew their errand, talked with Sam about
+his business, some of them trying their luck occasionally after
+there had been an exciting "hit," but none reporting him or in any
+way interfering with his unlicensed plunder of the miserable and
+besotted wretches that crowded his neighborhood.
+
+From the whisky-shop to the policy-shop went Mother Hewitt. Here she
+put down five cents more; she never bet higher than this on a "row."
+From the policy-shop she went back to the whisky-shop, and took
+another drink. By this time she was beginning to grow noisy. It so
+happened that the woman who had left the baby with her a little
+while before came in just then, and being herself much the worse for
+drink, picked a quarrel with Mother Hewitt, accusing her of getting
+drunk on the money she received for keeping the baby, and starving
+it to death. A fight was the consequence, in which they were
+permitted to tear and scratch and bruise each other in a shocking
+way, to the great enjoyment of the little crowd of debased and
+brutal men and women who filled the dram-shop. But fearing a visit
+from the police, the owner of the den, a strong, coarse Irishman,
+interfered, and dragging the women apart, pushed Mother Hewitt out,
+giving her so violent an impetus that she fell forward into the
+middle of the narrow street, where she lay unable to rise, not from
+any hurt, but from sheer intoxication.
+
+"What's up now?" cried one and another as this little ripple of
+disturbance broke upon that vile and troubled sea of humanity.
+
+"Only Mother Hewitt drunk again!" lightly spoke a young girl not out
+of her teens, but with a countenance that seemed marred by centuries
+of debasing evil. Her laugh would have made an angel shiver.
+
+A policeman came along, and stood for a little while looking at the
+prostrate woman.
+
+"It's Mother Hewitt," said one of the bystanders.
+
+"Here, Dick," and the policeman spoke to a man near him. "Take hold
+of her feet."
+
+The man did as told, and the policeman lifting the woman's head and
+shoulders, they carried her a short distance, to where a gate opened
+into a large yard used for putting in carts and wagons at night, and
+deposited her on the ground just inside.
+
+"She can sleep it off there," said the policeman as he dropped his
+unseemly load. "She'll have a-plenty to keep her company before
+morning."
+
+And so they left her without covering or shelter in the wet and
+chilly air of a late November night, drunk and asleep.
+
+As the little crowd gathered by this ripple of excitement melted
+away, a single figure remained lurking in a corner of the yard and
+out of sight in its dark shadow. It was that of a man. The moment he
+was alone with the unconscious woman he glided toward her with the
+alert movements of an animal, and with a quickness that made his
+work seem instant, rifled her pockets. His gains were ten cents and
+the policy-slip she had just received at Sam McFaddon's. He next
+examined her shoes, but they were of no value, lifted her dirty
+dress and felt its texture for a moment, then dropped it with a
+motion of disgust and a growl of disappointment.
+
+As he came out from the yard with his poor booty, the light from a
+street-lamp fell on as miserable a looking wretch as ever hid
+himself from the eyes of day--dirty, ragged, bloated, forlorn, with
+scarcely a trace of manhood in his swollen and disfigured face. His
+steps, quick from excitement a few moments before, were now
+shambling and made with difficulty. He had not far to walk for what
+he was seeking. The ministers to his appetite were all about him, a
+dozen in every block of that terrible district that seemed as if
+forsaken by God and man. Into the first that came in his way he went
+with nervous haste, for he had not tasted of the fiery stimulant he
+was craving with a fierce and unrelenting thirst for many hours. He
+did not leave the bar until he had drank as much of the burning
+poison its keeper dispensed as his booty would purchase. In less
+than half an hour he was thrown dead drunk into the street and then
+carried by policemen to the old wagon-yard, to take his night's
+unconscious rest on the ground in company with Mother Hewitt and a
+score besides of drunken wretches who were pitilessly turned out
+from the various dram-shops after their money was spent, and who
+were not considered by the police worth the trouble of taking to the
+station-house.
+
+When Mother Hewitt crept back into her cellar at daylight, the baby
+was gone.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XI.
+
+
+
+
+
+_FOR_ more than a week after Edith's call on Dr. Radcliffe she
+seemed to take but little interest in anything, and remained alone
+in her room for a greater part of the time, except when her father
+was in the house. Since her questions about her baby a slight
+reserve had risen up between them. During this time she went out at
+least once every day, and when questioned by her mother as to where
+she had been, evaded any direct answer. If questioned more closely,
+she would show a rising spirit and a decision of manner that had the
+effect to silence and at the same time to trouble Mrs. Dinneford,
+whose mind was continually on the rack.
+
+One day the mother and daughter met in a part of the city where
+neither of them dreamed of seeing the other. It was not far from
+where Mrs. Bray lived. Mrs. Dinneford had been there on a
+purgational visit, and had come away lighter in purse and with a
+heavier burden of fear and anxiety on her heart.
+
+"What are you doing here?" she demanded.
+
+"I've been to St. John's mission sewing-school," replied Edith. "I
+have a class there."
+
+"You have! Why didn't you tell me this before? I don't like such
+doings. This is no place for you."
+
+"My place is where I can do good," returned Edith, speaking slowly,
+but with great firmness.
+
+"Good! You can do good if you want to without demeaning yourself to
+work like this. I don't want you mixed up with these low, vile
+people, and I won't have it!" Mrs. Dinneford spoke in a sharp,
+positive voice.
+
+Edith made no answer, and they walked on together.
+
+"I shall speak to your father about this," said Mrs. Dinneford. "It
+isn't reputable. I wouldn't have you seen here for the world."
+
+"I shall walk unhurt; you need not fear," returned Edith.
+
+There was silence between them for some time, Edith not caring to
+speak, and her mother in doubt as to what it were best to say.
+
+"How long have you been going to St. John's mission school?" at
+length queried Mrs. Dinneford.
+
+"I've been only a few times," replied Edith.
+
+"And have a class of diseased and filthy little wretches, I
+suppose--gutter children?"
+
+"They are God's children," said Edith, in a tone of rebuke.
+
+"Oh, don't preach to me!" was angrily replied.
+
+"I only said what was true," remarked Edith.
+
+There was silence again.
+
+"Are you going directly home?" asked Mrs. Dinneford, after they had
+walked the distance of several blocks. Edith replied that she was.
+
+"Then you'd better take that car. I shall not be home for an hour
+yet."
+
+They separated, Edith taking the car. As soon as she was alone Mrs.
+Dinneford quickened her steps, like a person who had been held back
+from some engagement. A walk of ten minutes brought her to one of
+the principal hotels of the city. Passing in, she went up to a
+reception-parlor, where she was met by a man who rose from a seat
+near the windows and advanced to the middle of the room. He was of
+low stature, with quick, rather nervous movements, had dark,
+restless eyes, and wore a heavy black moustache that was liberally
+sprinkled with gray. The lower part of his face was shaved clean. He
+showed some embarrassment as he came forward to meet Mrs. Dinneford.
+
+"Mr. Feeling," she said, coldly.
+
+The man bowed with a mixture of obsequiousness and familiarity, and
+tried to look steadily into Mrs. Dinneford's face, but was not able
+to do so. There was a steadiness and power in her eyes that his
+could not bear.
+
+"What do you want with me, sir?" she demanded, a little sharply.
+
+"Take a chair, and I will tell you," replied Freeling, and he
+turned, moving toward a corner of the room, she following. They sat
+down, taking chairs near each other.
+
+"There's trouble brewing," said the man, his face growing dark and
+anxious.
+
+"What kind of trouble?"
+
+"I had a letter from George Granger yesterday."
+
+"What!" The color went out of the lady's face.
+
+"A letter from George Granger. He wished to see me."
+
+"Did you go?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"What did he want?"
+
+Freeling took a deep breath, and sighed. His manner was troubled.
+
+"What did he want?" Mrs. Dinneford repeated the question.
+
+"He's as sane as you or I," said Freeling.
+
+"Is he? Oh, very well! Then let him go to the State's prison." Mrs.
+Dinneford said this with some bravado in her manner. But the color
+did not come back to her face.
+
+"He has no idea of that," was replied.
+
+"What then?" The lady leaned toward Freeling. Her hands moved
+nervously.
+
+"He means to have the case in court again, but on a new issue."
+
+"He does!"
+
+"Yes; says that he's innocent, and that you and I know it--that he's
+the victim of a conspiracy, and that we are the conspirators!"
+
+"Talk!--amounts to nothing," returned Mrs. Dinneford, with a faint
+little laugh.
+
+"I don't know about that. It's ugly talk, and especially so, seeing
+that it's true."
+
+"No one will give credence to the ravings of an insane criminal."
+
+"People are quick to credit an evil report. They will pity and
+believe him, now that the worst is reached. A reaction in public
+feeling has already taken place. He has one or two friends left who
+do not hesitate to affirm that there has been foul play. One of
+these has been tampering with a clerk of mine, and I came upon them
+with their heads together on the street a few days ago, and had my
+suspicions aroused by their startled look when they saw me."
+
+"'What did that man want with you?' I inquired, when the clerk came
+in.
+
+"He hesitated a moment, and then replied, 'He was asking me
+something about Mr. Granger.'
+
+"'What about him?' I queried. 'He asked me if I knew anything in
+regard to the forgery,' he returned.
+
+"I pressed him with questions, and found that suspicion was on the
+right track. This friend of Granger's asked particularly about your
+visits to the store, and whether he had ever noticed anything
+peculiar in our intercourse--anything that showed a familiarity
+beyond what would naturally arise between a customer and salesman."
+
+"There's nothing in that," said Mrs. Dinneford. "If you and I keep
+our own counsel, we are safe. The testimony of a condemned criminal
+goes for nothing. People may surmise and talk as much as they
+please, but no one knows anything about those notes but you and I
+and George."
+
+"A pardon from the governor may put a new aspect on the case."
+
+"A pardon!" There was a tremor of alarm in Mrs. Dinneford's voice.
+
+"Yes; that, no doubt, will be the first move."
+
+"The first move! Why, Mr. Freeling, you don't think anything like
+this is in contemplation?"
+
+"I'm afraid so. George, as I have said, is no more crazy than you or
+I. But he cannot come out of the asylum, as the case now stands,
+without going to the penitentiary. So the first move of his friends
+will be to get a pardon. Then he is our equal in the eyes of the
+law. It would be an ugly thing for you and me to be sued for a
+conspiracy to ruin this young man, and have the charge of forgery
+added to the count."
+
+Mrs. Dinneford gave a low cry, and shivered.
+
+"But it may come to that."
+
+"Impossible!"
+
+"The prudent man foreseeth the evil and hideth himself, but the
+simple pass on and are punished," said Freeling. "It is for this
+that I have sent for you. It's an ugly business, and I was a weak
+fool ever to have engaged in it."
+
+"You were a free agent."
+
+"I was a weak fool."
+
+"As you please," returned Mrs. Dinneford, coldly, and drawing
+herself away from him.
+
+It was some moments before either of them spoke again. Then Freeling
+said,
+
+"I was awake all night, thinking over this matter, and it looks
+uglier the more I think of it. It isn't likely that enough evidence
+could be found to convict either of us, but to be tried on such an
+accusation would be horrible."
+
+"Horrible! horrible!" ejaculated Mrs. Dinneford. "What is to be
+done?" She gave signs of weakness and terror. Freeling observed her
+closely, then felt his way onward.
+
+"We are in great peril," he said. "There is no knowing what turn
+affairs will take. I only wish I were a thousand miles from here. It
+would be safer for us both." Then, after a pause, he added, "If I
+were foot-free, I would be off to-morrow."
+
+He watched Mrs. Dinneford closely, and saw a change creep over her
+face.
+
+"If I were to disappear suddenly," he resumed, "suspicion, if it
+took a definite shape, would fall on me. You would not be thought of
+in the matter."
+
+He paused again, observing his companion keenly but stealthily. He
+was not able to look her fully in the face.
+
+"Speak out plainly," said Mrs. Dinneford, with visible impatience.
+
+"Plainly, then, madam," returned Freeling, changing his whole
+bearing toward her, and speaking as one who felt that he was master
+of the situation, "it has come to this: I shall have to break up and
+leave the city, or there will be a new trial in which you and I will
+be the accused. Now, self-preservation is the first law of nature. I
+don't mean to go to the State's prison if I can help it. What I am
+now debating are the chances in my favor if Granger gets a pardon,
+and then makes an effort to drive us to the wall, which he most
+surely will. I have settled it so far--"
+
+Mrs. Dinneford leaned toward him with an anxious expression on her
+countenance, waiting for the next sentence. But Freeling did not go
+on.
+
+"How have you settled it?" she demanded, trembling as she spoke with
+the excitement of suspense.
+
+"That I am not going to the wall if I can help it."
+
+"How will you help it?"
+
+"I have an accomplice;" and this time he was able to look at Mrs.
+Dinneford with such a fixed and threatening gaze that her eyes fell.
+
+"You have?" she questioned, in a husky voice.
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Who?"
+
+"Mrs. Helen Dinneford. And do you think for a moment that to save
+myself I would hesitate to sacrifice her?"
+
+The lady's face grew white. She tried to speak, but could not.
+
+"I am talking plainly, as you desired, madam," continued Freeling.
+"You led me into this thing. It was no scheme of mine; and if more
+evil consequences are to come, I shall do my best to save my own
+head. Let the hurt go to where it rightfully belongs."
+
+"What do you mean?" Mrs. Dinneford tried to rally herself.
+
+"Just this," was answered: "if I am dragged into court, I mean to go
+in as a witness, and not as a criminal. At the first movement toward
+an indictment, I shall see the district attorney, whom I know very
+well, and give him such information in the case as will lead to
+fixing the crime on you alone, while I will come in as the principal
+witness. This will make your conviction certain."
+
+"Devil!" exclaimed Mrs. Dinneford, her white face convulsed and her
+eyes starting from their sockets with rage and fear. "Devil!" she
+repeated, not able to control her passion.
+
+"Then you know me," was answered, with cool self-possession, "and
+what you have to expect."
+
+Neither spoke for a considerable time. Up to this period they had
+been alone in the parlor. Guests of the house now came in and took
+seats near them. They arose and walked the floor for a little while,
+still in silence, then passed into an adjoining parlor that happened
+to be empty, and resumed the conference.
+
+"This is a last resort," remarked Freeling, softening his voice as
+they sat down--"a card that I do not wish to play, and shall not if
+I can help it. But it is best that you should know that it is in my
+hand. If there is any better way of escape, I shall take it."
+
+"You spoke of going away," said Mrs. Dinneford.
+
+"Yes. But that involves a great deal."
+
+"What?"
+
+"The breaking up of my business, and loss of money and opportunities
+that I can hardly hope ever to regain."
+
+"Why loss of money?"
+
+"I shall have to wind up hurriedly, and it will be impossible to
+collect more than a small part of my outstanding claims. I shall
+have to go away under a cloud, and it will not be prudent to return.
+Most of these claims will therefore become losses. The amount of
+capital I shall be able to take will not be sufficient to do more
+than provide for a small beginning in some distant place and under
+an assumed name. On the other hand, if I remain and fight the thing
+through, as I have no doubt I can, I shall keep my business and my
+place in society here--hurt, it may be, in my good name, but still
+with the main chance all right. But it will be hard for you. If I
+pass the ordeal safely, you will not. And the question to consider
+is whether you can make it to my interest to go away, to drop out of
+sight, injured in fortune and good name, while you go unscathed. You
+now have it all in a nutshell. I will not press you to a decision
+to-day. Your mind is too much disturbed. To-morrow, at noon, I would
+like to see you again."
+
+Freeling made a motion to rise, but Mrs. Dinneford did not stir.
+
+"Perhaps," he said, "you decide at once to let things take their
+course. Understand me, I am ready for either alternative. The
+election is with yourself."
+
+Mrs. Dinneford was too much stunned by all this to be able to come
+to any conclusion. She seemed in the maze of a terrible dream, full
+of appalling reality. To wait for twenty-four hours in this state of
+uncertainty was more than her thoughts could endure. And yet she
+must have time to think, and to get command of her mental resources.
+
+"Will you be disengaged at five o'clock?" she asked.
+
+"Yes."
+
+"I will be here at five."
+
+"Very well."
+
+Mrs. Dinneford arose with a weary air.
+
+"I shall want to hear from you very explicitly," she said. "If your
+demand is anywhere in the range of reason and possibility, I may
+meet it. If outside of that range, I shall of course reject it. It
+is possible that you may not hold all the winning cards--in fact, I
+know that you do not."
+
+"I will be here at five," said Freeling.
+
+"Very well. I shall be on time."
+
+And they turned from each other, passing from the parlor by separate
+doors.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XII.
+
+
+
+
+
+_ONE_ morning, about two weeks later, Mr. Freeling did not make his
+appearance at his place of business as usual. At ten o'clock a clerk
+went to the hotel where he boarded to learn the cause of his
+absence. He had not been there since the night before. His trunks
+and clothing were all in their places, and nothing in the room
+indicated anything more than an ordinary absence.
+
+Twelve o'clock, and still Mr. Freeling had not come to the store.
+Two or three notes were to be paid that day, and the managing-clerk
+began to feel uneasy. The bank and check books were in a private
+drawer in the fireproof of which Mr. Freeling had the key. So there
+was no means of ascertaining the balances in bank.
+
+At one o'clock it was thought best to break open the private drawer
+and see how matters stood. Freeling kept three bank-accounts, and it
+was found that on the day before he had so nearly checked out all
+the balances that the aggregate on deposit was not over twenty
+dollars. In looking back over these bank-accounts, it was seen that
+within a week he had made deposits of over fifty thousand dollars,
+and that most of the checks drawn against these deposits were in
+sums of five thousand dollars each.
+
+At three o'clock he was still absent. His notes went to protest, and
+on the next day his city creditors took possession of his effects.
+One fact soon became apparent--he had been paying the rogue's game
+on a pretty liberal scale, having borrowed on his checks, from
+business friends and brokers, not less than sixty or seventy
+thousand dollars. It was estimated, on a thorough examination of his
+business, that he had gone off with at least a hundred thousand
+dollars. To this amount Mrs. Dinneford had contributed from her
+private fortune the sum of twenty thousand dollars. Not until she
+had furnished him with that large amount would he consent to leave
+the city. He magnified her danger, and so overcame her with terrors
+that she yielded to his exorbitant demand.
+
+On the day a public newspaper announcement of Freeling's rascality
+was made, Mrs. Dinneford went to bed sick of a nervous fever, and
+was for a short period out of her mind.
+
+Neither Mr. Dinneford nor Edith had failed to notice a change in
+Mrs. Dinneford. She was not able to hide her troubled feelings.
+Edith was watching her far more closely than she imagined; and now
+that she was temporarily out of her mind, she did not let a word or
+look escape her. The first aspect of her temporary aberration was
+that of fear and deprecation. She was pursued by some one who filled
+her with terror, and she would lift her hands to keep him off, or
+hide her head in abject alarm. Then she would beg him to keep away.
+Once she said,
+
+"It's no use; I can't do anything more. You're a vampire!"
+
+"Who is a vampire?" asked Edith, hoping that her mother would repeat
+some name.
+
+But the question seemed to put her on her guard. The expression of
+fear went out of her face, and she looked at her daughter curiously.
+
+Edith did not repeat the question. In a little while the mother's
+wandering thoughts began to find words again, and she went on
+talking in broken sentences out of which little could be gleaned. At
+length she said, turning to Edith and speaking with the directness
+of one in her right mind,
+
+"I told you her name was Gray, didn't I? Gray, not Bray."
+
+It was only by a quick and strong effort that Edith could steady her
+voice as she replied:
+
+"Yes; you said it was Gray."
+
+"Gray, not Bray. You thought it was Bray."
+
+"But it's Gray," said Edith, falling in with her mother's humor.
+Then she added, still trying to keep her voice even,
+
+"She was my nurse when baby was born."
+
+"Yes; she was the nurse, but she didn't--"
+
+Checking herself, Mrs. Dinneford rose on one arm and looked at Edith
+in a frightened way, then said, hurriedly,
+
+"Oh, it's dead, it's dead! You know that; and the woman's dead,
+too."
+
+Edith sat motionless and silent as a statue, waiting for what more
+might come. But her mother shut her lips tightly, and turned her
+head away.
+
+A long time elapsed before she was able to read in her mother's
+confused utterances anything to which she could attach a meaning. At
+last Mrs. Dinneford spoke out again, and with an abruptness that
+startled her:
+
+"Not another dollar, sir! Remember, you don't hold _all_ the winning
+cards!"
+
+Edith held her breath, and sat motionless. Her mother muttered and
+mumbled incoherently for a while, and then said, sharply,
+
+"I said I would ruin him, and I've done it!"
+
+"Ruin who?" asked Edith, in a repressed voice.
+
+This question, instead of eliciting an answer, as Edith had hoped,
+brought her mother back to semi-consciousness. She rose again in
+bed, and looked at her daughter in the same frightened way she had
+done a little while before, then laid herself over on the pillows
+again. Her lips were tightly shut.
+
+Edith was almost wild with suspense. The clue to that sad and
+painful mystery which was absorbing her life seemed almost in her
+grasp. A word from those closely-shut lips, and she would have
+certainty for uncertainty. But she waited and waited until she grew
+faint, and still the lips kept silent.
+
+But after a while Mrs. Dinneford grew uneasy, and began talking. She
+moved her head from side to side, threw her arms about restlessly
+and appeared greatly disturbed.
+
+"Not dead, Mrs. Bray?" she cried out, at last, in a clear, strong
+voice.
+
+Edith became fixed as a statue once more.
+
+A few moments, and Mrs. Dinneford added,
+
+"No, no! I won't have her coming after me. More money! You're a
+vampire!"
+
+Then she muttered, and writhed and distorted her face like one in
+some desperate struggle. Edith shuddered as she stood over her.
+
+After this wild paroxysm Mrs. Dinneford grew more quiet, and seemed
+to sleep. Edith remained sitting by the bedside, her thoughts intent
+on the strange sentences that had fallen from her Mother's lips.
+What mystery lay behind them? Of what secret were they an obscure
+revelation? "Not dead!" Who not dead? And again, "It's dead! You
+know that; and the woman's dead, too." Then it was plain that she
+had heard aright the name of the person who had called on her
+mother, and about whom her mother had made a mystery. It was Bray;
+if not, why the anxiety to make her believe it Gray? And this woman
+had been her nurse. It was plain, also, that money was being paid
+for keeping secret. What secret? Then a life had been ruined. "I
+said I would ruin him, and I've done it!" Who? who could her mother
+mean but the unhappy man she had once called husband, now a criminal
+in the eyes of the law, and only saved by insanity from a criminal's
+cell?
+
+Putting all together, Edith's mind quickly wrought out a theory, and
+this soon settled into a conviction--a conviction so close to fact
+that all the chief elements were true.
+
+During her mother's temporary aberration, Edith never left her room
+except for a few minutes at a time. Not a word or sentence escaped
+her notice. But she waited and listened in vain for anything more.
+The talking paroxysm was over. A stupor of mind and body followed.
+Out of this a slow recovery came, but it did not progress to a full
+convalescence. Mrs. Dinneford went forth from her sick-chamber weak
+and nervous, starting at sudden noises, and betraying a perpetual
+uneasiness and suspense. Edith was continually on the alert,
+watching every look and word and act with untiring scrutiny. Mrs.
+Dinneford soon became aware of this. Guilt made her wary, and danger
+inspired prudence. Edith's whole manner had changed. Why? was her
+natural query. Had she been wandering in her mind? Had she given any
+clue to the dark secrets she was hiding? Keen observation became
+mutual. Mother and daughter watched each other with a suspicion that
+never slept.
+
+It was over a month from the time Freeling disappeared before Mrs.
+Dinneford was strong enough to go out, except in her carriage. In
+every case where she had ridden out, Edith had gone with her.
+
+"If you don't care about riding, it's no matter," the mother would
+say, when she saw Edith getting ready. "I can go alone. I feel quite
+well and strong."
+
+But Edith always had some reason for going against which her mother
+could urge no objections. So she kept her as closely under
+observation as possible. One day, on returning from a ride, as the
+carriage passed into the block where they lived, she saw a woman
+standing on the step in front of their residence. She had pulled the
+bell, and was waiting for a servant to answer it.
+
+"There is some one at our door," said Edith.
+
+Mrs. Dinneford leaned across her daughter, and then drew back
+quickly, saying,
+
+"It's Mrs. Barker. Tell Henry to drive past. I don't want to see
+visitors, and particularly not Mrs. Barker."
+
+She spoke hurriedly, and with ill-concealed agitation. Edith kept
+her eyes on the woman, and saw her go in, but did not tell the
+driver to keep on past the house. It was not Mrs. Barker. She knew
+that very well. In the next moment their carriage drew up at the
+door.
+
+"Go on, Henry!" cried Mrs. Dinneford, leaning past her daughter, and
+speaking through the window that was open on that side. "Drive down
+to Loring's."
+
+"Not till I get out, Henry," said Edith, pushing open the door and
+stepping to the pavement. Then with a quick movement she shut the
+door and ran across the pavement, calling back to the driver as she
+did so,
+
+"Take mother to Loring's."
+
+"Stop, Henry!" cried Mrs. Dinneford, and with an alertness that was
+surprising sprung from the carriage, and was on the steps of their
+house before Edith's violent ring had brought a servant to the door.
+They passed in, Edith holding her place just in advance.
+
+"I will see Mrs. Barker," said Mrs. Dinneford, trying to keep out of
+her voice the fear and agitation from which she was suffering. "You
+can go up to your room."
+
+"It isn't Mrs. Barker. You are mistaken." There was as much of
+betrayal in the voice of Edith as in that of her mother. Each was
+trying to hide herself from the other, but the veil in both cases
+was far too thin for deception.
+
+Mother and daughter entered the parlor together. As they did so a
+woman of small stature, and wearing a rusty black dress, arose from
+a seat near the window. The moment she saw Edith she drew a heavy
+dark veil over her face with a quickness of movement that had in it
+as much of discomfiture as surprise.
+
+Mrs. Dinneford was equal to the occasion. The imminent peril in
+which she stood calmed the wild tumult within, as the strong wind
+calms this turbulent ocean, and gave her thoughts clearness and her
+mind decision. Edith saw before the veil fell a startled face, and
+recognized the sallow countenance and black, evil eyes, the woman
+who had once before called to see her mother.
+
+"Didn't I tell you not to come here, Mrs. Gray?" cried out Mrs.
+Dinneford, with an anger that was more real than feigned, advancing
+quickly upon the woman as she spoke. "Go!" and she pointed to the
+door, "and don't you dare to come here again. I told you when you
+were here last time that I wouldn't be bothered with you any longer.
+I've done all I ever intend doing. So take yourself away."
+
+And she pointed again to the door. Mrs. Bray--for it was that
+personage--comprehended the situation fully. She was as good an
+actor as Mrs. Dinneford, and quite as equal to the occasion. Lifting
+her hand in a weak, deprecating way, and then shrinking like one
+borne down by the shock of a great disappointment, she moved back
+from the excited woman and made her way to the hall, Mrs. Dinneford
+following and assailing her in passionate language.
+
+Edith was thrown completely off her guard by this unexpected scene.
+She did not stir from the spot where she stood on entering the
+parlor until the visitor was at the street door, whither her mother
+had followed the retreating figure. She did not hear the woman say
+in the tone of one who spoke more in command than entreaty,
+
+"To-morrow at one o'clock, or take the consequences."
+
+"It will be impossible to-morrow," Mrs. Dinneford whispered back,
+hurriedly; "I have been very ill, and have only just begun to ride
+out. It may be a week, but I'll surely come. I'm watched. Go now!
+go! go!"
+
+And she pushed Mrs. Bray out into the vestibule and shut the door
+after her. Mrs. Dinneford did not return to the parlor, but went
+hastily up to her own room, locking herself in.
+
+She did not come out until dinner-time, when she made an effort to
+seem composed, but Edith saw her hand tremble every time it was
+lifted. She drank three glasses of wine during the meal. After
+dinner she went to her own apartment immediately, and did not come
+down again that day.
+
+On the next morning Mrs. Dinneford tried to appear cheerful and
+indifferent. But her almost colorless face, pinched about the lips
+and nostrils, and the troubled expression that would not go out of
+her eyes, betrayed to Edith the intense anxiety and dread that lay
+beneath the surface.
+
+Days went by, but Edith had no more signs. Now that her mother was
+steadily getting back both bodily strength and mental self-poise,
+the veil behind which she was hiding herself, and which had been
+broken into rifts here and there during her sickness, grew thicker
+and thicker. Mrs. Dinneford had too much at stake not to play her
+cards with exceeding care. She knew that Edith was watching her with
+an intentness that let nothing escape. Her first care, as soon as
+she grew strong enough to have the mastery over herself, was so to
+control voice, manner and expression of countenance as not to appear
+aware of this surveillance. Her next was to re-establish the old
+distance between herself and daughter, which her illness had
+temporarily bridged over, and her next was to provide against any
+more visits from Mrs. Bray.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIII.
+
+
+
+
+
+_AS_ for Edith, all doubts and questionings as to her baby's fate
+were merged into a settled conviction that it was alive, and that
+her mother knew where it was to be found. From her mother's pity and
+humanity she had nothing to hope for the child. It had been cruelly
+cast adrift, pushed out to die; by what means was cared not, so that
+it died and left no trace.
+
+The face of Mrs. Bray had, in the single glance Edith obtained of
+it, become photographed in her mind. If she had been an artist, she
+could have drawn it from memory so accurately that no one who knew
+the woman could have failed to recognize her likeness. Always when
+in the street her eyes searched for this face; she never passed a
+woman of small stature and poor dark clothing without turning to
+look at her. Every day she went out, walking the streets sometimes
+for hours looking for this face, but not finding it. Every day she
+passed certain corners and localities where she had seen women
+begging, and whenever she found one with a baby in her arms would
+stop to look at the poor starved thing, and question her about it.
+
+Gradually all her thoughts became absorbed in the condition of poor,
+neglected and suffering children. Her attendance at the St. John's
+mission sewing-school, which was located in the neighborhood of one
+of the worst places in the city, brought her in contact with little
+children in such a wretched state of ignorance, destitution and vice
+that her heart was moved to deepest pity, intensified by the thought
+that ever and anon flashed across her mind: "And my baby may become
+like one of these!"
+
+Sometimes this thought would drive her almost to madness. Often she
+would become so wild in her suspense as to be on the verge of openly
+accusing her mother with having knowledge of her baby's existence
+and demanding of her its restoration. But she was held back by the
+fear that such an accusation would only shut the door of hope for
+ever. She had come to believe her mother capable of almost any
+wickedness. Pressed to the wall she would never be if there was any
+way of escape, and to prevent such at thing there was nothing so
+desperate that she would not do it; and so Edith hesitated and
+feared to take the doubtful issue.
+
+Week after week and month after month now went on without a single,
+occurrence that gave to Edith any new light. Mrs. Dinneford wrought
+with her accomplice so effectually that she kept her wholly out of
+the way. Often, in going and returning from the mission-school,
+Edith would linger about the neighborhood where she had once met her
+mother, hoping to see her come out of some one of the houses there,
+for she had got it into her mind that the woman called Mrs. Gray
+lived somewhere in this locality.
+
+One day, in questioning a child who had come to the sewing-school as
+to her home and how she lived, the little girl said something about
+a baby that her mother said she knew must have been stolen.
+
+"How old is the baby?" asked Edith, hardly able to keep the tremor
+out of her voice.
+
+"It's a little thing," answered the child. "I don't know how old it
+is; maybe it's six months old, or maybe it's a year. It can sit upon
+the floor."
+
+"Why does your mother think it has been stolen?"
+
+"Because two bad girls have got it, and they pay a woman to take
+care of it. It doesn't belong to them, she knows. Mother says it
+would be a good thing if it died."
+
+"Why does she say that?"
+
+"Oh she always talks that way about babies--says she's glad when
+they die."
+
+"Is it a boy or a girl?"
+
+"It's a boy baby," answered the child.
+
+"Does the woman take good care of it?"
+
+"Oh dear, no! She lets it sit on the floor 'most all the time, and
+it cries so that I often go up and nurse it. The woman lives in the
+room over ours."
+
+"Where do you live?"
+
+"In Grubb's court."
+
+"Will you show me the way there after school is over?"
+
+The child looked up into Edith's face with an expression of surprise
+and doubt. Edith repeated her question.
+
+"I guess you'd better not go," was answered, in a voice that meant
+all the words expressed.
+
+"Why not?"
+
+"It isn't a good place."
+
+"But you live there?"
+
+"Yes, but nobody's going to trouble me."
+
+"Nor me," said Edith.
+
+"Oh, but you don't know what kind of a place it is, nor what
+dreadful people live there."
+
+"I could get a policeman to go with me, couldn't I?"
+
+"Yes, maybe you could, or Mr. Paulding, the missionary. He goes
+about everywhere."
+
+"Where can I find Mr. Paulding?"
+
+"At the mission in Briar street."
+
+"You'll show me the way there after school?"
+
+"Oh yes; it isn't a nice place for you to go, but I guess nobody'll
+trouble you."
+
+After the school closed, Edith, guided by the child, made her way to
+the Briar st. mission-house. As she entered the narrow street in
+which it was situated, the aspect of things was so strange and
+shocking to her eyes that she felt a chill creep to her heart. She
+had never imagined anything so forlorn and squalid, so wretched and
+comfortless. Miserable little hovels, many of them no better than
+pig-styes, and hardly cleaner within, were crowded together in all
+stages of dilapidation. Windows with scarcely a pane of glass, the
+chilly air kept out by old hats, bits of carpet or wads of
+newspaper, could be seen on all sides, with here and there, showing
+some remains of an orderly habit, a broken pane closed with a smooth
+piece of paper pasted to the sash. Instinctively she paused,
+oppressed by a sense of fear.
+
+"It's only halfway down," said the child. "We'll 'go quick. I guess
+nobody'll speak to you. They're afraid of Mr. Paulding about here.
+He's down on 'em if they meddle with anybody that's coming to the
+mission."
+
+Edith, thus urged, moved on. She had gone but a few steps when two
+men came in sight, advancing toward her. They were of the class to
+be seen at all times in that region--debased to the lowest degree,
+drunken, ragged, bloated, evil-eyed, capable of any wicked thing.
+They were singing when they came in sight, but checked their drunken
+mirth as soon as they saw Edith, whose heart sunk again. She
+stopped, trembling.
+
+"They're only drunk," said the child. "I don't believe they'll hurt
+you."
+
+Edith rallied herself and walked on, the men coming closer and
+closer. She saw them look at each other with leering eyes, and then
+at her in a way that made her shiver. When only a few paces distant,
+they paused, and with the evident intention of barring her farther
+progress.
+
+"Good-afternoon, miss," said one of them, with a low bow. "Can we do
+anything for you?"
+
+The pale, frightened face of Edith was noticed by the other, and it
+touched some remnant of manhood not yet wholly extinguished.
+
+"Let her alone, you miserable cuss!" he cried, and giving his
+drunken companion a shove, sent him staggering across the street.
+This made the way clear, and Edith sprang forward, but she had gone
+only a few feet when she came face to face with another obstruction
+even more frightful, if possible, than the first. A woman with a
+red, swollen visage, black eye, soiled, tattered, drunk, with arms
+wildly extended, came rushing up to her. The child gave a scream.
+The wretched creature caught at a shawl worn by Edith, and was
+dragging it from her shoulders, when the door of one of the houses
+flew open, and a woman came out hastily. Grasping the assailant, she
+hurled her across the street with the strength of a giant.
+
+"We're going to the mission," said the child.
+
+"It's just down there. Go 'long. I'll stand here and see that no one
+meddles with you again."
+
+Edith faltered her thanks, and went on.
+
+"That's the queen," said her companion.
+
+"The queen!" Edith's hasty tones betrayed her surprise.
+
+"Yes; it's Norah. They're all afraid of her. I'm glad she saw us.
+She's as strong as a man."
+
+In a few minutes they reached the mission, but in those few minutes
+Edith saw more to sadden the heart, more to make it ache for
+humanity, than could be described in pages.
+
+The missionary was at home. Edith told him the purpose of her call
+and the locality she desired to visit.
+
+"I wanted to go alone," she remarked, "but this little girl, who is
+in my class at the sewing-school, said it wouldn't be safe, and that
+you would go with me."
+
+"I should be sorry to have you go alone into Grubb's court," said
+the missionary, kindly, and with concern in his voice, "for a worse
+place can hardly be found in the city--I was going to say in the
+world. You will be safe with me, however. But why do you wish to
+visit Grubb's court? Perhaps I can do all that is needed."
+
+"This little girl who lives in there, has been telling me about a
+poor neglected baby that her mother says has no doubt been stolen,
+and--and--" Edith voice faltered, but she quickly gained steadiness
+under a strong effort of will: "I thought perhaps I might be able to
+do something for it--to get it into one of the homes, maybe. It is
+dreadful, sir, to think of little babies being neglected."
+
+Mr. Paulding questioned the child who had brought Edith to the
+mission-house, and learned from her that the baby was merely boarded
+by the woman who had it in charge, and that she sometimes took it
+out and sat on the street, begging. The child repeated what she had
+said to Edith--that the baby was the property, so to speak, of two
+abandoned women, who paid its board.
+
+"I think," said the missionary, after some reflection, "that if
+getting the child out of their hands is your purpose, you had better
+not go there at present. Your visit would arouse suspicion; and if
+the two women have anything to gain by keeping the child in their
+possession, it will be at once taken to a new place. I am moving
+about in these localities all the while, and can look in upon the
+baby without anything being thought of it."
+
+This seemed so reasonable that Edith, who could not get over the
+nervous tremors occasioned by what she had already seen and
+encountered, readily consented to leave the matter for the present
+in Mr. Paulding's hands.
+
+"If you will come here to-morrow," said the missionary, "I will tell
+you all I can about the baby."
+
+Out of a region where disease, want and crime shrunk from common
+observation, and sin and death held high carnival, Edith hurried
+with trembling feet, and heart beating so heavily that she could
+hear it throb, the considerate missionary going with her until she
+had crossed the boundary of this morally infected district.
+
+Mr. Dinneford met Edith at the door on her arrival home.
+
+"My child," he exclaimed as he looked into her face, back to which
+the color had not returned since her fright in Briar street, "are
+you sick?"
+
+"I don't feel very well;" and she tried to pass him hastily in the
+hall as they entered the house together. But he laid his hand on her
+arm and held her back gently, then drew her into the parlor. She sat
+down, trembling, weak and faint. Mr. Dinneford waited for some
+moments, looking at her with a tender concern, before speaking.
+
+"Where have you been, my dear?" he asked, at length.
+
+After a little hesitation, Edith told her father about her visit to
+Briar street and the shock she had received.
+
+"You were wrong," he answered, gravely. "It is most fortunate for
+you that you took the child's advice and called at the mission. If
+you had gone to Grubb's court alone, you might not have come out
+alive."
+
+"Oh no, father! It can't be so bad as that."
+
+"It is just as bad as that," he replied, with a troubled face and
+manner. "Grubb's court is one of the traps into which unwary victims
+are drawn that they may be plundered. It is as much out of common
+observation almost as the lair of a wild beast in some deep
+wilderness. I have heard it described by those who have been there
+under protection of the police, and shudder to think of the narrow
+escape you have made. I don't want you to go into that vile district
+again. It is no place for such as you."
+
+"There's a poor little baby there," said Edith, her voice trembling
+and tears filling her eyes. Then, after a brief struggle with her
+feelings, she threw herself upon her father, sobbing out, "And oh,
+father, it may be my baby!"
+
+"My poor child," said Mr. Dinneford, not able to keep his voice
+firm--"my poor, poor child! It is all a wild dream, the suggestion
+of evil spirits who delight in torment."
+
+"What became of my baby, father? Can you tell me?"
+
+"It died, Edith dear. We know that," returned her father, trying to
+speak very confidently. But the doubt in his own mind betrayed
+itself.
+
+"Do you know it?" she asked, rising and confronting her father.
+
+"I didn't actually see it die. But--but--"
+
+"You know no more about it than I do," said Edith; "if you did, you
+might set my heart at rest with a word. But you cannot. And so I am
+left to my wild fears, that grow stronger every day. Oh, father,
+help me, if you can. I must have certainty, or I shall lose my
+reason."
+
+"If you don't give up this wild fancy, you surely will," answered
+Mr. Dinneford, in a distressed voice.
+
+"If I were to shut myself up and do nothing," said Edith, with
+greater calmness, "I would be in a madhouse before a week went by.
+My safety lies in getting down to the truth of this wild fancy, as
+you call it. It has taken such possession of me that nothing but
+certainty can give me rest. Will you help me?"
+
+"How can I help you? I have no clue to this sad mystery."
+
+"Mystery! Then you are as much in the dark as I am--know no more of
+what became of my baby than I do! Oh, father, how could you let such
+a thing be done, and ask no questions--such a cruel and terrible
+thing--and I lying helpless and dumb? Oh, father, my innocent baby
+cast out like a dog to perish--nay, worse, like a lamb among wolves
+to be torn by their cruel teeth--and no one to put forth a hand to
+save! If I only knew that he was dead! If I could find his little
+grave and comfort my heart over it!"
+
+Weak, naturally good men, like Mr. Dinneford, often permit great
+wrongs to be done in shrinking from conflict and evading the sterner
+duties of life. They are often the faithless guardians of immortal
+trusts.
+
+There was a tone of accusation and rebuke in Edith's voice that
+smote painfully on her father's heart. He answered feebly:
+
+"What could I do? How should I know that anything wrong was being
+done? You were very ill, and the baby was sent away to be nursed,
+and then I was told that it was dead."
+
+"Oh, father! Sent away without your seeing it! My baby! Your little
+grandson! Oh, father!"
+
+"But you know, dear, in what a temper of mind your mother was--how
+impossible it is for me to do anything with her when she once sets
+herself to do a thing."
+
+"Even if it be murder!" said Edith, in a hoarse whisper.
+
+"Hush, hush, my child! You must not speak so," returned the agitated
+father.
+
+A silence fell between them. A wall of separation began to grow up.
+Edith arose, and was moving from the room.
+
+"My daughter!" There was a sob in the father's voice.
+
+Edith stopped.
+
+"My daughter, we must not part yet. Come back; sit down with me, and
+let us talk more calmly. What is past cannot be changed. It is with
+the now of this unhappy business that we have to do."
+
+Edith came back and sat down again, her father taking a seat beside
+her.
+
+"That is just it," she answered, with a steadiness of tone and
+manner that showed how great was the self-control she was able to
+exert. "It is with the now of this unhappy affair that we have to
+do. If I spoke strongly of the past, it was that a higher and
+intenser life might be given to present duty."
+
+"Let there be no distance between us. Let no wall of separation grow
+up," said Mr. Dinneford, tenderly. "I cannot bear to think of this.
+Confide in me, consult with me. I will help you in all possible ways
+to solve this mystery. But do not again venture alone into that
+dreadful place. I will go with you if you think any good will come
+of it."
+
+"I must see Mr. Paulding in the morning," said Edith, with calm
+decision.
+
+"Then I will go with you," returned Mr. Dinneford.
+
+"Thank you, father;" and she kissed him. "Until then nothing more
+can be done." She kissed him again, and then went to her own room.
+After locking the door she sank on her knees, leaning forward, with
+her face buried in the cushion of a chair, and did not rise for a
+long time.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIV.
+
+
+
+
+
+_ON_ the next morning, after some persuasion, Edith consented to
+postpone her visit to Grubb's court until after her father had seen
+Mr. Paulding, the missionary.
+
+"Let me go first and gain what information I can," he urged. "It may
+save you a fruitless errand."
+
+It was not without a feeling of almost unconquerable repugnance that
+Mr. Dinneford took his way to the mission-house, in Briar street.
+His tastes, his habits and his naturally kind and sensitive feelings
+all made him shrink from personal contact with suffering and
+degradation. He gave much time and care to the good work of helping
+the poor and the wretched, but did his work in boards and on
+committees, rather than in the presence of the needy and suffering.
+He was not one of those who would pass over to the other side and
+leave a wounded traveler to perish, but he would avoid the road to
+Jericho, if he thought it likely any such painful incident would
+meet him in the way and shock his fine sensibilities. He was willing
+to work for the downcast, the wronged, the suffering and the vile,
+but preferred doing so at a distance, and not in immediate contact.
+Thus it happened that, although one of the managers of the Briar
+street mission and familiar with its work in a general way, he had
+never been at the mission-house--had never, in fact, set his foot
+within the morally plague-stricken district in which it stood. He
+had often been urged to go, but could not overcome his reluctance to
+meet humanity face to face in its sadder and more degraded aspects.
+
+Now a necessity was upon him, and he had to go. It was about ten
+o'clock in the morning when, at almost a single step, he passed from
+what seemed paradise to purgatory, the sudden contrast was so great.
+There were but few persons in the little street; where the mission
+was situated at that early hour, and most of these were
+children--poor, half-clothed, dirty, wan-faced, keen-eyed and alert
+bits of humanity, older by far than their natural years, few of them
+possessing any higher sense of right and wrong than young savages.
+The night's late orgies or crimes had left most of their elders in a
+heavy morning sleep, from which they did not usually awaken before
+midday. Here and there one and another came creeping out, impelled
+by a thirst no water could quench. Now it was a bloated, wild-eyed
+man, dirty and forlorn beyond description, shambling into sight, but
+disappearing in a moment or two in one of the dram-shops, whose name
+was legion, and now it was a woman with the angel all gone out of
+her face, barefooted, blotched, coarse, red-eyed, bruised and
+awfully disfigured by her vicious, drunken life. Her steps too made
+haste to the dram-shop.
+
+Such houses for men and women to live in as now stretched before his
+eyes in long dreary rows Mr. Dinneford had never seen, except in
+isolated cases of vice and squalor. To say that he was shocked would
+but faintly express his feelings. Hurrying along, he soon came in
+sight of the mission. At this moment a jar broke the quiet of the
+scene. Just beyond the mission-house two women suddenly made their
+appearance, one of them pushing the other out upon the street. Their
+angry cries rent the air, filling it with profane and obscene oaths.
+They struggled together for a little while, and then one of them, a
+woman with gray hair and not less than sixty years of age, fell
+across the curb with her head on the cobble-stones.
+
+As if a sorcerer had stamped his foot, a hundred wretched creatures,
+mostly women and children, seemed to spring up from the ground. It
+was like a phantasy. They gathered about the prostrate woman,
+laughing and jeering. A policeman who was standing at the corner a
+little way off came up leisurely, and pushing the motley crew aside,
+looked down at the prostrate woman.
+
+"Oh, it's you again!" he said, in a tone of annoyance, taking hold
+of one arm and raising her so that she sat on the curb-stone. Mr.
+Dinneford now saw her face distinctly; it was that of an old woman,
+but red, swollen and terribly marred. Her thin gray hair had fallen
+over her shoulders, and gave her a wild and crazy look.
+
+"Come," said the policeman, drawing on the woman's arm and trying to
+raise her from the ground. But she would not move.
+
+"Come," he said, more imperatively.
+
+"Nature you going to do with me?" she demanded.
+
+"I'm going to lock you up. So come along. Have had enough of you
+about here. Always drunk and in a row with somebody."
+
+Her resistance was making the policeman angry.
+
+"It'll take two like you to do that," returned the woman, in a
+spiteful voice, swearing foully at the same time.
+
+At this a cheer arose from the crowd. A negro with a push-cart came
+along at the moment.
+
+"Here! I want you," called the policeman.
+
+The negro pretended not to hear, and the policeman had to threaten
+him before he would stop.
+
+Seeing the cart, the drunken woman threw herself back upon the
+pavement and set every muscle to a rigid strain. And now came one of
+those shocking scenes--too familiar, alas! in portions of our large
+Christian cities--at which everything pure and merciful and holy in
+our nature revolts: a gray-haired old woman, so debased by drink and
+an evil life that all sense of shame and degradation had been
+extinguished, fighting with a policeman, and for a time showing
+superior strength, swearing vilely, her face distorted with passion,
+and a crowd made up chiefly of women as vile and degraded as
+herself, and of all ages, and colors, laughing, shouting and
+enjoying the scene intensely.
+
+At last, by aid of the negro, the woman was lifted into the cart and
+thrown down upon the floor, her head striking one of the sides with
+a sickening _thud_. She still swore and struggled, and had to be
+held down by the policeman, who stood over her, while the cart was
+pushed off to the nearest station-house, the excited crowd following
+with shouts and merry huzzas.
+
+Mr. Dinneford was standing in a maze, shocked and distressed by this
+little episode, when a man at his side said in a grave, quiet voice,
+
+"I doubt if you could see a sight just like that anywhere else in
+all Christendom." Then added, as he extended his hand,
+
+"I am glad to see you here, Mr. Dinneford."
+
+"Oh, Mr. Paulding!" and Mr. Dinneford put out his hand and grasped
+that of the missionary with a nervous grip. "This is awful! I am
+sixty years old, but anything so shocking my eyes have not before
+looked upon."
+
+"We see things worse than this every day," said the missionary. "It
+is only one of the angry boils on the surface, and tells of the
+corrupt and vicious blood within. But I am right glad to find you
+here, Mr. Dinneford. Unless you see these things with your own eyes,
+it is impossible for you to comprehend the condition of affairs in
+this by-way to hell."
+
+"Hell, itself, better say," returned Mr. Dinneford. "It is hell
+pushing itself into visible manifestation--hell establishing itself
+on the earth, and organizing its forces for the destruction of human
+souls, while the churches are too busy enlarging their phylacteries
+and making broader and more attractive the hems of their garments to
+take note of this fatal vantage-ground acquired by the enemy."
+
+Mr. Dinneford stood and looked around him in a dazed sort of way.
+
+"Is Grubb's court near this?" he asked, recollecting the errand upon
+which he had come.
+
+"Yes."
+
+"A young lady called to see you yesterday afternoon to ask about a
+child in that court?"
+
+"Oh yes! You know the lady?"
+
+"She is my daughter. One of the poor children in her sewing-class
+told her of a neglected baby in Grubb's court, and so drew upon her
+sympathies that she started to go there, but was warned by the child
+that it would be dangerous for a young lady like her to be seen in
+that den of thieves and harlots, and so she came to you. And now I
+am here in her stead to get your report about the baby. I would not
+consent to her visiting this place again."
+
+Mr. Paulding took his visitor into the mission-house, near which
+they were standing. After they were seated, he said,
+
+"I have seen the baby about which your daughter wished me to make
+inquiry. The woman who has the care of it is a vile creature, well
+known in this region--drunken and vicious. She said at first that it
+was her own baby, but afterward admitted that she didn't know who
+its mother was, and that she was paid for taking care of it. I found
+out, after a good deal of talking round, and an interview with the
+mother of the child who is in your daughter's sewing-class, that a
+girl of notoriously bad character, named Pinky Swett, pays the
+baby's board. There's a mystery about the child, and I am of the
+opinion that it has been stolen, or is known to be the offcast of
+some respectable family. The woman who has the care of it was
+suspicious, and seemed annoyed at my questions."
+
+"Is it a boy?" asked Mr. Dinneford.
+
+"Yes, and has a finely-formed head and a pair of large, clear, hazel
+eyes. Evidently it is of good parentage. The vicious, the sensual
+and the depraved mark their offspring with the unmistakable signs of
+their moral depravity. You cannot mistake them. But this baby has in
+its poor, wasted, suffering little face, in its well-balanced head
+and deep, almost spiritual eyes, the signs of a better origin."
+
+"It ought at once to be taken away from the woman," said Mr.
+Dinneford, in a very decided manner.
+
+"Who is to take it?" asked the missionary.
+
+Mr. Dinneford was silent.
+
+"Neither you nor I have any authority to do so. If I were to see it
+cast out upon the street, I might have it sent to the almshouse; but
+until I find it abandoned or shamefully abused, I have no right to
+interfere."
+
+"I would like to see the baby," said Mr. Dinneford, on whose mind
+painful suggestions akin to those that were so disturbing his
+daughter were beginning to intrude themselves.
+
+"It would hardly be prudent to go there to-day," said Mr. Paulding.
+
+"Why not?"
+
+"It would arouse suspicion; and if there is anything wrong, the baby
+would drop out of sight. You would not find it if you went again.
+These people are like birds with their wings half lifted, and fly
+away at the first warning of danger. As it is, I fear my visit and
+inquiries will be quite sufficient to the cause the child's removal
+to another place."
+
+Mr. Dinneford mused for a while:
+
+"There ought to be some way to reach a case like this, and there is,
+I am sure. From what you say, it is more than probable that this
+poor little waif may have drifted out of some pleasant home, where
+love would bless it with the tenderest care, into this hell of
+neglect and cruelty. It should be rescued on the instant. It is my
+duty--it is yours--to see that it is done, and that without delay. I
+will go at once to the mayor and state the case. He will send an
+officer with me, I know, and we will take the child by force. If its
+real mother then comes forward and shows herself at all worthy to
+have the care of it, well; if not, I will see that it is taken care
+of. I know where to place it."
+
+To this proposition Mr. Paulding had no objection to offer.
+
+"If you take that course, and act promptly, you can no doubt get
+possession of the poor thing. Indeed, sir"--and the missionary spoke
+with much earnestness--"if men of influence like yourself would come
+here and look the evil of suffering and neglected children in the
+face, and then do what they could to destroy that evil, there would
+soon be joy in heaven over the good work accomplished by their
+hands. I could give you a list of ten or twenty influential citizens
+whose will would be next to law in a matter like this who could in a
+month, if they put heart and hand to it, do such a work for humanity
+here as would make the angels glad. But they are too busy with their
+great enterprises to give thought and effort to a work like this."
+
+A shadow fell across the missionary's face. There was a tone of
+discouragement in his voice.
+
+"The great question is _what_ to do," said Mr. Dinneford. "There are
+no problems so hard to solve as these problems of social evil. If
+men and women choose to debase themselves, who is to hinder? The
+vicious heart seeks a vicious life. While the heart is depraved the
+life will be evil. So long as the fountain is corrupt the water will
+be foul."
+
+"There is a side to all this that most people do not consider,"
+answered Mr. Paulding. "Self-hurt is one thing, hurt of the neighbor
+quite another. It may be questioned whether society has a right to
+touch the individual freedom of a member in anything that affects
+himself alone. But the moment he begins to hurt his neighbor,
+whether from ill-will or for gain, then it is the duty of society to
+restrain him. The common weal demands this, to say nothing of
+Christian obligation. If a man were to set up an exhibition in our
+city dangerous to life and limb, but so fascinating as to attract
+large numbers to witness and participate therein, and if hundreds
+were maimed or killed every year, do you think any one would
+question the right of our authorities to repress it? And yet to-day
+there are in our city more than twenty thousand persons who live by
+doing things a thousand times more hurtful to the people than any
+such exhibition could possibly be. And what is marvelous to think
+of, the larger part of these persons are actually licensed by the
+State to get gain by hurting, depraving and destroying the people.
+Think of it, Mr. Dinneford! The whole question lies in a nutshell.
+There is no difficulty about the problem. Restrain men from doing
+harm to each other, and the work is more than half done."
+
+"Is not the law all the while doing this?"
+
+"The law," was answered. "is weakly dealing with effect--how weakly
+let prison and police statistics show. Forty thousand arrests in our
+city for a single year, and the cause of these arrests clearly
+traced to the liquor licenses granted to five or six thousand
+persons to make money by debasing and degrading the people. If all
+of these were engaged in useful employments, serving, as every true
+citizen is bound to do, the common good, do you think we should have
+so sad and sickening a record? No, sir! We must go back to the
+causes of things. Nothing but radical work will do."
+
+"You think, then," said Mr. Dinneford, "that the true remedy for all
+these dreadful social evils lies in restrictive legislation?"
+
+"Restrictive only on the principles of eternal right," answered the
+missionary. "Man's freedom over himself must not be touched. Only
+his freedom to hurt his neighbor must be abridged. Here society has
+a right to put bonds on its members--to say to each individual, You
+are free to do anything by which your neighbor is served, but
+nothing to harm him. Here is where the discrimination must be made;
+and when the mass of the people come to see this, we shall have the
+beginning of a new day. There will then be hope for such poor
+wretches as crowd this region; or if most of them are so far lost as
+to be without hope, their places, when they die, will not be filled
+with new recruits for the army of perdition."
+
+"If the laws we now have were only executed," said Mr. Dinneford,
+"there might be hope in our legislative restrictions. But the people
+are defrauded of justice through defects in its machinery. There are
+combinations to defeat good laws. There are men holding high office
+notoriously in league with scoundrels who prey upon the people.
+Through these, justice perpetually fails."
+
+"The people are alone to blame," replied the missionary. "Each is
+busy with his farm and his merchandise with his own affairs,
+regardless of his neighbor. The common good is nothing, so that his
+own good is served. Each weakly folds his hands and is sorry when
+these troublesome questions are brought to his notice, but doesn't
+see that he can do anything. Nor can the people, unless some strong
+and influential leaders rally them, and, like great generals, lead
+them to the battle. As I said a little while ago, there are ten or
+twenty men in this city who, if they could be made to feel their
+high responsibility--who, if they could be induced to look away for
+a brief period from their great enterprises and concentrate thought
+and effort upon these questions of social evil, abuse of justice and
+violations of law--would in a single month inaugurate reforms and
+set agencies to work that would soon produce marvelous changes. They
+need not touch the rottenness of this half-dead carcass with knife
+or poultice. Only let them cut off the sources of pollution and
+disease, and the purified air will do the work of restoration where
+moral vitality remains, or hasten the end in those who are debased
+beyond hope."
+
+"What could these men do? Where would their work begin?" asked Mr.
+Dinneford.
+
+"Their own intelligence would soon discover the way to do this work
+if their hearts were in it. Men who can organize and successfully
+conduct great financial and industrial enterprises, who know how to
+control the wealth and power of the country and lead the people
+almost at will, would hardly be at fault in the adjustment of a
+matter like this. What would be the money influence of 'whisky
+rings' and gambling associations, set against the social and money
+influence of these men? Nothing, sir, nothing! Do you think we
+should long have over six thousand bars and nearly four hundred
+lottery-policy shops in our city if the men to whom I refer were to
+take the matter in hand?"
+
+"Are there so many policy-shops?" asked Mr. Dinneford, in surprise.
+
+"There may be more. You will find them by scores in every locality
+where poor and ignorant people are crowded together, sucking out
+their substance, and in the neighborhood of all the market-houses
+and manufactories, gathering in spoil. The harm they are doing is
+beyond computation. The men who control this unlawful business are
+rich and closely organized. They gather in their dishonest gains at
+the rate of hundreds of thousands of dollars every year, and know
+how and where to use this money for the protection of their agents
+in the work of defrauding the people, and the people are helpless
+because our men of wealth and influence have no time to give to
+public justice or the suppression of great social wrongs. With them,
+as things now are, rests the chief responsibility. They have the
+intelligence, the wealth and the public confidence, and are fully
+equal to the task if they will put their hands to the work. Let them
+but lift the standard and sound the trumpet of reform, and the
+people will rally instantly at the call. It must not be a mere
+spasmodic effort--a public meeting with wordy resolutions and strong
+speeches only--but organized work based on true principles of social
+order and the just rights of the people."
+
+"You are very much in earnest about this matter," said Mr.
+Dinneford, seeing how excited the missionary had grown.
+
+"And so would you and every other good citizen become if, standing
+face to face, as I do daily, with this awful debasement and crime
+and suffering, you were able to comprehend something of its real
+character. If I could get the influential citizens to whom I have
+referred to come here and see for themselves, to look upon this
+pandemonium in their midst and take in an adequate idea of its
+character, significance and aggressive force, there would be some
+hope of making them see their duty, of arousing them to action. But
+they stand aloof, busy with personal and material interest, while
+thousands of men, women and children are yearly destroyed, soul and
+body, through their indifference to duty and ignorance of their
+fellows' suffering."
+
+"It is easy to say such things," answered Mr. Dinneford, who felt
+the remarks of Mr. Paulding as almost personal.
+
+"Yes, it is easy to say them," returned the missionary, his voice
+dropping to a lower key, "and it may be of little use to say them. I
+am sometimes almost in despair, standing so nearly alone as I do
+with my feet on the very brink of this devastating flood of evil,
+and getting back only faint echoes to my calls for help. But when
+year after year I see some sheaves coming in as the reward of my
+efforts and of the few noble hearts that work with me, I thank God
+and take courage, and I lift my voice and call more loudly for help,
+trusting that I may be heard by some who, if they would only come up
+to the help of the Lord against the mighty, would scatter his foes
+like chaff on the threshing-floor. But I am holding you back from
+your purpose to visit the mayor; I think you had better act promptly
+if you would get possession of the child. I shall be interested in
+the result, and will take it as a favor if you will call at the
+mission again."
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XV.
+
+
+
+
+
+_WHEN_ Mr. Dinneford and the policeman sent by the mayor at his
+solicitation visited Grubb's court, the baby was not to be found.
+The room in which it had been seen by Mr. Paulding was vacant. Such
+a room as it was!--low and narrow, with bare, blackened walls, the
+single window having scarcely two whole panes of glass, the air
+loaded with the foulness that exhaled from the filth-covered floor,
+the only furniture a rough box and a dirty old straw bed lying in a
+corner.
+
+As Mr. Dinneford stood at the door of this room and inhaled its
+fetid air, he grew sick, almost faint. Stepping back, with a shocked
+and disgusted look on his face, he said to the policeman,
+
+"There must be a mistake. This cannot be the room."
+
+Two or three children and a coarse, half-clothed woman, seeing a
+gentleman going into the house accompanied by a policeman, had
+followed them closely up stairs.
+
+"Who lives in this room?" asked the policeman, addressing the woman.
+
+"Don't know as anybody lives there now," she replied, with evident
+evasion.
+
+"Who did live here?" demanded the policeman.
+
+"Oh, lots!" returned the woman, curtly.
+
+"I want to know who lived here last," said the policeman, a little
+sternly.
+
+"Can't say--never keep the run of 'em," answered the woman, with
+more indifference than she felt. "Goin' and comin' all the while.
+Maybe it was Poll Davis."
+
+"Had she a baby?"
+
+The woman gave a vulgar laugh as she replied: "I rather think not."
+
+"It was Moll Fling," said one of the children, "and she had a baby."
+
+"When was she here last?" inquired the policeman.
+
+The woman, unseen by the latter, raised her fist and threatened the
+child, who did not seem to be in the least afraid of her, for she
+answered promptly:
+
+"She went away about an hour ago."
+
+"And took the baby?"
+
+"Yes. You see Mr. Paulding was here asking about the baby, and she
+got scared."
+
+"Why should that scare her?"
+
+"I don't know, only it isn't her baby."
+
+"How do you know that?"
+
+"'Cause it isn't--I know it isn't. She's paid to take care of it."
+
+"Who by?"
+
+"Pinky Swett."
+
+"Who's Pinky Swett?"
+
+"Don't you know Pinky Swett?" and the child seemed half surprised.
+
+"Where does Pinky Swett live?" asked the policeman.
+
+"She did live next door for a while, but I don't know where she's
+gone."
+
+Nothing beyond this could be ascertained. But having learned the
+names of the women who had possession of the child, the policeman
+said there would be no difficulty about discovering them. It might
+take a little time, but they could not escape the vigilance of the
+police.
+
+With this assurance, Mr. Dinneford hastened from the polluted air of
+Grubb's court, and made his way to the mission in Briar street, in
+order to have some further conference with Mr. Paulding.
+
+"As I feared," said the missionary, on learning that the baby could
+not be found. "These creatures are as keen of scent as Indians, and
+know the smallest sign of danger. It is very plain that there is
+something wrong--that these women have no natural right to the
+child, and that they are not using it to beg with."
+
+"Do you know a woman called Pinky Swett?" asked the policeman.
+
+"I've heard of her, but do not know her by sight. She bears a hard
+reputation even here, and adds to her many evil accomplishments the
+special one of adroit robbery. A victim lured to her den rarely
+escapes without loss of watch or pocket-book. And not one in a
+hundred dares to give information, for this would expose him to the
+public, and so her crimes are covered. Pinky Swett is not the one to
+bother herself about a baby unless its parentage be known, and not
+then unless the knowledge can be turned to advantage."
+
+"The first thing to be done, then, is to find this woman," said the
+policeman.
+
+"That will not be very hard work. But finding the baby, if she
+thinks you are after it, would not be so easy," returned Mr.
+Paulding. "She's as cunning as a fox."
+
+"We shall see. If the chief of police undertakes to find the baby,
+it won't be out of sight long. You'd better confer with the mayor
+again," added the policeman, addressing Mr. Dinneford.
+
+"I will do so without delay," returned that gentleman.
+
+"I hope to see you here again soon," said the missionary as Mr.
+Dinneford was about going. "If I can help you in any way, I shall do
+so gladly."
+
+"I have no doubt but that you can render good service." Then, in
+half apology, and to conceal the real concern at his heart, Mr.
+Dinneford added, "Somehow, and strangely enough when I come to think
+of it, I have allowed myself to get drawn into this thing, and once
+in, the natural persistence of my character leads me to go on to the
+end. I am one of those who cannot bear to give up or acknowledge a
+defeat; and so, having set my hand to this work, I am going to see
+it through."
+
+When the little girl who had taken Edith to the mission-house in
+Briar street got home and told her story, there was a ripple of
+excitement in that part of Grubb's court where she lived, and a new
+interest was felt in the poor neglected baby. Mr. Paulding's visit
+and inquiries added to this interest. It had been several days since
+Pinky Swett's last visit to the child to see that it was safe. On
+the morning after Edith's call at the mission she came in about ten
+o'clock, and heard the news. In less than twenty minutes the child
+and the woman who had charge of it both disappeared from Grubb's
+court. Pinky sent them to her own room, not many squares distant,
+and then drew from the little girl who was in Edith's sewing-class
+all she knew about that young lady. It was not much that the child
+could tell. She was very sweet and good and handsome, and wore such
+beautiful clothes, was so kind and patient with the girls, but she
+did not remember her name, thought it was Edith.
+
+"Now, see here," said Pinky, and she put some money into the child's
+hand; "I want you to find out for me what her name is and where she
+lives. Mind, you must be very careful to remember."
+
+"What do you want to know for?" asked the little girl.
+
+"That's none of your business. Do what I tell you," returned Pinky,
+with impatience; "and if you do it right, I'll give you a quarter
+more. When do you go again?"
+
+"Next week, on Thursday."
+
+"Not till next Thursday!" exclaimed Pinky, in a tone of
+disappointment.
+
+"The school's only once a week."
+
+Pinky chafed a good deal, but it was of no use; she must wait.
+
+"You'll be sure and go next Thursday?" she said.
+
+"If Mother lets me," replied the child.
+
+"Oh, I'll see to that; I'll make her let you. What time does the
+school go in?"
+
+"At three o'clock."
+
+"Very well. You wait for me. I'll come round here at half-past two,
+and go with you. I want to see the young lady. They'll let me come
+into the school and learn to sew, won't they?"
+
+"I don't know; you're too big, and you don't want to learn."
+
+"How do you know I don't?"
+
+"Because I do."
+
+Pinky laughed, and then said,
+
+"You'll wait for me?"
+
+"Yes, if mother says so."
+
+"All right;" and Pinky hurried away to take measures for hiding the
+baby from a search that she felt almost sure was about being made.
+The first thing she did was to soundly abuse the woman in whose care
+she had placed the hapless child for her neglect and ill treatment,
+both of which were too manifest, and then to send her away under the
+new aspect of affairs she did not mean to trust this woman, nor
+indeed to trust anybody who knew anything of the inquiries which had
+been made about the child. A new nurse must be found, and she must
+live as far away from the old locality as possible. Pinky was not
+one inclined to put things off. Thought and act were always close
+together. Scarcely had the woman been gone ten minutes, before,
+bundling the baby in a shawl, she started off to find a safer
+hiding-place. This time she was more careful about the character and
+habits of the person selected for a nurse, and the baby's condition
+was greatly improved. The woman in whose charge she placed it was
+poor, but neither drunken nor depraved. Pinky arranged with her to
+take the care of it for two dollars a week, and supplied it with
+clean and comfortable clothing. Even she, wicked and vile as she
+was, could not help being touched by the change that appeared in the
+baby's shrunken face, and in its sad but beautiful eyes, after its
+wasted little body had been cleansed and clothed in clean, warm
+garments and it had taken its fill of nourishing food.
+
+"It's a shame, the way it has been abused," said Pinky, speaking
+from an impulse of kindness, such as rarely swelled in her evil
+heart.
+
+"A crying shame," answered the woman as she drew the baby close
+against her bosom and gazed down upon its pitiful face, and into the
+large brown eyes that were lifted to hers in mute appeal.
+
+The real motherly tenderness that was in this woman's heart was
+quickly perceived by the child, who did not move its eyes from hers,
+but lay perfectly still, gazing up at her in a kind of easeful rest
+such as it had never before known. She spoke to it in loving tones,
+touched its thin cheeks with her finger in playful caresses, kissed
+it on its lips and forehead, hugged it to her bosom; and still the
+eyes were fixed on hers in a strange baby-wonder, though not the
+faintest glinting of a smile played on its lips or over its serious
+face. Had it never learned to smile?
+
+At last the poor thin lips curved a little, crushing out the lines
+of suffering, and into the eyes there came a loving glance in place
+of the fixed, wondering look that was almost a stare. A slight
+lifting of the hands, a motion of the head, a thrill through the
+whole body came next, and then a tender cooing sound.
+
+"Did you ever see such beautiful eyes?" said the woman. "It will be
+a splendid baby when it has picked up a little."
+
+"Let it pick up as fast as it can," returned Pinky; "but mind what I
+say: you are to be mum. Here's your pay for the first week, and you
+shall have it fair and square always. Call it your own baby, if you
+will, or your grandson. Yes, that's better. He's the child of your
+dead daughter, just sent to you from somewhere out of town. So take
+good care of him, and keep your mouth shut. I'll be round again in a
+little while."
+
+And with this injunction Pinky went away. On the next Thursday she
+visited the St. John's mission sewing-school in company with the
+little girl from Grubb's court, but greatly to her disappointment,
+Edith did not make her appearance. There were four or five ladies in
+attendance on the school, which, under the superintendence of one of
+them, a woman past middle life, with a pale, serious face and a
+voice clear and sweet, was conducted with an order and decorum not
+often maintained among a class of children such as were there
+gathered together.
+
+It was a long time since Pinky had found herself so repressed and
+ill at ease. There was a spiritual atmosphere in the place that did
+not vitalize her blood. She felt a sense of constriction and
+suffocation. She had taken her seat in the class taught usually by
+Edith, with the intention of studying that young lady and finding
+out all she could about her, not doubting her ability to act the
+part in hand with perfect self-possession. But she had not been in
+the room a minute before confidence began to die, and very soon she
+found herself ill at ease and conscious of being out of her place.
+The bold, bad woman felt weak and abashed. An unseen sphere of
+purity and Christian love surrounded and touched her soul with as
+palpable an impression as outward things give to the body. She had
+something of the inward distress and pain a devil would feel if
+lifted into the pure air of heaven, and the same desire to escape
+and plunge back into the dense and impure atmosphere in which evil
+finds its life and enjoyment. If she had come with any good purpose,
+it would have been different, but evil, and only evil, was in her
+heart; and when this felt the sphere of love and purity, her breast
+was constricted and life seemed going out of her.
+
+It was little less than torture to Pinky for the short time she
+remained. As soon as she was satisfied that Edith would not be
+there, she threw down the garment on which she had been pretending
+to sew, and almost ran from the room.
+
+"Who is that girl?" asked the lady who was teaching the class,
+looking in some surprise after the hurrying figure.
+
+"It's Pinky Swett," answered the child from Grubb's court. "She
+wanted to see our teacher."
+
+"Who is your regular teacher?" was inquired.
+
+"Don't remember her name."
+
+"It's Edith," spoke up one of the girls. "Mrs. Martin called her
+that."
+
+"What did this Pinky Swett want to see her about?"
+
+"Don't know," answered the child as she remembered the money Pinky
+had given her and the promise of more.
+
+The teacher questioned no further, but went on with her work in the
+class.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVI.
+
+
+
+
+
+_IT_ was past midday when Mr. Dinneford returned home after his
+fruitless search. Edith, who had been waiting for hours in restless
+suspense, heard his step in the hall, and ran down to meet him.
+
+"Did you see the baby?"' she asked, trying to keep her agitation
+down.
+
+Mr. Dinneford only shook his head,
+
+"Why, not, father?" Her voice choked.
+
+"It could not be found."
+
+"You saw Mr. Paulding?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Didn't he find the baby?"
+
+"Oh yes. But when I went to Grubb's court this morning, it was not
+there, and no one could or would give any information about it. As
+the missionary feared, those having possession of the baby had taken
+alarm and removed it to another place. But I have seen the mayor and
+some of the police, and got them interested. It will not be possible
+to hide the child for any length of time."
+
+"You said that Mr. Paulding saw it?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"What did he say?" Edith's voice trembled as she asked the question.
+
+"He thinks there is something wrong."
+
+"Did he tell you how the baby looked?"
+
+"He said that it had large, beautiful brown eyes."
+
+Edith clasped her hands, and drew them tightly against her bosom.
+
+"Oh, father! if it should be my baby!"
+
+"My dear, dear child," said Mr. Dinneford, putting his arms about
+Edith and holding her tightly, "you torture yourself with a wild
+dream. The thing is impossible."
+
+"It is somebody's baby," sobbed Edith, her face on her father's
+breast, "and it may be mine. Who knows?"
+
+"We will do our best to find it," returned Mr. Dinneford, "and then
+do what Christian charity demands. I am in earnest so far, and will
+leave nothing undone, you may rest assured. The police have the
+mayor's instructions to find the baby and give it into my care, and
+I do not think we shall have long to wait."
+
+An ear they thought not of, heard all this. Mrs. Dinneford's
+suspicions had been aroused by many things in Edith's manner and
+conduct of late, and she had watched her every look and word and
+movement with a keenness of observation that let nothing escape.
+Careful as her husband and daughter were in their interviews, it was
+impossible to conceal anything from eyes that never failed in
+watchfulness. An unguarded word here, a look of mutual intelligence
+there, a sudden silence when she appeared, an unusual soberness of
+demeanor and evident absorbed interest in something they were
+careful to conceal, had the effect to quicken all Mrs. Dinneford's
+alarms and suspicions.
+
+She had seen from the top of the stairs a brief but excited
+interview pass between Edith and her father as the latter stood in
+the vestibule that morning, and she had noticed the almost wild look
+on her daughter's face as she hastened back along the hall and ran
+up to her room. Here she stayed alone for over an hour, and then
+came down to the parlor, where she remained restless, moving about
+or standing by the window for a greater part of the morning.
+
+There was something more than usual on hand. Guilt in its guesses
+came near the truth. What could all this mean, if it had not
+something to do with the cast-off baby? Certainty at last came. She
+was in the dining-room when Edith ran down to meet her father in the
+hall, and slipped noiselessly and unobserved into one of the
+parlors, where, concealed by a curtain, she heard everything that
+passed between her husband and daughter.
+
+Still as death she stood, holding down the strong pulses of her
+heart. From the hall Edith and her father turned into one of the
+parlors--the same in which Mrs. Dinneford was concealed behind the
+curtain--and sat down.
+
+"It had large brown eyes?" said Edith, a yearning tenderness in her
+voice.
+
+"Yes, and a finely-formed bead, showing good parentage," returned
+the father.
+
+"Didn't you find out who the women were--the two bad women the
+little girl told me about? If we had their names, the police could
+find them. The little girl's mother must know who they are."
+
+"We have the name of one of them," said Mr. Dinneford. "She is
+called Pinky Swett, and it can't be long before the police are on
+her track. She is said to be a desperate character. Nothing more can
+be done now; we must wait until the police work up the affair. I
+will call at the mayor's office in the morning and find out what has
+been done."
+
+Mrs. Dinneford heard no more. The bell rang, and her husband and
+daughter left the parlor and went up stairs. The moment they were
+beyond observation she glided noiselessly through the hall, and
+reached her chamber without being noticed. Soon afterward she came
+down dressed for visiting, and went out hastily, her veil closely
+drawn. Her manner was hurried. Descending the steps, she stood for a
+single moment, as if hesitating which way to go, and then moved off
+rapidly. Soon she had passed out of the fashionable neighborhood in
+which she lived. After this she walked more slowly, and with the air
+of one whose mind was in doubt or hesitation. Once she stopped, and
+turning about, slowly retraced her steps for the distance of a
+square. Then she wheeled around, as if from some new and strong
+resolve, and went on again. At last she paused before a
+respectable-looking house of moderate size in a neighborhood remote
+from the busier and more thronged parts of the city. The shutters
+were all bowed down to the parlor, and the house had a quiet,
+unobtrusive look. Mrs. Dinneford gave a quick, anxious glance up and
+down the street, and then hurriedly ascended the steps and rang the
+bell.
+
+"Is Mrs. Hoyt in?" she asked of a stupid-looking girl who came to
+the door.
+
+"Yes, ma'am," was answered.
+
+"Tell her a lady wants to see her;" and she passed into the
+plainly-furnished parlor. There were no pictures on the walls nor
+ornaments on the mantel-piece, nor any evidence of taste--nothing
+home-like--in the shadowed room, the atmosphere of which was close
+and heavy. She waited here for a few moments, when there was a
+rustle of garments and the sound of light, quick feet on the stairs.
+A small, dark-eyed, sallow-faced woman entered the parlor.
+
+"Mrs. Bray--no, Mrs. Hoyt."
+
+"Mrs. Dinneford;" and the two women stood face to face for a few
+moments, each regarding the other keenly.
+
+"Mrs. Hoyt--don't forget," said the former, with a warning emphasis
+in her voice. "Mrs. Bray is dead."
+
+In her heart Mrs. Dinneford wished that it were indeed so.
+
+"Anything wrong?" asked the black-eyed little woman.
+
+"Do you know a Pinky Swett?" asked Mrs. Dinneford, abruptly.
+
+Mrs. Hoyt--so we must now call her--betrayed surprise at this
+question, and was about answering "No," but checked herself and gave
+a half-hesitating "Yes," adding the question, "What about her?"
+
+Before Mrs. Dinneford could reply, however, Mrs. Hoyt took hold of
+her arm and said, "Come up to my room. Walls have ears sometimes,
+and I will not answer for these."
+
+Mrs. Dinneford went with her up stairs to a chamber in the rear part
+of the building.
+
+"We shall be out of earshot here," said Mrs. Hoyt as she closed the
+door, locking it at the same time. "And now tell me what's up, and
+what about Pinky Swett."
+
+"You know her?"
+
+"Yes, slightly."
+
+"More than slightly, I guess."
+
+Mrs. Hoyt's eyes flashed impatiently. Mrs. Dinneford saw it, and
+took warning.
+
+"She's got that cursed baby."
+
+"How do you know?"
+
+"No matter how I know. It's enough that I know. Who is she?"
+
+"That question may be hard to answer. About all I know of her is
+that she came from the country a few years ago, and has been
+drifting about here ever since."
+
+"What is she doing with that baby? and how did she get hold of it?"
+
+"Questions more easily asked than answered."
+
+"Pshaw! I don't want any beating about the bush, Mrs. Bray."
+
+"Mrs. Hoyt," said the person addressed.
+
+"Oh, well, Mrs. Hoyt, then. We ought to understand each other by
+this time."
+
+"I guess we do;" and the little woman arched her brows.
+
+"I don't want any beating about the bush," resumed Mrs. Dinneford.
+"I am here on business."
+
+"Very well; let's to business, then;" and Mrs. Hoyt leaned back in
+her chair.
+
+"Edith knows that this woman has the baby," said Mrs. Dinneford.
+
+"What!" and Mrs. Hoyt started to her feet.
+
+"The mayor has been seen, and the police are after her."
+
+"How do you know?"
+
+"Enough that I know. And now, Mrs. Hoyt, this thing must come to an
+end, and there is not an instant to be lost. Has Pinky Swett, as she
+is called, been told where the baby came from?"
+
+"Not by me."
+
+"By anybody?"
+
+"That is more than I can say."
+
+"What has become of the woman I gave it to?"
+
+"She's about somewhere."
+
+"When did you see her?"
+
+Mrs. Hoyt pretended to think for some moments, and then replied:
+
+"Not for a month or two."
+
+"Had she the baby then?"
+
+"No; she was rid of it long before that."
+
+"Did she know this Pinky Swett?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Curse the brat! If I'd thought all this trouble was to come, I'd
+have smothered it before it was half an hour old."
+
+"Risky business," remarked Mrs. Hoyt.
+
+"Safer than to have let it live," said Mrs. Dinneford, a hard, evil
+expression settling around her mouth. "And now I want the thing
+done. You understand. Find this Pinky Swett. The police are after
+her, and may be ahead of you. I am desperate, you see. Anything but
+the discovery and possession of this child by Edith. It must be got
+out of the way. If it will not starve, it must drown."
+
+Mrs. Dinneford's face was distorted by the strength of her evil
+passions. Her eyes were full of fire, flashing now, and now glaring
+like those of a wild animal.
+
+"It might fall out of a window," said Mrs. Hoyt, in a low, even
+voice, and with a faint smile on her lips. "Children fall out of
+windows sometimes."
+
+"But don't always get killed," answered Mrs. Dinneford, coldly.
+
+"Or, it might drop from somebody's arms into the river--off the deck
+of a ferryboat, I mean," added Mrs. Hoyt.
+
+"That's better. But I don't care how it's done, so it's done."
+
+"Accidents are safer," said Mrs. Hoyt.
+
+"I guess you're right about that. Let it be an accident, then."
+
+It was half an hour from the time Mrs. Dinneford entered this house
+before she came away. As she passed from the door, closely veiled, a
+gentleman whom she knew very well was going by on the opposite side
+of the street. From something in his manner she felt sure that he
+had recognized her, and that the recognition had caused him no
+little surprise. Looking back two or three times as she hurried
+homeward, she saw, to her consternation, that he was following her,
+evidently with the purpose of making sure of her identity.
+
+To throw this man off of her track was Mrs. Dinneford's next
+concern. This she did by taking a street-car that was going in a
+direction opposite to the part of the town in which she lived, and
+riding for a distance of over a mile. An hour afterward she came
+back to her own neighborhood, but not without a feeling of
+uneasiness. Just as she was passing up to the door of her residence
+a gentleman came hurriedly around the nearest corner. She recognized
+him at a glance. It seemed as if the servant would never answer her
+ring. On he came, until the sound of his steps was in her ears. He
+was scarcely ten paces distant when the door opened and she passed
+in. When she gained her room, she sat down faint and trembling. Here
+was a new element in the danger and disgrace that were digging her
+steps so closely.
+
+As we have seen, Edith did not make her appearance at the mission
+sewing-school on the following Thursday, nor did she go there for
+many weeks afterward. The wild hope that had taken her to Briar
+street, the nervous strain and agitation attendant on that visit,
+and the reaction occasioned by her father's failure to get
+possession of the baby, were too much for her strength, and an utter
+prostration of mind and body was the consequence. There was no fever
+nor sign of any active disease--only weakness, Nature's enforced
+quietude, that life and reason might be saved.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVII.
+
+
+
+
+
+_THE_ police were at fault. They found Pinky Swett, but were not
+able to find the baby. Careful as they were in their surveillance,
+she managed to keep them on the wrong track and to baffle every
+effort to discover what had been done with the child.
+
+In this uncertainty months went by. Edith came up slowly from her
+prostrate condition, paler, sadder and quieter, living in a kind of
+waking dream. Her father tried to hold her back from her mission
+work among the poor, but she said, "I must go, father; I will die if
+I do not."
+
+And so her life lost itself in charities. Now and then her mother
+made an effort to draw her into society. She had not yet given up
+her ambition, nor her hope of one day seeing her daughter take
+social rank among the highest, or what she esteemed the highest. But
+her power over Edith was entirely gone. She might as well have set
+herself to turn the wind from its course as to influence her in
+anything. It was all in vain. Edith had dropped out of society, and
+did not mean to go back. She had no heart for anything outside of
+her home, except the Christian work to which she had laid her hands.
+
+The restless, watchful, suspicious manner exhibited for a long time
+by Mrs. Dinneford, and particularly noticed by Edith, gradually wore
+off. She grew externally more like her old self, but with something
+new in the expression of her face when in repose, that gave a chill
+to the heart of Edith whenever she saw its mysterious record, that
+seemed in her eyes only an imperfect effort to conceal some guilty
+secret.
+
+Thus the mother and daughter, though in daily personal contact,
+stood far apart--were internally as distant from each other as the
+antipodes.
+
+As for Mr. Dinneford, what he had seen and heard on his first visit
+to Briar street had aroused him to a new and deeper sense of his
+duty as a citizen. Against all the reluctance and protests of his
+natural feelings, he had compelled himself to stand face to face
+with the appalling degradation and crime that festered and rioted in
+that almost Heaven-deserted region. He had heard and read much about
+its evil condition; but when, under the protection of a policeman,
+he went from house to house, from den to den, through cellar and
+garret and hovel, comfortless and filthy as dog-kennels and
+pig-styes, and saw the sick and suffering, the utterly vile and
+debauched, starving babes and children with faces marred by crime,
+and the legion of harpies who were among them as birds of prey, he
+went back to his home sick at heart, and with a feeling of
+helplessness and hopelessness out of which he found it almost
+impossible to rise.
+
+We cannot stain our pages with a description of what he saw. It is
+so vile and terrible, alas, so horrible, that few would credit it.
+The few imperfect glimpses of life in that region which we have
+already given are sad enough and painful enough, but they only hint
+at the real truth.
+
+"What can be done?" asked Mr. Dinneford of the missionary, at their
+next meeting, in a voice that revealed his utter despair of a
+remedy. "To me it seems as if nothing but fire could purify this
+region."
+
+"The causes that have produced this would soon create another as
+bad," was answered.
+
+"What are the causes?"
+
+"The primary cause," said Mr. Paulding, "is the effort of hell to
+establish itself on the earth for the destruction of human souls;
+the secondary cause lies in the indifference and supineness of the
+people. 'While the husband-men slept the enemy sowed tares.' Thus it
+was of old, and thus it is to-day. The people are sleeping or
+indifferent, the churches are sleeping or indifferent, while the
+enemy goes on sowing tares for the harvest of death."
+
+"Well may you say the harvest of death," returned Mr. Dinneford,
+gloomily.
+
+"And hell," added the missionary, with a stern emphasis. "Yes, sir,
+it is the harvest of death and hell that is gathered here, and such
+a full harvest! There is little joy in heaven over the sheaves that
+are garnered in this accursed region. What hope is there in fire, or
+any other purifying process, if the enemy be permitted to go on
+sowing his evil seed at will?"
+
+"How will you prevent it?" asked Mr. Dinneford.
+
+"Not by standing afar off and leaving the enemy in undisputed
+possession--not by sleeping while he sows and reaps and binds into
+bundles for the fires, his harvests of human souls! We must be as
+alert and wise and ready of hand as he; and God being our helper, we
+can drive him from the field!"
+
+"You have thought over this sad problem a great deal," said Mr.
+Dinneford. "You have stood face to face with the enemy for years,
+and know his strength and his resources. Have you any well-grounded
+hope of ever dislodging him from this stronghold?"
+
+"I have just said it, Mr. Dinneford. But until the churches and the
+people come up to the help of the Lord against the mighty, he cannot
+be dislodged. I am standing here, sustained in my work by a small
+band of earnest Christian men and women, like an almost barren rock
+in the midst of a down-rushing river on whose turbulent surface
+thousands are being swept to destruction. The few we are able to
+rescue are as a drop in the bucket to the number who are lost. In
+weakness and sorrow, almost in despair sometimes, we stand on our
+rock, with the cry of lost souls mingling with the cry of fiends in
+our ears, and wonder at the churches and the people, that they stand
+aloof--nay, worse, turn from us coldly often--when we press the
+claims of this worse than heathen people who are perishing at their
+very doors.
+
+"Sir," continued the missionary, warming on his theme, "I was in a
+church last Sunday that cost its congregation over two hundred
+thousand dollars. It was an anniversary occasion, and the
+collections for the day were to be given to some foreign mission.
+How eloquently the preacher pleaded for the heathen! What vivid
+pictures of their moral and spiritual destitution he drew! How full
+of pathos he was, even to tears! And the congregation responded in a
+contribution of over three thousand dollars, to be sent somewhere,
+and to be disbursed by somebody of whom not one in a hundred of the
+contributors knew anything or took the trouble to inform themselves.
+I felt sick and oppressed at such a waste of money and Christian
+sympathy, when heathen more destitute and degraded than could be
+found in any foreign land were dying at home in thousands every
+year, unthought of and uncared for. I gave no amens to his
+prayers--I could not. They would have stuck in my throat. I said to
+myself, in bitterness and anger, 'How dare a watchman on the walls
+of Zion point to an enemy afar off, of whose movements and power and
+organization he knows but little, while the very gates of the city
+are being stormed and its walls broken down?' But you must excuse
+me, Mr. Dinneford. I lose my calmness sometimes when these things
+crowd my thoughts too strongly. I am human like the rest, and weak,
+and cannot stand in the midst of this terrible wickedness and
+suffering year after year without being stirred by it to the very
+inmost of my being. In my intense absorption I can see nothing else
+sometimes."
+
+He paused for a little while, and then said, in a quiet, business
+way,
+
+"In seeking a remedy for the condition of society found here, we
+must let common sense and a knowledge of human nature go hand in
+hand with Christian charity. To ignore any of these is to make
+failure certain. If the whisky-and policy-shops were all closed, the
+task would be easy. In a single month the transformation would be
+marvelous. But we cannot hope for this, at least not for a long time
+to come--not until politics and whisky are divorced, and not until
+associations of bad men cease to be strong enough in our courts to
+set law and justice at defiance. Our work, then, must be in the face
+of these baleful influences."
+
+"Is the evil of lottery-policies so great that you class it with the
+curse of rum?" asked Mr. Dinneford.
+
+"It is more concealed, but as all-pervading and almost as disastrous
+in its effects. The policy-shops draw from the people, especially
+the poor and ignorant, hundreds of thousands of dollars every year.
+There is no more chance of thrift for one who indulges in this sort
+of gambling than there is for one who indulges in drink. The vice in
+either case drags its subject down to want, and in most cases to
+crime. I could point you to women virtuous a year ago, but who now
+live abandoned lives; and they would tell you, if you would question
+them, that their way downward was through the policy-shops. To get
+the means of securing a hoped-for prize--of getting a hundred or two
+hundred dollars for every single one risked, and so rising above
+want or meeting some desperate exigency--virtue was sacrificed in an
+evil moment."
+
+"The whisky-shops brutalize, benumb and debase or madden with cruel
+and murderous passions; the policy-shops, more seductive and
+fascinating in their allurements, lead on to as deep a gulf of moral
+ruin and hopeless depravity. I have seen the poor garments of a
+dying child sold at a pawn-shop for a mere trifle by its infatuated
+mother, and the money thrown away in this kind of gambling. Women
+sell or pawn their clothing, often sending their little children to
+dispose of these articles, while they remain half clad at home to
+await the daily drawings and receive the prize they fondly hope to
+obtain, but which rarely, if ever, comes.
+
+"Children learn early to indulge this vice, and lie and steal in
+order to obtain money to gratify it. You would be amazed to see the
+scores of little boys and girls, white and black, who daily visit
+the policy-shops in this neighborhood to put down the pennies they
+have begged or received for stolen articles on some favorite
+numbers--quick-witted, sharp, eager little wretches, who talk the
+lottery slang as glibly as older customers. What hope is there in
+the future for these children? Will their education in the shop of a
+policy-dealer fit them to become honest, industrious citizens?"
+
+All this was so new and dreadful to Mr. Dinneford that be was
+stunned and disheartened; and when, after an interview with the
+missionary that lasted over an hour, he went away, it was with a
+feeling of utter discouragement. He saw little hope of making head
+against the flood of evil that was devastating this accursed region.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVIII.
+
+
+
+
+
+_MRS. HOYT_, _alias_ Bray, found Pinky Swett, but she did not find
+the poor cast-off baby. Pinky had resolved to make it her own
+capital in trade. She parleyed and trifled with Mrs. Hoyt week after
+week, and each did her best to get down to the other's secret, but
+in vain. Mutually baffled, they parted at last in bitter anger.
+
+One day, about two months after the interview between Mrs. Dinneford
+and Mrs. Hoyt described in another chapter, the former received in
+an envelope a paragraph cut from a newspaper. It read as follows:
+
+"A CHILD DROWNED.--A sad accident occurred yesterday on board the
+steamer Fawn as she was going down the river. A woman was standing
+with a child in her arms near the railing on the lower deck forward.
+Suddenly the child gave a spring, and was out of her arms in a
+moment. She caught after it frantically, but in vain. Every effort
+was made to recover the child, but all proved fruitless. It did not
+rise to the surface of the water."
+
+Mrs. Dinneford read the paragraph twice, and then tore it into
+little bits. Her mouth set itself sternly. A long sigh of relief
+came up from her chest. After awhile the hard lines began slowly to
+disappear, giving place to a look of satisfaction and comfort.
+
+"Out of my way at last," she staid, rising and beginning to move
+about the room. But the expression of relief and confidence which
+had come into her face soon died out. The evil counselors that lead
+the soul into sin become its tormentors after the sin is committed,
+and torture it with fears. So tortured they this guilty and wretched
+woman at every opportunity. They led her on step by step to do evil,
+and then crowded her mind with suggestions of perils and
+consequences the bare thought of which filled her with terror.
+
+It was only a few weeks after this that Mrs. Dinneford, while
+looking over a morning paper, saw in the court record the name of
+Pinky Swett. This girl had been tried for robbing a man of his
+pocket-book, containing five hundred dollars, found guilty, and
+sentenced to prison for a term of two years.
+
+"Good again!" exclaimed Mrs. Dinneford, with satisfaction. "The
+wheel turns."
+
+After that she gradually rose above the doubts and dread of exposure
+that haunted her continually, and set herself to work to draw her
+daughter back again into society. But she found her influence over
+Edith entirely gone. Indeed, Edith stood so far away from her that
+she seemed more like a stranger than a child.
+
+Two or three times had Pinky Swett gone to the mission sewing-school
+in order to get a sight of Edith. Her purpose was to follow her
+home, and so find out her name and were she lived. With this
+knowledge in her possession, she meant to visit Mrs. Bray, and by
+a sudden or casual mention by name of Edith as the child's mother
+throw her off her guard, and lead her to betray the fact if it were
+really so. But Edith was sick at home, and did not go to the school.
+After a few weeks the little girl who was to identify Edith as the
+person who had shown so much interest in the baby was taken away
+from Grubb's court by her mother, and nobody could tell where to
+find her. So, Pinky had to abandon her efforts in this direction,
+and Edith, when she was strong enough to go back to the
+sewing-school, missed the child, from whom she was hoping to hear
+something that might give a clue to where the poor waif had been
+taken.
+
+Up to the time of her arrest and imprisonment, Pinky had faithfully
+paid the child's board, and looked in now and then upon the woman
+who had it in charge, to see that it was properly cared for. How
+marvelously the baby had improved in these two or three months! The
+shrunken limb's were rounded into beautiful symmetry, and the
+pinched face looked full and rosy. The large brown eyes, in which
+you once saw only fear or a mystery of suffering, were full of a
+happy light, and the voice rang out often in merry child-laughter.
+The baby had learned to walk, and was daily growing more and more
+lovable.
+
+But after Pinky's imprisonment there was a change. The woman--Mrs.
+Burke by name--in whose care the child had been placed could not
+afford to keep him for nothing. The two dollars week received for
+his board added just enough to her income to enable her to remain at
+home. But failing to receive this, she must go out for day's work in
+families at least twice in every week.
+
+What, then, was to be done with little Andy, as the baby was called?
+At first Mrs. Burke thought of getting him into one of the homes for
+friendless children, but the pleasant child had crept into her
+affections, and she could not bear the thought of giving him up. His
+presence stirred in her heart old and tender things long buried out
+of sight, and set the past, with its better and purer memories, side
+by side with the present. She had been many times a mother, but her
+children were all dead but one, and she--Alas! the thought of her,
+whenever it came, made her heart heavy and sad.
+
+"I will keep him a while and see, how it comes out," she said, on
+getting the promise of a neighbor to let Andy play with her children
+and keep an eye on him whenever she was out. He had grown strong,
+and could toddle about and take care of himself wonderfully well for
+a child of his age.
+
+And now began a new life for the baby--a life in which he must look
+out for himself and hold his own in a hand-to-hand struggle. He had
+no rights that the herd of children among whom he was thrown felt
+bound to respect; and if he were not able to maintain his rights, he
+must go down helplessly, and he did go down daily, often hourly. But
+he had will and vital force, and these brought him always to his
+feet again, and with strength increased rather than lost. On the
+days that Mrs. Burke went out he lived for most of the time in the
+little street, playing with the children that swarmed its pavements,
+often dragged from before wheels or horses' hoofs by a friendly
+hand, or lifted from some gutter in which he had fallen, dripping
+with mud.
+
+When Mrs. Burke came home on the evening of her first day out, the
+baby was a sight to see. His clothes were stiff with dirt, his shoes
+and stockings wet, and his face more like that of a chimney-sweep
+than anything else. But this was not all; there was a great lump as
+large as a pigeon's egg on the back of his head, a black-and-blue
+spot on his forehead and a bad cut on his upper lip. His joy at
+seeing her and the tearful cry he gave as he threw his arm's about
+her neck quite overcame Mrs. Burke, and caused her eyes to grow dim.
+She was angry at the plight in which she found him, and said some
+hard things to the woman who had promised to look after the child,
+at which the latter grew angry in turn, and told her to stay at home
+and take care of the brat herself, or put him in one of the homes.
+
+The fresh care and anxiety felt by Mrs. Burke drew little Andy
+nearer and made her reject more decidedly the thought of giving him
+up. She remained at home on the day following, but did not find it
+so easy as before to keep the baby quiet. He had got a taste of the
+free, wild life of the street, of its companionship and excitement,
+and fretted to go out. Toward evening she put by her work and went
+on the pavement with Andy. It was swarming with children. At the
+sight of them he began to scream with pleasure. Pulling his hand
+free from that of Mrs. Burke, he ran in among them, and in a moment
+after was tumbled over on the pavement. His head got a hard knock,
+but he didn't seem to mind it, for he scrambled to his feet and
+commenced tossing his hands about, laughing and crying out as wildly
+as the rest. In a little while, over he was knocked again, and as he
+fell one of the children stepped on his hand and hurt him so that he
+screamed with pain. Mrs. Burke caught him in her arms; but when he
+found that she was going to take him in the house he stopped crying
+and struggled to get down. He was willing to take the knocks and
+falls. The pleasure of this free life among children was more to him
+than any of the suffering it brought.
+
+On the next day Mrs. Burke had to go out again. Another neighbor
+promised to look after Andy. When she returned at night, she found
+things worse, if anything, than before. The child was dirtier, if
+that were possible, and there were two great lumps on his head,
+instead of one. He had been knocked down by a horse in the street,
+escaping death by one of the narrowest of chances, and had been
+discovered and removed from a ladder up which he had climbed a
+distance of twenty feet.
+
+What help was there? None that Mrs. Burke knew, except to give up
+the child, and she was not unselfish enough for this. The thought of
+sending him away was always attended with pain. It would take the
+light out of her poor lonely life, into which he had brought a few
+stray sunbeams.
+
+She could not, she would not, give him up. He must take his chances.
+Ah, but they were hard chances! Children mature fast under the
+stimulus of street-training. Andy had a large brain and an active,
+nervous organization. Life in the open air gave vigor and hardness
+to his body. As the months went by he learned self-reliance,
+caution, self-protection, and took a good many lessons in the art of
+aggression. A rapidly-growing child needs a large amount of
+nutritious food to supply waste and furnish material for the
+daily-increasing bodily structure. Andy did not get this. At two
+years of age he had lost all the roundness of babyhood. His limbs
+were slender, his body thin and his face colorless and
+hungry-looking.
+
+About this time--that is, when Andy was two years old--Mrs. Burke
+took sick and died. She had been failing for several months, and
+unable to earn sufficient even to pay her rent. But for the help of
+neighbors and an occasional supply of food or fuel from some public
+charity, she would have starved. At her death Andy had no home and
+no one to care for him. One pitying neighbor after another would
+take him in at night, or let him share a meal with her children, but
+beyond this he was utterly cast out and friendless. It was
+summer-time when Mrs. Burke died, and the poor waif was spared for a
+time the suffering of cold.
+
+Now and then a mother's heart would be touched, and after a
+half-reluctantly given supper and a place where he might sleep for
+the night would mend and wash his soiled clothes and dry them by the
+fire, ready for morning. The pleased look that she saw in his large,
+sad eyes--for they had grown wistful and sad since the only one he
+had known as a mother died--was always her reward, and something not
+to be put out of her memory. Many of the children took kindly to
+Andy, and often supplied him with food.
+
+"Andy is so hungry, mamma; can't I take him something to eat?"
+rarely failed to bring the needed bread for the poor little
+cast-adrift. And if he was discovered now and then sound asleep in
+bed with some pitying child who had taken him in stealthily after
+dark, few were hard-hearted enough to push him into the street, or
+make him go down and sleep on the kitchen floor. Yet this was not
+unfrequently done. Poverty is sometimes very cruel, yet often tender
+and compassionate.
+
+One day, a few months after Mrs. Burke's death, Andy, who was
+beginning to drift farther and farther away from the little street,
+yet always managing to get back into it as darkness came on, that he
+might lay his tired body in some friendly place, got lost in strange
+localities. He had wandered about for many hours, sitting now on
+some step or cellar-door or horse-block, watching the children at
+play and sometimes joining in their sports, when they would let him,
+with the spontaneous abandon of a puppy or a kitten, and now
+enjoying some street-show or attractive shop-window. There was
+nothing of the air of a lost child about him. For all that his
+manner betrayed, his home might have been in the nearest court or
+alley. So, he wandered along from street to street without
+attracting the special notice of any--a bare-headed, bare-footed,
+dirty, half-clad atom of humanity not three years old.
+
+Hungry, tired and cold, for the summer was gone and mid-autumn had
+brought its chilly nights, Andy found himself, as darkness fell, in
+a vile, narrow court, among some children as forlorn and dirty as
+himself. It was Grubb's court--his old home--though in his memory
+there was of course no record of the place.
+
+Too tired and hungry for play, Andy was sitting on the step of a
+wretched hovel, when the door opened and a woman called sharply the
+names of her two children. They answered a little way off. "Come in
+this minute, and get your suppers," she called again, and turning
+back without noticing Andy, left the door open for her children. The
+poor cast-adrift looked in and saw light and food and comfort--a
+home that made him heartsick with longing, mean and disordered and
+miserable as it would have appeared to your eyes and mine, reader.
+The two children, coming at their mother's call, found him standing
+just on the threshold gazing in wistfully; and as they entered, he,
+drawn by their attraction, went in also. Then, turning toward her
+children, the mother saw Andy.
+
+"Out of this!" she cried, in quick anger, raising her hand and
+moving hastily toward the child. "Off home with you!"
+
+Andy might well be frightened at the terrible face and threatening
+words of this woman, and he was frightened. But he did not turn and
+fly, as she meant that he should. He had learned, young as he was,
+that if he were driven off by every rebuff, he would starve. It was
+only through importunity and perseverance that he lived. So he held
+his ground, his large, clear eyes fixed steadily on the woman's face
+as she advanced upon him. Something in those eyes and in the
+firmly-set mouth checked the woman's purpose if she had meant
+violence, but she thrust him out into the damp street, nevertheless,
+though not roughly, and shut the door against him.
+
+Andy did not cry; poor little baby that he was, he had long since
+learned that for him crying did no good. It brought him nothing.
+Just across the street a door stood open. As a stray kitten creeps
+in through an open door, so crept he through this one, hoping for
+shelter and a place of rest.
+
+"Who're you?" growled the rough but not unkindly voice of a man,
+coming from the darkness. At the same moment a light gleamed out
+from a match, and then the steadier flame of a candle lit up the
+small room, not more than eight or nine feet square, and containing
+little that could be called furniture. The floor was bare. In one
+corner were some old bits of carpet and a blanket. A small table, a
+couple of chairs with the backs broken off and a few pans and dishes
+made up the inventory of household goods.
+
+As the light made all things clear in this poor room, Andy saw the
+bloodshot eyes, and grizzly face of a man, not far past middle life.
+
+"Who are you, little one?" he growled again as the light gave him a
+view of Andy's face. This growl had in it a tone of kindness and
+welcome to the ears of Andy who came forward, saying,
+
+"I'm Andy."
+
+"Indeed! You're Andy, are you?" and he reached out one of his hands.
+
+"Yes; I'm Andy," returned the child, fixing his eyes with a look so
+deep and searching on the man's face that they held him as by a kind
+of fascination.
+
+"Well, Andy, where did you come from?" asked the man.
+
+"Don't know," was answered.
+
+"Don't know!"
+
+Andy shook his head.
+
+"Where do you live?"
+
+"Don't live nowhere," returned the child; "and I'm hungry."
+
+"Hungry?" The man let the hand he was still holding drop, and
+getting up quickly, took some bread from a closet and set it on the
+old table.
+
+Andy did not wait for an invitation, but seized upon the bread and
+commenced eating almost ravenously. As he did so the man fumbled in
+his pockets. There were a few pennies there. He felt them over,
+counting them with his fingers, and evidently in some debate with
+himself. At last, as he closed the debate, he said, with a kind of
+compelled utterance,
+
+"I say, young one, wouldn't you like some milk with your bread?"
+
+"Milk! oh my I oh goody! yes," answered the child, a gleam of
+pleasure coming into his face.
+
+"Then you shall have some;" and catching up a broken mug, the man
+went out. In a minute or two he returned with a pint of milk, into
+which he broke a piece of bread, and then sat watching Andy as he
+filled himself with the most delicious food he had tasted for weeks,
+his marred face beaming with a higher satisfaction than he had known
+for a long time.
+
+"Is it good?" asked the man.
+
+"I bet you!" was the cheery answer.
+
+"Well, you're a little brick," laughed the man as he stroked Andy's
+head. "And you don't live anywhere?"
+
+"No."
+
+"Is your mother dead?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"And your father?"
+
+"Hain't got no father."
+
+"Would you like to live here?"
+
+Andy looked toward the empty bowl from which he had made such a
+satisfying meal, and said,
+
+"Yes."
+
+"It will hold us both. You're not very big;" and as he said this the
+man drew his arm about the boy in a fond sort of way.
+
+"I guess you're tired," he added, for Andy, now that an arm was
+drawn around him, leaned against it heavily.
+
+"Yes, I'm tired," said the child.
+
+"And sleepy too, poor little fellow! It isn't much of a bed I can
+give you, but it's better than a door-step or a rubbish corner."
+
+Then he doubled the only blanket he had, and made as soft a bed as
+possible. On this he laid Andy, who was fast asleep almost as soon
+as down.
+
+"Poor little chap!" said the man, in a tender, half-broken voice, as
+he stood over the sleeping child, candle in hand. "Poor little
+chap!"
+
+The sight troubled him. He turned with a quick, disturbed movement
+and put the candle down. The light streaming upward into his face
+showed the countenance of a man so degraded by intemperance that
+everything attractive had died out of it. His clothes were scanty,
+worn almost to tatters, and soiled with the slime and dirt of many
+an ash-heap or gutter where he had slept off his almost daily fits
+of drunkenness. There was an air of irresolution about him, and a
+strong play of feeling in his marred, repulsive face, as he stood by
+the table on which he had set the candle. One hand was in his
+pocket, fumbling over the few pennies yet remaining there.
+
+As if drawn by an attraction he could not resist, his eyes kept
+turning to the spot where Andy lay sleeping. Once, as they came
+back, they rested on the mug from which the child had taken his
+supper of bread and milk.
+
+"Poor little fellow!" came from his lips, in a tone of pity.
+
+Then he sat down by the table and leaned his head on his hand. His
+face was toward the corner of the room where the child lay. He still
+fumbled the small coins in his pocket, but after a while his fingers
+ceased to play with them, then his hand was slowly withdrawn from
+the pocket, a deep sigh accompanying the act.
+
+After the lapse of several minutes he took up the candle, and going
+over to the bed, crouched down and let the light fall on Andy's
+face. The large forehead, soiled as it was, looked white to the
+man's eyes, and the brown matted hair, as he drew it through his
+fingers, was soft and beautiful. Memory had taken him back for
+years, and he was looking at the fair forehead and touching the soft
+brown hair of another baby. His eyes grew dim. He set the candle
+upon the floor, and putting his hands over his face, sobbed two or
+three times.
+
+When this paroxysm of feeling went off, he got up with a steadier
+air, and set the light back upon the table. The conflict going on in
+his mind was not quite over, but another look at Andy settled the
+question. Stooping with a hurried movement, he blew out the candle,
+then groped his way over to the bed, and lying down, took the child
+in his arms and drew him close to his breast. So the morning found
+them both asleep.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIX.
+
+
+
+
+
+_MR. DINNEFORD_ had become deeply interested in the work that was
+going on in Briar street, and made frequent visits to the mission
+house. Sometimes he took heart in the work, but oftener he suffered
+great discouragement of feeling. In one of his many conversations
+with Mr. Paulding he said,
+
+"Looking as I do from the standpoint gained since I came here, I am
+inclined to say there is no hope. The enemy is too strong for us."
+
+"He is very strong," returned the missionary, "but God is stronger,
+and our cause is his cause. We have planted his standard here in the
+very midst of the enemy's territory, and have not only held our
+ground for years, but gained some victories. If we had the people,
+the churches and the law-officers on our side, we could drive him
+out in a year. But we have no hope of this--at least not for a long
+time to come; and so, as wisely as we can, as earnestly as we can,
+and with the limited means at our control, we are fighting the foe
+and helping the weak, and gaining a little every year."
+
+"And you really think there is gain?"
+
+"I know it," answered the missionary, with a ringing confidence in
+his voice. "It is by comparisons that we are able to get at true
+results. Come with me into our school-room, next door."
+
+They passed from the office of the mission into the street.
+
+"These buildings," said Mr. Paulding, "erected by that true
+Christian charity which hopeth all things, stand upon the very site
+of one of the worst dens once to be found in this region. In them we
+have a chapel for worship, two large and well ventilated
+school-rooms, where from two to three hundred children that would
+not be admitted into any public school are taught daily, a hospital
+and dispensary and bathrooms. Let me show you the school. Then I
+will give you a measure of comparison."
+
+Mr. Dinneford went up to the school-rooms. He found them crowded
+with children, under the care of female teachers, who seemed to have
+but little trouble in keeping them in order. Such a congregation of
+boys and girls Mr. Dinneford had never seen before. It made his
+heart ache as he looked into some of their marred and pinched,
+faces, most of which bore signs of pain, suffering, want and evil.
+It moved him to tears when he heard them sing, led by one of the
+teachers, a tender hymn expressive of the Lord's love for poor
+neglected children.
+
+"The Lord Jesus came to seek and to save that which was lost," said
+the missionary as they came down from the school-room, "and we are
+trying to do the same work. And that our labor is not all in vain
+will be evident when I show you what this work was in the beginning.
+You have seen a little of what it is now."
+
+They went back to the office of the missionary.
+
+"It is nearly twenty years," said Mr. Paulding, "since the
+organization of our mission. The question of what to do for the
+children became at once the absorbing one. The only building in
+which to open a Sunday-school that could be obtained was an old
+dilapidated frame house used as a receptacle for bones, rags, etc.;
+but so forbidding was its aspect, and so noisome the stench arising
+from the putrefying bones and rotting rags, that it was feared for
+the health of those who might occupy it. However it was agreed to
+try the effect of scraping, scrubbing, white-washing and a liberal
+use of chloride of lime. This was attended with such good effects
+that, notwithstanding the place was still offensive to the
+olfactories, the managers concluded to open in it our first
+Sabbath-school.
+
+"No difficulty was experienced in gathering in a sufficient number
+of children to compose a school; for, excited by such a novel
+spectacle as a Sabbath-school in that region, they came in crowds.
+But such a Sabbath-school as that first one was beyond all doubt the
+rarest thing of the kind that any of those interested in its
+formation had ever witnessed. The jostling, tumbling, scratching,
+pinching, pulling of hair, little ones crying and larger ones
+punching each other's heads and swearing most profanely, altogether
+formed a scene of confusion and riot that disheartened the teachers
+in the start, and made them begin to think they had undertaken a
+hopeless task.
+
+"As to the appearance of these young Ishmaelites, it was plain that
+they had rarely made the acquaintance of soap and water. Hands, feet
+and face exhibited a uniform crust of mud and filth. As it was
+necessary to obtain order, the superintendent, remembering that
+'music hath charms to soothe the savage breast,' decided to try its
+effects on the untamed group before him; and giving out a line of a
+hymn adapted to the tune of 'Lily Dale,' he commenced to sing. The
+effect was instantaneous. It was like oil on troubled waters. The
+delighted youngsters listened to the first line, and then joined in
+with such hearty good-will that the old shanty rang again.
+
+"The attempt to engage and lead them in prayer was, however, a
+matter of great difficulty. They seemed to regard the attitude of
+kneeling as very amusing, and were reluctant to commit themselves so
+far to the ridicule of their companions as to be caught in such a
+posture. After reading to them a portion of the Holy Scriptures and
+telling them of Jesus, they were dismissed, greatly pleased with
+their first visit to a Sabbath-school.
+
+"As for ourselves, we had also received a lesson. We found--what
+indeed we had expected--that the poor children were very ignorant,
+but we also found what we did not expect--namely, such an acute
+intelligence and aptitude to receive instruction as admonished us of
+the danger of leaving them to grow up under evil influences to
+become master-spirits in crime and pests to society. Many of the
+faces that we had just seen were very expressive--indeed, painfully
+so. Some of them seemed to exhibit an unnatural and premature
+development of those passions whose absence makes childhood so
+attractive.
+
+"Hunger! ay, its traces were also plainly written there. It is
+painful to see the marks of hunger on the human face, but to see the
+cheeks of childhood blanched by famine, to behold the attenuated
+limbs and bright wolfish eyes, ah! that is a sight.
+
+"The organization of a day-school came next. There were hundreds of
+children in the district close about the mission who were wholly
+without instruction. They were too dirty, vicious and disorderly to
+be admitted into any of the public schools; and unless some special
+means of education were provided, they must grow up in ignorance. It
+was therefore resolved to open a day-school, but to find a teacher
+with her heart in such a work was a difficulty hard to be met;
+moreover, it was thought by many unsafe for a lady to remain in this
+locality alone, even though a suitable one should offer. But one
+brave and self-devoted was found, and one Sunday it was announced to
+the children in the Sabbath-school that a day school would be opened
+in the same building at nine o'clock on Monday morning.
+
+"About thirty neglected little ones from the lanes and alleys around
+the mission were found at the schoolroom door at the appointed hour.
+But when admitted, very few of them had any idea of the purpose for
+which they were collected. The efforts of the teacher to seat them
+proved a failure. The idea among them seemed to be that each should
+take some part in amusing the company. One would jump from the back
+of a bench upon which he had been seated, while others were creeping
+about the floor; another, who deemed himself a proficient in turning
+somersaults, would be trying his skill in this way, while his
+neighbor, equally ambitious, would show the teacher how he could
+stand on his head. Occasionally they would pause and listen to the
+singing of a hymn or the reading of a little story; then all would
+be confusion again; and thus the morning wore away. The first
+session having closed, the teacher retired to her home, feeling that
+a repetition of the scenes through which she had passed could
+scarcely be endured.
+
+"Two o'clock found her again at the door, and the children soon
+gathered around her. Upon entering the schoolroom, most of them were
+induced to be seated, and a hymn was sung which they had learned in
+the Sabbath-school. When it was finished, the question was asked,
+'Shall we pray?' With one accord they answered, 'Yes.' 'And will you
+be quiet?' They replied in the affirmative. All were then requested
+to be silent and cover their faces. In this posture they remained
+until the prayer was closed; and after resuming their seats, for
+some minutes order was preserved. This was the only encouraging
+circumstance of the day.
+
+"For many weeks a stranger would scarcely have recognized a school
+in this disorderly gathering which day after day met in the old
+gloomy building. Very many difficulties which we may not name were
+met and conquered. Fights were of common occurrence. A description
+of one may give the reader an idea of what came frequently under our
+notice.
+
+"A rough boy about fourteen years of age, over whom some influence
+had been gained, was chosen monitor one morning; and as he was a
+leader in all the mischief, it was hoped that putting him upon his
+honor would assist in keeping order. Talking aloud was forbidden.
+For a few minutes matters went on charmingly, until some one, tired
+of the restraint, broke silence. The monitor, feeling the importance
+of his position, and knowing of but one mode of redress, instantly
+struck him a violent blow upon the ear, causing him to scream with
+pain. In a moment the school was a scene of confusion, the friends
+of each boy taking sides, and before the cause of trouble could be
+ascertained most of the boys were piled upon each other in the
+middle of the room, creating sounds altogether indescribable. The
+teacher, realizing that she was alone, and not well understanding
+her influence, feared for a moment to interfere; but as matters were
+growing worse, something must be done. She made an effort to gain
+the ear of the monitor, and asked why he did so. He, confident of
+being in the right, answered,
+
+"'Teacher, he didn't mind you; he spoke, and I licked him; and I'll
+do it again if be don't mind you.'
+
+"His services were of course no longer required, although he had
+done his duty according to his understanding of the case.
+
+"Thus it was at the beginning of this work nearly twenty years ago,"
+said the missionary. "Now we have an orderly school of over two
+hundred children, who, but for the opportunity here given, would
+grow up without even the rudiments of all education. Is not this a
+gain upon the enemy? Think of a school like this doing its work
+daily among these neglected little ones for nearly a score of years,
+and you will no longer feel as if nothing had been done--as if no
+headway had been gained. Think, too, of the Sabbath-school work in
+that time, and of the thousands of children who have had their
+memories filled with precious texts from the Bible, who have been
+told of the loving Saviour who came into the world and suffered and
+died for them, and of his tender love and perpetual care over his
+children, no matter how poor and vile and afar off from him they may
+be. It is impossible that the good seed of the word scattered here
+for so long a time should not have taken root in many hearts. We
+know that they have, and can point to scores of blessed
+instances--can take you to men and women, now good and virtuous
+people, who, but for our day-and Sabbath-schools, would, in all
+human probability, be now among the outcast, the vicious and the
+criminal.
+
+"So much for what has been done among the children. Our work with
+men and women has not been so fruitful as might well be supposed,
+and yet great good has been accomplished even among the hardened,
+the desperate and the miserably vile and besotted. Bad as things are
+to-day--awful to see and to contemplate, shocking and disgraceful to
+a Christian community--they were nearly as bad again at the time
+this mission set up the standard of God and made battle in his name.
+Our work began as a simple religious movement, with street
+preaching."
+
+"And with what effect?" asked Mr. Dinneford.
+
+"With good effect, in a limited number of cases, I trust. In a
+degraded community like this there will always be some who had a
+different childhood from that of the crowds of young heathen who
+swarm its courts and alleys; some who in early life had religious
+training, and in whose memories were stored up holy things from
+Scripture; some who have tender and sweet recollection of a mother
+and home and family prayer and service in God's temples. In the
+hearts of such God's Spirit in moving could touch and quicken and
+flush with reviving life these old memories, and through them bring
+conviction of sin, and an intense desire to rise out of the horrible
+pit into which they had fallen and the clay wherein their feet were
+mired. Angels could come near to these by what of good and true was
+to be found half hidden, but not erased from their book of life, and
+so help in the work of their recovery and salvation.
+
+"But, sir, beyond this class there is small hope, I fear, in
+preaching and praying. The great mass of these wretched beings have
+had little or no early religious instruction. There, are but few, if
+any, remains of things pure and good and holy stored away since
+childhood in their memories to be touched and quickened by the
+Spirit of God. And so we must approach them in another and more
+external way. We must begin with their physical evils, and lessen
+these as fast as possible; we must remove temptation from their
+doors, or get them as far as possible out of the reach of
+temptation, but in this work not neglecting the religious element as
+an agency, of untold power.
+
+"Christ fed the hungry, and healed the sick, and clothed the naked,
+and had no respect unto the persons of men. And we, if we would lift
+up fallen humanity, must learn by his example. It is not by
+preaching and prayer and revival meetings that the true Christian
+philanthropist can hope to accomplish any great good among the
+people here, but by doing all in his power to change their sad
+external condition and raise them out of their suffering and
+degradation. Without some degree of external order and obedience to
+the laws of natural life, it is, I hold, next to impossible, to
+plant in the mind any seeds of spiritual truth. There is no ground
+there. The parable of the sower that went forth to sow illustrates
+this law. Only the seed that fell on good ground brought forth
+fruit. Our true work, then, among this heathen people, of whom the
+churches take so little care, is first to get the ground in order
+for the planting, of heavenly seed. Failing in this, our hope is
+small."
+
+"This mission has changed its attitude since the beginning," said
+Mr. Dinneford.
+
+"Yes. Good and earnest men wrought for years with the evil elements
+around them, trusting in God's Spirit to change the hearts of the
+vile and abandoned sinners among whom they preached and prayed. But
+there was little preparation of the ground, and few seeds got
+lodgment except in stony places, by the wayside and among thorns.
+Our work now is to prepare the ground, and in this work, slowly as
+it is progressing, we have great encouragement. Every year we can
+mark the signs of advancement. Every year we make some head against
+the enemy. Every year our hearts take courage and are refreshed by
+the smell of grasses and the odor of flowers and the sight of
+fruit-bearing plants in once barren and desolate places. The ground
+is surely being made ready for the sower."
+
+"I am glad to hear you speak so encouragingly," returned Mr.
+Dinneford. "To me the case looked desperate--wellnigh hopeless.
+Anything worse than I have witnessed here seemed impossible."
+
+"It is only by comparisons, as I said before, that we can get at the
+true measure of change and progress," answered the missionary.
+"Since we have been at work in earnest to improve the external life
+of this region, we have had much to encourage us. True, what we have
+done has made only a small impression on the evil that exists here;
+but the value of this impression lies in the fact that it shows what
+can be done with larger agencies. Double our effective force, and we
+can double the result. Increase it tenfold, and ten times as much
+can be done."
+
+"What is your idea of this work?" said Mr. Dinneford. "In other
+words, what do you think the best practical way to purify this
+region?"
+
+"If you draw burning brands and embers close together, your fire
+grows stronger; if you scatter them apart, it will go out," answered
+the missionary. "Moral and physical laws correspond to each other.
+Crowd bad men and women together, and they corrupt and deprave each
+other. Separate them, and you limit their evil power and make more
+possible for good the influence of better conditions. Let me give
+you an instance: A man and his wife who had lived in a wretched way
+in one of the poorest hovels in Briar street for two years, and who
+had become idle and intemperate, disappeared from among us about six
+months ago. None of their neighbors knew or cared much what had
+become of them. They had two children. Last week, as I was passing
+the corner of a street in the south-western part of the city in
+which stood a row of small new houses, a neatly-dressed woman came
+out of a store with a basket in her hand. I did not know her, but by
+the brightening look in her face I saw that she knew me.
+
+"'Mr. Paulding,' she said, in a pleased way, holding out her hand;
+'you don't know me,' she added, seeing the doubt in my face. 'I am
+Mrs.--.'
+
+"'Impossible!' I could not help exclaiming.
+
+"'But it's true, Mr. Paulding,' she averred, a glow of pleasure on
+her countenance. 'We've turned over a new leaf.'
+
+"'So I should think from your appearance,' I replied. 'Where do you
+live?'
+
+"'In the third house from the corner,' pointing to the neat row of
+small brick houses I have mentioned. 'Come and look at our new home.
+I want to tell you about it!'
+
+"I was too much pleased to need a second invitation.
+
+"'I've got as clean steps as my neighbors,' she said, with pride in
+her voice, 'and shades to my windows, and a bright door-knob. It
+wasn't so in Briar street. One had no heart there. Isn't this nice?'
+
+"And she glanced around the little parlor we had entered.
+
+"It was nice, compared to the dirty and disorderly place they had
+called their home in Briar street. The floor was covered with a new
+ingrain carpet. There were a small table and six cane-seat chairs in
+the room, shades at the windows, two or three small pictures on the
+walls and some trifling ornaments on the mantel. Everything was
+clean and the air of the room sweet.
+
+"'This is my little Emma,' she said as a cleanly-dressed child came
+into the room; 'You remember she was in the school.'
+
+"I did remember her as a ragged, dirty-faced child, forlorn and
+neglected, like most of the children about here. It was a wonderful
+transformation.
+
+"'And now,' I said, 'tell me how all this has come about.'
+
+"'Well, you see, Mr. Paulding,' she answered, 'there was no use in
+John and me trying to be anything down there. It was temptation on
+every hand, and we were weak and easily tempted. There was nothing
+to make us look up or to feel any pride. We lived like our
+neighbors, and you know what kind of a way that was.
+
+"'One day John said to me, "Emma," says he, "it's awful, the way
+we're living; we'd better be dead." His voice was shaky-like, and it
+kind of made me feel bad. "I know it, John," said I, "but what can
+we do?" "Go 'way from here," he said. "But where?" I asked.
+"Anywhere. I'm not all played out yet;" and he held up his hand and
+shut it tight. "There's good stuff in me yet, and if you're willing
+to make a new start, I am." I put my hand in his, and said, "God
+helping me, I will try, John." He went off that very day and got a
+room in a decent neighborhood, and we moved in it before night. We
+had only one cart-load, and a wretched load of stuff it was. But I
+can't tell you how much better it looked when we got it into our new
+room, the walls of which were nicely papered, and the paint clean
+and white. I fixed up everything and made it as neat as possible.
+John was so pleased. "It feels something like old times," he said.
+He had been knocking about a good while, picking up odd jobs and not
+half working, but he took heart now, quit drinking and went to work
+in good earnest, and was soon making ten dollars a week, every cent
+of which he brought home. He now gets sixteen dollars. We haven't
+made a back step since. But it wouldn't have been any use trying if
+we'd stayed in Briar street. Pride helped us a good deal in the
+beginning, sir. I was ashamed not to have my children looking as
+clean as my neighbors, and ashamed not to keep things neat and
+tidy-like. I didn't care anything about it in Briar street.'
+
+"I give you this instance, true in nearly every particular," said
+the missionary, "in order to show you how incurable is the evil
+condition of the people here; unless we can get the burning brands
+apart, they help to consume each other."
+
+"But how to get them apart? that is the difficult question," said
+Mr. Dinneford.
+
+"There are two ways," was replied--"by forcing the human brands
+apart, and by interposing incombustible things between them. As we
+have no authority to apply force, and no means at hand for its
+exercise if we had the authority, our work has been in the other
+direction. We have been trying to get in among these burning brands
+elements that would stand the fire, and, so lessen the ardor of
+combustion."
+
+"How are you doing this?"
+
+"By getting better houses for the people to live in. Improve the
+house, make it more sightly and convenient, and in most cases you
+will improve the person who lives in it. He will not kindle so
+easily, though he yet remain close to the burning brands."
+
+"And are you doing this?"
+
+"A little has been done. Two or three years ago a building
+association was organized by a few gentlemen of means, with a view
+to the purchase of property in this district and the erection of
+small but good houses, to be rented at moderate cost to honest and
+industrious people. A number of such houses have already been built,
+and they are now occupied by tenants of a better class, whose
+influence on their neighbors is becoming more and more apparent
+every day. Brady street--once the worst place in all this
+district--has changed wonderfully. There is scarcely a house in the
+two blocks through which it runs that does not show some improvement
+since the association pulled down half a dozen of its worst frame
+tenements and put neat brick dwellings in their places. It is no
+uncommon thing now to see pavement sweeping and washing in front of
+some of the smallest and poorest of the houses in Brady street where
+two years ago the dirt would stick to your feet in passing. A clean
+muslin half curtain, a paper shade or a pot of growing plants will
+meet your eyes at a window here and there as you pass along. The
+thieves who once harbored in this street, and hid their plunder in
+cellars and garrets until it could be sold or pawned, have abandoned
+the locality. They could not live side by side with honest
+industry."
+
+"And all this change may be traced to the work of our building
+association, limited as are its means and half-hearted as are its
+operations. The worst of our population--the common herd of thieves,
+beggars and vile women who expose themselves shamelessly on the
+street--are beginning to feel less at home and more in danger of
+arrest and exposure. The burning brands are no longer in such close
+contact, and so the fires of evil are raging less fiercely. Let in
+the light, and the darkness flees. Establish the good, and evil
+shrinks away, weak and abashed."
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XX.
+
+
+
+
+
+_SO_ the morning found them fast asleep. The man awoke first and
+felt the child against his bosom, soft and warm. It was some moments
+ere he understood what it meant. It seemed as if the wretched life
+he had been leading was all a horrible dream out of which he had
+awakened, and that the child sleeping in his bosom was his own
+tenderly-loved baby. But the sweet illusions faded away, and the
+hard, sorrowful truth stood out sternly before him.
+
+Then Andy's eyes opened and looked into his face. There was nothing
+scared in the look-hardly an expression of surprise. But the man saw
+a mute appeal and a tender confidence that made his heart swell and
+yearn toward the homeless little one.
+
+"Had a nice sleep?" he asked, in a tone of friendly encouragement.
+
+Andy nodded his head, and then gazed curiously about the room.
+
+"Want some breakfast?"
+
+The hungry face lit up with a flash of pleasure.
+
+"Of course you do, little one."
+
+The man was on his feet by this time, with his hand in his pocket,
+from which he drew a number of pennies. These he counted over
+carefully twice. The number was just ten. If there had been only
+himself to provide for, it would not have taken long to settle the
+question of expenditure. Five cents at an eating-shop where the
+caterer supplied himself from the hodge-podge of beggars' baskets
+would have given him a breakfast fit for a dog or pig, while the
+remaining five cents would have gone for fiery liquor to quench a
+burning thirst.
+
+But another mouth had too be fed. All at once this poor degraded man
+had risen to a sense of responsibility, and was practicing the
+virtue of self-denial. A little child was leading him.
+
+He had no toilette to make, no ablutions to practice. There was
+neither pail nor wash-basin in his miserable kennel. So, without any
+delay of preparation, he caught up the broken mug and went out, as
+forlorn a looking wretch as was to be seen in all that region.
+Almost every house that he passed was a grog-shop, and his nerves
+were all unstrung and his mouth and throat dry from a night's
+abstinence. But he was able to go by without a pause. In a few
+minutes he returned with a loaf of bread, a pint of milk and a
+single dried sausage.
+
+What a good breakfast the two made. Not for a long time had the man
+so enjoyed a meal. The sight of little Andy, as he ate with the fine
+relish of a hungry child, made his dry bread and sausage taste
+sweeter than anything that had passed his lips for weeks.
+
+Something more than the food he had taken steadied the man's nerves
+and allayed his thirst. Love was beating back into his heart--love
+for this homeless wanderer, whose coming had supplied the lost links
+in the chain which bound him to the past and called up memories that
+had slept almost the sleep of death for years. Good resolutions
+began forming in his mind.
+
+"It may be," he said to himself as new and better impressions than
+he had known for a long time began to crowd upon him, "that God has
+led this baby here."
+
+The thought sent a strange thrill to his soul. He trembled with
+excess of feeling. He had once been a religious man; and with the
+old instinct of dependence on God, he clasped his hands together
+with a sudden, desperate energy, and looking up, cried, in a
+half-despairing, half-trustful voice,
+
+"Lord, help me!"
+
+No earnest cry like that ever goes up without an instant answer in
+the gift of divine strength. The man felt it in a stronger purpose
+and a quickening hope. He was conscious of a new power in himself.
+
+"God being my helper," he said in the silence of his heart, "I will
+be a man again."
+
+There was a long distance between him and a true manhood. The way
+back was over very rough and difficult places, and through dangers
+and temptations almost impossible to resist. Who would have faith in
+him? Who would help him in his great extremity? How was he to live?
+Not any longer by begging or petty theft. He must do honest work.
+There was no hope in anything else. If God were to be his helper, he
+must be honest, and work. To this conviction he had come.
+
+But what was to be done with Andy while he was away trying to earn
+something? The child might get hurt in the street or wander off in
+his absence and never find his way back. The care he felt for the
+little one was pleasure compared to the thought of losing him.
+
+As for Andy, the comfort of a good breakfast and the feeling that he
+had a home, mean as it was, and somebody to care for him, made his
+heart light and set his lips to music.
+
+When before had the dreary walls of that poor hovel echoed to the
+happy voice of a light-hearted child? But there was another echo to
+the voice, and from walls as long a stranger to such sounds as
+these--the walls in the chambers of that poor man's memory. A
+wellnigh lost and ruined soul was listening to the far-off voices of
+children. Sunny-haired little ones were thronging about him; he was
+looking into their tender eyes; their soft arms were clinging to his
+neck; he was holding them tightly clasped to his bosom.
+
+"Baby," he said. It was the word that came most naturally to his
+lips.
+
+Andy, who was sitting where a few sunbeams came in through a rent in
+the wall, with the warm light on his head, turned and looked into
+the bleared but friendly eyes gazing at him so earnestly.
+
+"I'm going out, baby. Will you stay here till I come back?"
+
+"Yes," answered the child, "I'll stay."
+
+"I won't be gone very long, and I'll bring you an apple and
+something good for dinner."
+
+Andy's face lit up and his eyes danced.
+
+"Don't go out until I come back. Somebody might carry you off, and
+then I couldn't give you the nice red apple."
+
+"I'll stay right here," said Andy, in a positive tone.
+
+"And won't go into the street till I come back?"
+
+"No, I won't." Andy knit his brows and closed his lips firmly.
+
+"All right, little one," answered the man, in a cheery sort of voice
+that was so strange to his own ears that it seemed like the voice of
+somebody else.
+
+Still, he could not feel satisfied. He was living in the midst of
+thieves to whom the most insignificant thing upon which they could
+lay their hands was booty. Children who had learned to be hard and
+cruel thronged the court, and he feared, if he left Andy alone in
+the hovel, that it would not only be robbed of its meagre furniture,
+but the child subjected to ill-treatment. He had always fastened the
+door on going out, but hesitated now about locking Andy in.
+
+All things considered, it was safest, he felt, to lock the door.
+There was nothing in the room that could bring harm to the child--no
+fire or matches, no stairs to climb or windows out of which he could
+fall.
+
+"I guess I'd better lock the door, hadn't I, so that nobody can
+carry off my little boy?" he asked of Andy.
+
+Andy made no objections. He was ready for anything his kind friend
+might propose.
+
+"And you mustn't cry or make a noise. The police might break in if
+you did."
+
+"All right," said Andy, with the self-assertion of a boy of ten.
+
+The man stroked the child's head and ran his fingers through his
+hair in a fond way; then, as one who tore himself from an object of
+attraction, went hastily out and locked the door.
+
+And now was to begin a new life. Friendless, debased, repulsive in
+appearance, everything about him denoting the abandoned drunkard,
+this man started forth to get honest bread. Where should he go? What
+could he do? Who would give employment to an object like him? The
+odds were fearfully against him--no, not that, either. In outward
+respects, fearful enough were the odds, but on the other side
+agencies invisible to mortal sight were organizing for his safety.
+In to his purpose to lead a new life and help a poor homeless child
+God's strength was flowing. Angels were drawing near to a miserable
+wreck of humanity with hands outstretched to save. All heaven was
+coming to the rescue.
+
+He was shuffling along in the direction of a market-house, hoping to
+earn a little by carrying home baskets, when he came face to face
+with an old friend of his better days, a man with whom he had once
+held close business relations.
+
+"Mr. Hall!" exclaimed this man in a tone of sorrowful surprise,
+stopping and looking at him with an expression of deepest pity on
+his countenance. "This is dreadful!"
+
+"You may well say that, Mr. Graham. It dreadful enough. No one knows
+that better than I do," was answered, with a bitterness that his old
+friend felt to be genuine.
+
+"Why, then, lead this terrible life a day longer?" asked the friend.
+
+"I shall not lead it a day longer if God will help me," was replied,
+with a genuineness of purpose that was felt by Mr. Graham.
+
+"Give me your hand on that, Andrew Hall," he exclaimed. Two hands
+closed in a tight grip.
+
+"Where are you going now?" inquired the friend.
+
+"I'm in search of something to do--something that will give me
+honest bread. Look at my hand."
+
+He held it up.
+
+"It shakes, you see. I have not tasted liquor this morning. I could
+have bought it, but I did not."
+
+"Why?"
+
+"I said, 'God being my helper, I will be a man again,' and I am
+trying."
+
+"Andrew Hall," said his old friend, solemnly, as he laid his hand on
+his shoulder, "if you are really in earnest--if you do mean, in the
+help of God, to try--all will be well. But in his help alone is
+there any hope. Have you seen Mr. Paulding?"
+
+"No."
+
+"Why not?"
+
+"He has no faith in me. I have deceived him too often."
+
+"What ground of faith is there now?" asked Mr. Graham.
+
+"This," was the firm but hastily spoken answer. "Last night as I sat
+in the gloom of my dreary hovel, feeling so wretched that I wished I
+could die, a little child came in--a poor, motherless, homeless
+wanderer, almost a baby--and crept down to my heart, and he is lying
+there still, Mr. Graham, soft, and warm and precious, a sweet burden
+to bear. I bought him a supper and a breakfast of bread and milk
+with the money, I had saved for drink, and now, both for his sake
+and mine, I am out seeking for work. I have locked him in, so that
+no one can harm or carry him away while I earn enough to buy him his
+dinner, and maybe something better to wear, poor little homeless
+thing!"
+
+There was a genuine earnestness and pathos about the man that could
+not be mistaken.
+
+"I think," said Mr. Graham, his voice not quite steady, "that God
+brought us together this morning. I know Mr. Paulding. Let us go
+first to the mission, and have some talk with him. You must have a
+bath and better, and cleaner clothes before you are in a condition
+to get employment."
+
+The bath and a suit of partly-worn but good clean clothes were
+supplied at the mission house.
+
+"Now come with me, and I will find you something to do," said the
+old friend.
+
+But Andrew Hall stood hesitating.
+
+"The little child--I told him I'd come back soon. He's locked up all
+alone, poor baby!"
+
+He spoke with a quiver in his voice.
+
+"Oh, true, true!" answered Mr. Graham; "the baby must be looked
+after;" and he explained to the missionary.
+
+"I will go round with you and get the child," said Mr. Paulding. "My
+wife will take care of him while you are away with Mr. Graham."
+
+They found little Andy sitting patiently on the floor. He did not
+know the friend who had given him a home and food and loving words,
+and looked at him half scared and doubting. But his voice made the
+child spring to his feet with a bound, and flushed his thin-face
+with the joy of a glad recognition.
+
+Mrs. Paulding received him with a true motherly kindness, and soon a
+bath and clean clothing wrought as great a change in the child as
+they had done in the man.
+
+"I want your help in saving him," said Mr. Graham, aside, to the
+missionary. "He was once among our most respectable citizens, a good
+church-member, a good husband and father, a man of ability and large
+influence. Society lost much when it lost him. He is well worth
+saving, and we must do it if possible. God sent him this little
+child to touch his heart and flood it with old memories, and then he
+led me to come down here that I might meet and help him just when
+his good purposes made help needful and salvation possible. It is
+all of his loving care and wise providence of his tender mercy,
+which is over the poorest and weakest and most degraded of his
+children. Will you give him your special care?"
+
+"It is the work I am here to do," answered the missionary. "The
+Master came to seek and to save that which was lost, and I am his
+humble follower."
+
+"The child will have to be provided for," said Mr. Graham. "It
+cannot, of course, be left with him. It needs a woman's care."
+
+"It will not do to separate them," returned the missionary. "As you
+remarked just now, God sent him this little child to touch his heart
+and lead him back from the wilderness in which he has strayed. His
+safety depends on the touch of that hand. So long as he feels its
+clasp and its pull, he will walk in the new way wherein God is
+setting his feet. No, no; the child must be left with him--at least
+for the present. We will take care of it while he is at work during
+the day, and at night it can sleep in his arms, a protecting angel."
+
+"What kind of a place does he live in?" asked Mr. Graham.
+
+"A dog might dwell there in comfort, but not a man," replied the
+missionary.
+
+Mr. Graham gave him money: "Provide a decent room. If more is
+required, let me know."
+
+He then went away, taking Mr. Hall with him.
+
+"You will find the little one here when you come back," said Mr.
+Paulding as he saw the anxious, questioning look that was cast
+toward Andy.
+
+Clothed and in his right mind, but in no condition for work, was
+Andrew Hall. Mr. Graham soon noticed, as he walked by his side, that
+he was in a very nervous condition.
+
+"What had you for breakfast this morning" he asked, the right
+thought coming into his mind.
+
+"Not much. Some bread and a dried sausage."
+
+"Oh dear! that will never do! You must have something more
+nutritious--a good beefsteak and a cup of coffee to steady your
+nerves. Come."
+
+And in a few minutes they were in an eating-house. When they came
+out, Hall was a different man. Mr. Graham then took him to his store
+and set him to work to arrange and file a number of letters and
+papers, which occupied him for several hours. He saw that he had a
+good dinner and at five o'clock gave him a couple of dollars for his
+day's work, aid after many kind words of advice and assurance told
+him to come back in the morning, and he would find something else
+for him to do.
+
+Swiftly as his feet would carry him, Andrew Hall made his way to the
+Briar street mission. He did not at first know the clean, handsome
+child that lifted his large brown eyes to his face as he came in,
+nor did the child know him until he spoke. Then a cry of pleasure
+broke from the baby's lips, and he ran to the arms reached out to
+clasp him.
+
+"We'll go home now," he said, as if anxious to regain possession of
+the child.
+
+"Not back to Grubb's court," was answered by Mr. Paulding. "If you
+are going to be a new man, you must have a new and better home, and
+I've found one for you just a little way from here. It's a nice
+clean room, and I'll take you there. The rent is six dollars a
+month, but you can easily pay that when you get fairly to work."
+
+The room was in the second story of a small house, better kept than
+most of its neighbors, and contained a comfortable bed, with other
+needed furniture, scanty, but clean and good. It was to Mr. Hall
+like the chamber of a prince compared with what he had known for a
+long time; and as he looked around him and comprehended something of
+the blessed change that was coming over his life, tears filled his
+eyes.
+
+"Bring Andy around in the morning," said the missionary as he turned
+to go. "Mrs. Paulding will take good care of him."
+
+That night, after undressing the child and putting on him the clean
+night-gown which good Mrs. Paulding had not forgotten, he said,
+
+"And now Andy will say his prayers."
+
+Andy looked at him with wide-open, questioning eyes. Mr. Hall saw
+that he was not understood.
+
+"You know, 'Now I lay me'?" he said.
+
+"No, don't know it," replied Andy.
+
+"'Our Father,' then?"
+
+The child knit his brow. It was plain that he did not understand
+what his good friend meant.
+
+"You've said your prayers?"
+
+Andy shook his head in a bewildered way.
+
+"Never said your prayers!" exclaimed Mr. Hall, in a voice so full of
+surprise and pain that Andy grew half frightened.
+
+"Poor baby!" was said, pityingly, a moment after. Then the question,
+"Wouldn't you like to say your prayers?" brought the quick answer,
+"Yes."
+
+"Kneel down, then, right here." Andy knelt, looking up almost
+wonderingly into the face that bent over him.
+
+"We have a good Father in heaven," said Mr. Hall, with tender
+reverence in his tone, pointing upward as he spoke, "He loves us and
+takes care of us. He brought you to me, and told me to love you and
+take care of you for him, and I'm going to do it. Now, I want you to
+say a little prayer to this good and kind Father before you go to
+bed. Will you?"
+
+"Yes, I will," came the ready answer.
+
+"Say it over after me. 'Now I lay me down to sleep.'"
+
+Andy repeated the words, his little hands clasped together, and
+followed through the verse which thousands of little children in
+thousands of Christian homes were saying at the very same hour.
+
+There was a subdued expression on the child's face as he rose from
+his knees; and when Mr. Hall lifted him from the floor to lay him in
+bed, he drew his arms about his neck and hugged him tightly.
+
+How beautiful the child looked as he lay with shut eyes, the long
+brown lashes fringing his flushed cheeks, that seemed already to
+have gained a healthy roundness! The soft breath came through his
+parted lips, about which still lingered the smile of peace that
+rested there after his first prayer was said; his little hands lay
+upon his breast.
+
+As Mr. Hall sat gazing at this picture there came a rap on his door.
+Then the missionary entered. Neither of the men spoke for some
+moments. Mr. Paulding comprehended the scene, and felt its sweet and
+holy influence.
+
+"Blessed childhood!" he said, breaking the silence. "Innocent
+childhood! The nearer we come to it, the nearer we get to heaven."
+Then, after a pause, he added, "And heaven is our only hope, Mr.
+Hall."
+
+"I have no hope but in God's strength," was answered, in a tone of
+solemn earnestness.
+
+"God is our refuge, our rock of defence, our hiding-place, our sure
+protector. If we trust in him, we shall dwell in safety," said the
+mission. "I am glad to hear you speak of hoping in God. He will give
+you strength if you lean upon him, and there is not power enough in
+all hell to drag you down if you put forth this God-given strength.
+But remember, my friend, that you must use it as if it were your
+own. You must resist. God's strength outside of our will and effort
+is of no use to any of us in temptation. But looking to our Lord and
+Saviour in humble yet earnest prayer for help in the hour of trial
+and need if we put forth our strength in resistance of evil, small
+though it be, then into our weak efforts will come an influx of
+divine power that shall surely give us the victory. Have you a
+Bible?"
+
+Mr. Hall shook his head.
+
+"I have brought you one;" and the missionary drew a small Bible from
+his pocket. "No man is safe without a Bible."
+
+"Oh, I am glad! I was just wishing for a Bible," said Hall as he
+reached out his hand to receive the precious book.
+
+"If you read it every night and morning--if you treasure its holy
+precepts in your memory, and call them up in times of trial, or when
+evil enticements are in your way--God can come near to your soul to
+succor and to save, for the words of the holy book are his words,
+and he is present in them. If we take them into our thoughts,
+reverently seeking to obey them, we make a dwelling-place for the
+Lord, so that he can abide with us; and in his presence there is
+safety."
+
+"And nowhere else," responded Hall, speaking from a deep sense of
+personal helplessness.
+
+"Nowhere else," echoed the missionary. "And herein lies the hope or
+the despair of men. It is pitiful, it is heart-aching, to see the
+vain but wild and earnest efforts made by the slaves of intemperance
+to get free from their cruel bondage. Thousands rend their fetters
+every year after some desperate struggle, and escape. But, alas! how
+many are captured and taken back into slavery! Appetite springs upon
+them in some unguarded moment, and in their weakness there is none
+to succor. They do not go to the Strong for strength, but trust in
+themselves, and are cast down. Few are ever redeemed from the
+slavery of intemperance but those who pray to God and humbly seek
+his aid. And so long as they depend on him, they are safe. He will
+be as a wall of fire about them."
+
+As the missionary talked, the face of Mr. Hall underwent a
+remarkable change. It grew solemn and very thoughtful. His hands
+drew together and the fingers clasped. At the last words of Mr.
+Paulding a deep groan came from his heart; and lifting his gaze
+upward, he cried out,
+
+"Lord, save me, or I perish!"
+
+"Let us pray," said the missionary, and the two men knelt together,
+one with bowed head and crouching body, the other with face
+uplifted, tenderly talking to Him who had come down to the lowliest
+and the vilest that he might make them pure as the angels, about the
+poor prodigal now coming back to his Father's house.
+
+After the prayer, Mr. paulding read a chapter from the Bible aloud,
+and then, after words of hope and comfort, went away.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXI.
+
+
+
+
+
+"_I TAKE_ reproof to myself," said Mr. Dinneford. "As one of your
+board of managers, I ought to have regarded my position as more than
+a nominal one. I understand better now what you said about the ten
+or twenty of our rich and influential men who, if they could be
+induced to look away for a brief period from their great
+enterprises, and concentrate thought and effort upon the social
+evils, abuse of justice, violations of law, poverty and suffering
+that exist here and in other parts of our city, would inaugurate
+reforms and set beneficent agencies at work that would soon produce
+marvelous changes for good."
+
+"Ah, yes," sighed Mr. Paulding. "If we had for just a little while
+the help of our strong men--the men of brains and will and money,
+the men who are used to commanding success, whose business it is to
+organize forces and set impediments at defiance, the men whose word
+is a kind of law to the people--how quickly, and as if by magic,
+would all this change!
+
+"But we cannot now hope to get this great diversion in our favor.
+Until we do we must stand in the breach, small in numbers and weak
+though we are--must go on doing our best and helping when we may.
+Help is help and good is good, be it ever so small. If I am able to
+rescue but a single life where many are drowning, I make just so
+much head against death and destruction. Shall I stand off and
+refuse to put forth my hand because I cannot save a score?
+
+"Take heart, Mr. Dinneford. Our work is not in vain. Its fruits may
+be seen all around. Bad as you find everything, it is not so bad as
+it was. When our day-school was opened, the stench from the filthy
+children who were gathered in was so great that the teachers were
+nauseated. They were dirty in person as well as dirty in their
+clothing. This would not do. There was no hope of moral purity while
+such physical impurity existed. So the mission set up baths, and
+made every child go in and thoroughly wash his body. Then they got
+children's clothing--new and old--from all possible sources, and put
+clean garments on their little scholars. From the moment they were
+washed and cleanly clad, a new and better spirit came upon them.
+They were more orderly and obedient, and more teachable. There was,
+or seemed to be, a tenderer quality in their voices as they sang
+their hymns of praise."
+
+Just then there came a sudden outcry and a confusion of voices from
+the street. Mr. Dinneford arose quickly and went to the window. A
+man, apparently drunk and in a rage, was holding a boy tightly
+gripped by the collar with one hand and cuffing him about the head
+and face with the other.
+
+"It's that miserable Blind Jake!" said Mr. Paulding.
+
+In great excitement, Mr. Dinneford threw up the window and called
+for the police. At this the man stopped beating the boy, but swore
+at him terribly, his sightless eyes rolling and his face distorted
+in a frightful way. A policeman who was not far off came now upon
+the scene.
+
+"What's all this about?" he asked, sternly.
+
+"Jake's drunk again, that's the row," answered a voice.
+
+"Lock him up, lock him up!" cried two or three from the crowd.
+
+An expression of savage defiance came into the face of the blind
+man, and he moved his arms and clenched his fist like one who was
+bent on desperate resistance. He was large and muscular, and, now
+that he was excited by drink and bad passions, had a look that was
+dangerous.
+
+"Go home and behave yourself," said the policeman, not caring to
+have a single-handed tussle with the human savage, whose strength
+and desperate character he well knew.
+
+Blind Jake, as he was called, stood for a few moments half defiant,
+growling and distorting his face until it looked more like a wild
+animal's than a man's, then jerked out the words,
+
+"Where's that Pete?" with a sound like the crack of a whip.
+
+The boy he had been beating in his drunken fury, and who did not
+seem to be much hurt, came forward from the crowd, and taking him by
+the hand, led him away.
+
+"Who is this blind man? I have seen him before," said Mr. Dinneford.
+
+"You may see him any day standing at the street corners, begging, a
+miserable-looking object, exciting the pity of the humane, and
+gathering in money to spend in drunken debauchery at night. He has
+been known to bring in some days as high as ten and some fifteen
+dollars, all of which is wasted in riot before the next morning. He
+lives just over the way, and night after night I can hear his howls
+and curses and laughter mingled with those of the vile women with
+whom he herds."
+
+"Surely this cannot be?" said Mr. Dinneford.
+
+"Surely it is," was replied. "I know of what I speak. There is
+hardly a viler wretch in all our city than this man, who draws
+hundreds--I might say, without exaggeration, thousands--of dollars
+from weak and tender-hearted people every year to be spent as I have
+said; and he is not the only one. Out of this district go hundreds
+of thieves and beggars every day, spreading themselves over the city
+and gathering in their harvests from our people. I see them at the
+street corners, coming out of yards and alley-gates, skulking near
+unguarded premises and studying shop-windows. They are all impostors
+or thieves. Not one of them is deserving of charity. He who gives to
+them wastes his money and encourages thieving and vagrancy. One half
+of the successful burglaries committed on dwelling-houses are in
+consequence of information gained by beggars. Servant-girls are
+lured away by old women who come in the guise of alms-seekers, and
+by well-feigned poverty and a seeming spirit of humble
+thankfulness--often of pious trust in God--win upon their sympathy
+and confidence. Many a poor weak girl has thus been led to visit one
+of these poor women in the hope of doing her some good, and many a
+one has thus been drawn into evil ways. If the people only
+understood this matter as I understand it, they would shut hearts
+and hands against all beggars. I add beggary as a vice to drinking
+and policy-buying as the next most active agency in the work of
+making paupers and criminals."
+
+"But there are deserving poor," said Dinneford. "We cannot shut our
+hearts against all who seek for help."
+
+"The deserving poor," replied Mr. Paulding, "are never common
+beggars--never those who solicit in the street or importune from
+house to house. They try always to help themselves, and ask for aid
+only when in great extremity. They rarely force themselves on your
+attention; they suffer and die often in dumb despair. We find them
+in these dreary and desolate cellars and garrets, sick and starving
+and silent, often dying, and minister to them as best we can. If the
+money given daily to idle and vicious beggars could be gathered into
+a fund and dispensed with a wise Christian charity, it would do a
+vast amount of good; now it does only evil."
+
+"You are doubtless right in this," returned Mr. Dinneford. "Some one
+has said that to help the evil is to hurt the good, and I guess his
+saying is near the truth."
+
+"If you help the vicious and the idle," was answered, "you simply
+encourage vice and idleness, and these never exist without doing a
+hurt to society. Withhold aid, and they will be forced to work, and
+so not only do something for the common good, but be kept out of the
+evil ways into which idleness always leads.
+
+"So you see, sir, how wrong it is to give alms to the vast crew of
+beggars that infest our cities, and especially to the children who
+are sent out daily to beg or steal as opportunity offers.
+
+"But there is another view of the case, continued Mr. Paulding,
+"that few consider, and which would, I am sure, arouse the people to
+immediate action if they understood it as I do. We compare the
+nation to a great man. We call it a 'body politic.' We speak of its
+head, its brain, its hands, its feet, its arteries and vital forces.
+We know that no part of the nation can be hurt without all the other
+parts feeling in some degree the shock and sharing the loss or
+suffering. What is true of the great man of the nation is true of
+our smaller communities, our States and cities and towns. Each is an
+aggregate man, and the health and well-being of this man depend on
+the individual men and the groups and societies of men by which it
+is constituted. There cannot be an unhealthy organ in the human
+system without a communication of disease to the whole body. A
+diseased liver or heart or lung, a useless hand or foot, an ulcer or
+local obstruction, cannot exist without injury and impediment to the
+whole. In the case of a malignant ulcer, how soon the blood gets
+poisoned!
+
+"Now, here is a malignant ulcer in the body politic of our city. Is
+it possible, do you think, for it to exist, and in the virulent
+condition we find it, and not poison the blood of our whole
+community? Moral and spiritual laws are as unvarying in their
+action, out of natural sight though they be, as physical laws. Evil
+and good are as positive entities as fire, and destroy or consume as
+surely. As certainly as an ulcer poisons with its malignant ichor
+this blood that visits every part of the body, so surely is this
+ulcer poisoning every part of our community. Any one who reflects
+for a moment will see that it cannot be otherwise. From this moral
+ulcer there flows out daily and nightly an ichor as destructive as
+that from a cancer. Here theft and robbery and murder have birth,
+nurture and growth until full formed and organized, and then go
+forth to plunder and destroy. The life and property of no citizen is
+safe so long as this community exists. It has its schools of
+instruction for thieves and housebreakers, where even little
+children are educated to the business of stealing and robbery. Out
+from it go daily hundreds of men and women, boys and girls, on their
+business of beggary, theft and the enticement of the weak and unwary
+into crime. In it congregate human vultures and harpies who absorb
+most of the plunder that is gained outside, and render more brutal
+and desperate the wretches they rob in comparative safety.
+
+"Let me show you how this is done. A man or a woman thirsting for
+liquor will steal anything to get money for whisky. The article
+stolen may be a coat, a pair of boots or a dress--something worth
+from five to twenty dollars. It is taken to one of these harpies,
+and sold for fifty cents or a dollar--anything to get enough for a
+drunken spree. I am speaking only of what I know. Then, again, a man
+or a woman gets stupidly drunk in one of the whisky-shops. Before he
+or she is thrown out upon the street, the thrifty liquor-seller
+'goes through' the pockets of the insensible wretch, and confiscates
+all he finds. Again, a vile woman has robbed one of her visitors,
+and with the money in her pocket goes to a dram-shop. The sum may be
+ten dollars or it may be two hundred. A glass or so unlooses her
+tongue; she boasts of her exploit, and perhaps shows her booty. Not
+once in a dozen times will she take this booty away. If there are
+only a few women in the shop, the liquor-seller will most likely
+pounce on her at once and get the money by force. There is no
+redress. To inform the police is to give information against
+herself. He may give her back a little to keep her quiet or he may
+not, just as he feels about it. If he does not resort to direct
+force, he will manage in some other way to get the money. I could
+take you to the dram-shop of a man scarcely a stone's throw from
+this place who came out of the State's prison less than four years
+ago and set up his vile trap where it now stands. He is known to be
+worth fifty thousand dollars to-day. How did he make this large sum?
+By the profits of his bar? No one believes this. It has been by
+robbing his drunken and criminal customers whenever he could get
+them in his power."
+
+"I am oppressed by all this," said Mr. Dinneford. "I never dreamed
+of such a state of things."
+
+"Nor does one in a hundred of our good citizens, who live in quiet
+unconcern with this pest-house of crime and disease in their midst.
+And speaking of disease, let me give you another fact that should be
+widely known. Every obnoxious epidemic with which our city has been
+visited in the last twenty years has originated here--ship fever,
+relapsing fever and small-pox--and so, getting a lodgment in the
+body politic, have poured their malignant poisons into the blood and
+diseased the whole. Death has found his way into the homes of
+hundreds of our best citizens through the door opened for him here."
+
+"Can this be so?" exclaimed Mr. Dinneford.
+
+"It is just as I have said," was replied. "And how could it be
+otherwise? Whether men take heed or not, the evil they permit to lie
+at their doors will surely do them harm. Ignorance of a statute, a
+moral or a physical law gives no immunity from consequence if the
+law be transgressed--a fact that thousands learn every year to their
+sorrow. There are those who would call this spread of disease,
+originating here, all over our city, a judgment from God, to punish
+the people for that neglect and indifference which has left such a
+hell as this in their midst. I do not so read it. God has no
+pleasure in punishments and retributions. The evil comes not from
+him. It enters through the door we have left open, just as a thief
+enters our dwellings, invited through our neglect to make the
+fastenings sure. It comes under the operations of a law as unvarying
+as any law in physics. And so long as we have this epidemic-breeding
+district in the very heart of our city, we must expect to reap our
+periodical harvests of disease and death. What it is to be next
+year, or the next, none can tell."
+
+"Does not your perpetual contact with all this give your mind an
+unhealthy tone--a disposition to magnify its disastrous
+consequences?" said Mr. Dinneford.
+
+The missionary dropped his eyes. The flush and animation went out of
+his face.
+
+"I leave you to judge for yourself," he answered, after a brief
+silence, and in a voice that betrayed a feeling of disappointment.
+"You have the fact before you in the board of health, prison,
+almshouse, police, house of refuge, mission and other reports that
+are made every year to the people. If they hear not these, neither
+will they believe, though one rose from the dead."
+
+"All is too dreadfully palpable for unbelief," returned Mr.
+Dinneford. "I only expressed a passing thought."
+
+"My mind may take an unhealthy tone--does often, without doubt,"
+said Mr. Paulding. "I wonder, sometimes, that I can keep my head
+clear and my purposes steady amid all this moral and physical
+disorder and suffering. But exaggeration of either this evil or its
+consequences is impossible. The half can never be told."
+
+Mr. Dinneford rose to go. As he did so, two little Italian children,
+a boy and a girl, not over eight years of age, tired, hungry,
+pinched and starved-looking little creatures, the boy with a harp
+slung over his shoulder, and the girl carrying a violin, went past
+on the other side.
+
+"Where in the world do all of these little wretches come from?"
+asked Mr. Dinneford. "They are swarming our streets of late.
+Yesterday I saw a child who could not be over two years of age
+tinkling her triangle, while an older boy and girl were playing on a
+harp and violin. She seemed so cold and tired that it made me sad to
+look at her. There is something wrong about this."
+
+"Something very wrong," answered the missionary. "Doubtless you
+think these children are brought here by their parents or near
+relatives. No such thing. Most of them are slaves. I speak
+advisedly. The slave-trade is not yet dead. Its abolition on the
+coast of Africa did not abolish the cupidity that gave it birth. And
+the 'coolie' trade, one of its new forms, is not confined to the
+East."
+
+"I am at a loss for your meaning," said Mr. Dinneford.
+
+"I am not surprised. The new slave-trade, which has been carried on
+with a secresy that is only now beginning to attract attention, has
+its source of supply in Southern Italy, from which large numbers of
+children are drawn every year and brought to this country.
+
+"The headquarters of this trade--cruel enough in some of its
+features to bear comparison with the African slave-trade itself--are
+in New York. From this city agents are sent out to Southern Italy
+every year, where little intelligence and great poverty exist. These
+agents tell grand stories of the brilliant prospects offered to the
+young in America. Let me now read to you from the published
+testimony of one who has made a thorough investigation of this
+nefarious business, so that you may get a clear comprehension of its
+extent and iniquity.
+
+"He says: 'One of these agents will approach the father of a family,
+and after commenting upon the beauty of his children, will tell him
+that his boys "should be sent at once to America, where they must in
+time become rich." "There are no poor in America." "The children
+should go when young, so that they may grow up with the people and
+the better acquire the language." "None are too young or too old to
+go to America." The father, of course, has not the means to go
+himself or to send his children to this delightful country. The
+agent then offers to take the children to America, and to pay forty
+or fifty dollars to the father upon his signing an indenture
+abandoning all claims upon them. He often, also, promises to pay a
+hundred or more at the end of a year, but, of course, never does it.
+
+"'After the agent has collected a sufficient number of children,
+they are all supplied with musical instruments, and the trip on foot
+through Switzerland and France begins. They are generally shipped to
+Genoa, and often to Marseilles, and accomplish the remainder of the
+journey to Havre or Calais by easy stages from village to village.
+Thus they become a paying investment from the beginning. This
+journey occupies the greater portion of the summer months; and after
+a long trip in the steerage of a sailing-vessel, the unfortunate
+children land at Castle Garden. As the parents never hear from them
+again, they do not know whether they are doing well or not.
+
+"'They are too young and ignorant to know how to get themselves
+delivered from oppression; they do not speak our language, and find
+little or no sympathy among the people whom they annoy. They are
+thus left to the mercy of their masters, who treat them brutally,
+and apparently without fear of the law or any of its officers. They
+are crowded into small, ill-ventilated, uncarpeted rooms, eighteen
+or twenty in each, and pass the night on the floor, with only a
+blanket to protect them from the severity of the weather. In the
+mornings they are fed by their temporary guardian with maccaroni,
+served in the filthiest manner in a large open dish in the centre of
+the room, after which they are turned out into the streets to beg or
+steal until late at night.
+
+"'More than all this, when the miserable little outcasts return to
+their cheerless quarters, they are required to deliver every cent
+which they have gathered during the day; and if the same be deemed
+insufficient, the children are carefully searched and soundly
+beaten.
+
+"'The children are put through a kind of training in the arts of
+producing discords on their instruments, and of begging, in the
+whole of which the cruelty of the masters and the stolid submission
+of the pupils are the predominant features. The worst part of all is
+that the children become utterly unfitted for any occupation except
+vagrancy and theft.'
+
+"You have the answer to your question, 'Where do all these little
+wretches come from?'" said the missionary as he laid aside the paper
+from which he had been reading. "Poor little slaves!"
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXII.
+
+
+
+
+
+_EDITH'S_ life, as we have seen, became lost, so to speak, in
+charities. Her work lay chiefly with children, She was active in
+mission-schools and in two or three homes for friendless little
+ones, and did much to extend their sphere of usefulness. Her
+garments were plain and sombre, her fair young face almost
+colorless, and her aspect so nun-like as often to occasion remark.
+
+Her patience and tender ways with poor little children, especially
+with the youngest, were noticed by all who were associated with her.
+Sometimes she would show unusual interest in a child just brought to
+one of the homes, particularly if it were a boy, and only two or
+three years old. She would hover about it and ask it questions, and
+betray an eager concern that caused a moment's surprise to those who
+noticed her. Often, at such times, the pale face would grow warm
+with the flush of blood sent out by her quicker heartbeats, and her
+eyes would have a depth of expression and a brightness that made her
+beauty seem the reflection of some divine beatitude. Now and then it
+was observed that her manner with these little waifs and
+cast-adrifts that were gathered in from the street had in it an
+expression of pain, that her eyes looked at them sadly, sometimes
+tearfully. Often she came with light feet and a manner almost
+cheery, to go away with eyes cast down and lips set and curved and
+steps that were slow and heavy.
+
+Time had not yet solved the mystery of her baby's life or death; and
+until it was solved, time had no power to abate the yearning at her
+heart, to dull the edge of anxious suspense or to reconcile her to a
+Providence that seemed only cruel. In her daily prayers this thought
+of cruelty in God often came in to hide his face from her, and she
+rose from her knees more frequently in a passion of despairing tears
+than comforted. How often she pleaded with God, weeping bitter
+tears, that he would give her certainty in place of terrible doubts!
+Again, she would implore his loving care over her poor baby,
+wherever it might be.
+
+So the days wore on, until nearly three years had elapsed since
+Edith's child was born.
+
+It was Christmas eve, but there were no busy hands at work, made
+light by loving hearts, in the home of Mr. Dinneford. All its
+chambers were silent. And yet the coming anniversary was not to go
+uncelebrated. Edith's heart was full of interest for the children of
+the poor, the lowly, the neglected and the suffering, whom Christ
+came to save and to bless. Her anniversary was to be spent with
+them, and she was looking forward to its advent with real pleasure.
+
+"We have made provision for four hundred children, said her father.
+"The dinner is to be at twelve o'clock, and we must be there by nine
+or ten. We shall be busy enough getting everything ready. There are
+forty turkeys to cut up and four hundred plates to fill."
+
+"And many willing hands to do it," remarked Edith, with a quiet
+smile; "ours among the rest."
+
+"You'd better keep away from there," spoke up Mrs. Dinneford, with a
+jar in her voice. "I don't see what possesses you. You can find poor
+little wretches anywhere, if you're so fond of them, without going
+to Briar street. You'll bring home the small-pox or something
+worse."
+
+Neither Edith nor her father made any reply, and there fell a
+silence on the group that was burdensome to all. Mrs. Dinneford felt
+it most heavily, and after the lapse of a few minutes withdrew from
+the room.
+
+"A good dinner to four hundred hungry children, some of them half
+starved," said Edith as her mother shut the door. "I shall enjoy the
+sight as much as they will enjoy the feast."
+
+A little after ten o'clock on the next morning, Mr. Dinneford and
+Edith took their way to the mission-school in Briar street. They
+found from fifteen to twenty ladies and gentlemen already there, and
+at work helping to arrange the tables, which were set in the two
+long upper rooms. There were places for nearly four hundred
+children, and in front of each was an apple, a cake and a biscuit,
+and between every four a large mince pie. The forty turkeys were at
+the baker's, to be ready at a little before twelve o'clock, the
+dinner-hour, and in time for the carvers, who were to fill the four
+hundred plates for the expected guests.
+
+At eleven o'clock Edith and her father went down to the chapel on
+the first floor, where the children had assembled for the morning
+exercises, that were to continue for an hour.
+
+Edith had a place near the reading-desk where she could see the
+countenances of all those children who were sitting side by side in
+row after row and filling every seat in the room, a restless, eager,
+expectant crowd, half disciplined and only held quiet by the order
+and authority they had learned to respect. Such faces as she looked
+into! In scarcely a single one could she find anything of true
+childhood, and they were so marred by suffering and evil! In vain
+she turned from one to another, searching for a sweet, happy look or
+a face unmarked by pain or vice or passion. It made her heart ache.
+Some were so hard and brutal in their expression, and so mature in
+their aspect, that they seemed like the faces of debased men on
+which a score of years, passed in sensuality and crime, had cut
+their deep deforming lines, while others were pale and wasted, with
+half-scared yet defiant eyes, and thin, sharp, enduring lips, making
+one tearful to look at them. Some were restless as caged animals,
+not still for a single instant, hands moving nervously and bodies
+swaying to and fro, while others sat stolid and almost as immovable
+as stone, staring at the little group of men and women in front who
+were to lead them in the exercises of the morning.
+
+At length one face of the many before her fixed the eyes of Edith.
+It was the face of a little boy scarcely more than three years old.
+He was only a few benches from her, and had been hidden from view by
+a larger boy just in front of him. When Edith first noticed this
+child, he was looking at her intently from a pair of large, clear
+brown eyes that had in them a wistful, hungry expression. His hair,
+thick and wavy, had been smoothly brushed by some careful hand, and
+fell back from a large forehead, the whiteness and smoothness of
+which was noticeable in contrast with those around him. His clothes
+were clean and good.
+
+As Edith turned again and again to the face of this child, the
+youngest perhaps in the room, her heart began to move toward him.
+Always she found him with his great earnest eyes upon her. There
+seemed at last to be a mutual fascination. His eyes seemed never to
+move from her face; and when she tried to look away and get
+interested in other faces, almost unconsciously to herself her eyes
+would wander back, and she would find herself gazing at the child.
+
+At eleven o'clock Mr. Paulding announced that the exercises for the
+morning would begin, when silence fell on the restless company of
+undisciplined children. A hymn was read, and then, as the leader
+struck the tune, out leaped the voices of these four hundred
+children, each singing with a strange wild abandon, many of them
+swaying their heads and bodies in time to the measure. As the first
+lines of the hymn,
+
+"Jesus, gentle Shepherd, lead us,
+Much we need thy tender care,"
+
+swelled up from the lips of those poor neglected children, the eyes
+of Edith grew blind with tears.
+
+After a prayer was offered up, familiar addresses, full of kindness
+and encouragement, were made to the children, interspersed with
+singing and other appropriate exercises. These were continued for an
+hour. At their close the children were taken up stairs to the two
+long school-rooms, in which their dinner was to be served. Here were
+Christmas trees loaded with presents, wreaths of evergreen on the
+walls and ceilings, and illuminated texts hung here and there, and
+everything was provided to make the day's influence as beautiful and
+pleasant as possible to the poor little ones gathered in from
+cheerless and miserable homes.
+
+Meantime, the carvers had been very busy at work on the forty
+turkeys--large, tender fellows, full of dressing and cooked as
+nicely as if they had been intended for a dinner of
+aldermen--cutting them up and filling the plates. There was no
+stinting of the supply. Each plate was loaded with turkey, dressing,
+potatoes that had been baked with the fowls, and a heaping spoonful
+of cranberry sauce, and as fast as filled conveyed to the tables by
+the lady attendants, who had come, many of them, from elegant homes,
+to assist the good missionary's wife and the devoted teachers of the
+mission-school in this labor of love. And so, when the four hundred
+hungry children came streaming into the rooms, they found tables
+spread with such bounty as the eyes of many of them had never looked
+upon, and kind gentlemen and beautiful ladies already there to place
+them at these tables and serve them while eating.
+
+It was curious and touching, and ludicrous sometimes, to see the
+many ways in which the children accepted this bountiful supply of
+food. A few pounced upon it like hungry dogs, devouring whole
+platefuls in a few minutes, but most of them kept a decent restraint
+upon themselves in the presence of the ladies and gentlemen, for
+whom they could not but feel an instinctive respect. Very few of
+them could use at fork except in the most awkward manner. Some tried
+to cut their meat, but failing in the task, would seize it with
+their hands and eagerly convey it to their hungry mouths. Here and
+there would be seen a mite of a boy sitting in a kind of maze before
+a heaped-up dinner-plate, his hands, strangers, no doubt, to knife
+or fork, lying in his lap, and his face wearing a kind of helpless
+look. But he did not have to wait long. Eyes that were on the alert
+soon saw him; ready hands cut his food, and a cheery voice
+encouraged him to eat. If these children had been the sons and
+daughters of princes, they could not have been ministered to with a
+more gracious devotion to their wants and comfort than was shown by
+their volunteer attendants.
+
+Edith, entering into the spirit of the scene, gave herself to the
+work in hand with an interest that made her heart glow with
+pleasure. She had lost sight of the little boy in whom she had felt
+so sudden and strong an interest, and had been searching about for
+him ever since the children came up from the chapel. At last she saw
+him, shut in and hidden between two larger boys, who were eating
+with a hungry eagerness and forgetfulness of everything around them
+almost painful to see. He was sitting in front of his heaped-up
+plate, looking at the tempting food, with his knife and fork lying
+untouched on the table. There was a dreamy, half-sad,
+half-bewildered look about him.
+
+"Poor little fellow!" exclaimed Edith as soon as she saw him, and in
+a moment she was behind his chair.
+
+"Shall I cut it up for you?" she asked as she lifted his knife and
+fork from the table.
+
+The child turned almost with a start, and looked up at her with a
+quick flash of feeling on his face. She saw that he remembered her.
+
+"Let me fix it all nicely," she said as she stooped over him and
+commenced cutting up his piece of turkey. The child did not look at
+his plate while she cut the food, but with his head turned kept his
+large eyes on her countenance.
+
+"Now it's all right," said Edith, encouragingly, as she laid the
+knife and fork on his plate, taking a deep breath at the same time,
+for her heart beat so rapidly that her lungs was oppressed with the
+inflowing of blood. She felt, at the same time, an almost
+irresistible desire to catch him up into her arms and draw him
+lovingly to her bosom. The child made no attempt to eat, and still
+kept looking at her.
+
+"Now, my little man," she said, taking his fork and lifting a piece
+of the turkey to his mouth. It touched his palate, and appetite
+asserted its power over him; his eyes went down to his plate with a
+hungry eagerness. Then Edith put the fork into his hand, but he did
+not know how to use it, and made but awkward attempts to take up the
+food.
+
+Mrs. Paulding, the missionary's wife, came by at the moment, and
+seeing the child, put her hand on him, and said, kindly,
+
+"Oh, it's little Andy," and passed on.
+
+"So your name's Andy?"
+
+"Yes, ma'am." It was the first time Edith had heard his voice. It
+fell sweet and tender on her ears, and stirred her heart strangely.
+
+"Where do you live?"
+
+He gave the name of a street she had never heard of before.
+
+"But you're not eating your dinner. Come, take your fork just so.
+There! that's the way;" and Edith took his hand, in which he was
+still holding the fork, and lifted two or three mouthfuls, which he
+ate with increasing relish. After that he needed no help, and seemed
+to forget in the relish of a good dinner the presence of Edith, who
+soon found others who needed her service.
+
+The plentiful meal was at last over, and the children, made happy
+for one day at least, were slowly dispersing to their dreary homes,
+drifting away from the better influences good men and women had been
+trying to gather about them even for a little while. The children
+were beginning to leave the tables when Edith, who had been busy
+among them, remembered the little boy who had so interested her, and
+made her way to the place where he had been sitting. But he was not
+there. She looked into the crowd of boys and girls who were pressing
+toward the door, but could not see the child. A shadow of
+disappointment came over her feelings, and a strange heaviness
+weighed over her heart.
+
+"Oh, I'm so sorry," she said to herself. "I wanted to see him
+again."
+
+She pressed through the crowd of children, and made her way down
+among them to the landing below and out upon the street, looking
+this way and that, but could not see the child. Then she returned to
+the upper rooms, but her search was in vain. Remembering that Mrs.
+Paulding had called him by name, she sought for the missionary's
+wife and made inquiry about him.
+
+"Do you mean the little fellow I called Andy?" said Mrs. Paulding.
+
+"Yes, that's the one," returned Edith.
+
+"A beautiful boy, isn't he?"
+
+"Indeed he is. I never saw such eyes in a child. Who is he, Mrs.
+Paulding, and what is he doing here? He cannot be the child of
+depraved or vicious parents."
+
+"I do not think he is. But from whence he came no one knows. He
+drifted in from some unknown land of sorrow to find shelter on our
+inhospitable coast. I am sure that God, in his wise providence, sent
+him here, for his coming was the means of saving a poor debased man
+who is well worth the saving."
+
+Then she told in a few words the story of Andy's appearance at Mr.
+Hall's wretched hovel and the wonderful changes that followed--how a
+degraded drunkard, seemingly beyond the reach of hope and help, had
+been led back to sobriety and a life of honest industry by the hand
+of a little child cast somehow adrift in the world, yet guarded and
+guided by Him who does not lose sight in his good providence of even
+a single sparrow.
+
+"Who is this man, and where does he live?" asked Mr. Dinneford, who
+had been listening to Mrs. Paulding's brief recital.
+
+"His name is Andrew Hall," was replied.
+
+"Andrew Hall!" exclaimed Mr. Dinneford, with a start and a look of
+surprise.
+
+"Yes, sir. That is his name, and he is now living alone with the
+child of whom we have been speaking, not very far from here, but in
+a much better neighborhood. He brought Andy around this morning to
+let him enjoy the day, and has come for him, no doubt, and taken him
+home."
+
+"Give me the street and number, if you please, Mr. Paulding," said
+Mr. Dinneford, with much repressed excitement. "We will go there at
+once," he added, turning to his daughter.
+
+Edith's face had become pale, and her father felt her hand tremble
+as she laid it on his arm.
+
+At this moment a man came up hurriedly to Mrs. Paulding, and said,
+with manifest concern,
+
+"Have you seen Andy, ma'am? I've been looking all over, but can't
+find him."
+
+"He was here a little while ago," answered the missionary's wife.
+"We were just speaking of him. I thought you'd taken him home."
+
+"Mr. Hall!" said Edith's father, in a tone of glad recognition,
+extending his hand at the same time.
+
+"Mr. Dinneford!" The two men stood looking at each other, with shut
+lips and faces marked by intense feeling, each grasping tightly the
+other's hand.
+
+"It is going to be well with you once more, my dear old friend!"
+said Mr. Dinneford.
+
+"God being my helper, yes!" was the firm reply. "He has taken my
+feet out of the miry clay and set them on firm ground, and I have
+promised him that they shall not go down into the pit again. But
+Andy! I must look for him."
+
+And he was turning away.
+
+"I saw Andy a little while ago," now spoke up a woman who had come
+in from the street and heard the last remark.
+
+"Where?" asked Mr. Hall.
+
+"A girl had him, and she was going up Briar street on the run,
+fairly dragging Andy after her. She looked like Pinky Swett, and I
+do believe it was her. She's been in prison, you know but I guess
+her time's up."
+
+Mr. Hall stopped to hear no more, but ran down stairs and up the
+street, going in the direction said to have been taken by the woman.
+Edith sat down, white and faint.
+
+"Pinky Swett!" exclaimed Mrs. Paulding. "Why, that's the girl who
+had the child you were looking after a long time ago, Mr.
+Dinneford."
+
+"Yes; I remember the name, and no doubt this is the very child she
+had in her possession at that time. Are you sure she has been in
+prison for the last two years?" and Mr. Dinneford turned to the
+woman who had mentioned her name.
+
+"Oh yes, Sir; I remember all about it," answered the woman. "She
+stole a man's pocket-book, and got two years for it."
+
+"You know her?"
+
+"Oh yes, indeed! And she's a bad one, I can tell you. She had
+somebody's baby round in Grubb's court, and it was 'most starved to
+death. I heard it said it belonged to some of the big people up
+town, and that she was getting hush-money for it, but I don't know
+as it was true. People will talk."
+
+"Do you know what became of that baby?" asked Edith, with
+ill-repressed excitement. Her face was still very pale, and her
+forehead contracted as by pain.
+
+"No, ma'am. The police came round asking questions, and the baby
+wasn't seen in Grubb's court after that."
+
+"You think it was Pinky Swett whom you saw just now?"
+
+"I'm dead sure of it, sir," turning to Mr. Dinneford, who had asked
+the question.
+
+"And you are certain it was the little boy named Andy that she had
+with her?"
+
+"I'm as sure as death, sir."
+
+"Did he look frightened?"
+
+"Oh dear, yes, sir--scared as could be. He pulled back all his
+might, but she whisked him along as if he'd been only a chicken. I
+saw them go round the corner of Clayton street like the wind."
+
+Mr. Paulding now joined them, and became advised of what had
+happened. He looked very grave.
+
+"We shall find the little boy," he said. "He cannot be concealed by
+this wretched woman as the baby was; he is too old for that. The
+police will ferret him out. But I am greatly concerned for Mr. Hall.
+That child is the bond which holds him at safe anchorage. Break this
+bond, and he may drift to sea again. I must go after him."
+
+And the missionary hurried away.
+
+For over an hour Edith and her father remained at the mission
+waiting for some news of little Andy. At the end of this time Mr.
+Paulding came back with word that nothing could be learned beyond
+the fact that a woman with a child answering to the description of
+Andy had been seen getting into an up-town car on Clayton street
+about one o'clock. She came, it was said by two or three who
+professed to have seen her, from the direction of Briar street. The
+chief of police had been seen, and he had already telegraphed to all
+the stations. Mr. Hall was at the central station awaiting the
+result.
+
+After getting a promise from Mr. Paulding to send a messenger the
+moment news of Andy was received, Mr. Dinneford and Edith returned
+home.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIII.
+
+
+
+
+
+_AS_ Edith glanced up, on arriving before their residence, she saw
+for a moment her mother's face at the window. It vanished like the
+face of a ghost, but not quick enough to prevent Edith from seeing
+that it was almost colorless and had a scared look. They did not
+find Mrs. Dinneford in the parlor when they came in, nor did she
+make her appearance until an hour afterward, when dinner was
+announced. Then it was plain to both her husband and daughter that
+something had occurred since morning to trouble her profoundly. The
+paleness noticed by Edith at the window and the scared look
+remained. Whenever she turned her eyes suddenly upon her mother, she
+found her looking at her with a strange, searching intentness. It
+was plain that Mrs. Dinneford saw in Edith's face as great a change
+and mystery as Edith saw in hers, and the riddle of her husband's
+countenance, so altered since morning, was harder even than Edith's
+to solve.
+
+A drearier Christmas dinner, and one in which less food was taken by
+those who ate it, could hardly have been found in the city. The
+Briar-street feast was one of joy and gladness in comparison. The
+courses came and went with unwonted quickness, plates bearing off
+the almost untasted viands which they had received. Scarcely a word
+was spoken during the meal. Mrs. Dinneford asked no question about
+the dinner in Briar street, and no remark was made about it by
+either Edith or her father. In half the usual time this meal was
+ended. Mrs. Dinneford left the table first, and retired to her own
+room. As she did so, in taking her handkerchief from her pocket, she
+drew out a letter, which fell unnoticed by her upon the floor. Mr.
+Dinneford was about calling her attention to it when Edith, who saw
+his purpose and was near enough to touch his hand, gave a quick
+signal to forbear. The instant her mother was out of the room she
+sprang from her seat, and had just secured the letter when the
+dining-room door was pushed open, and Mrs. Dinneford came in, white
+and frightened. She saw the letter in Edith's hand, and with a cry
+like some animal in pain leaped upon her and tried to wrest it from
+her grasp. But Edith held it in her closed hand with a desperate
+grip, defying all her mother's efforts to get possession of it. In
+her wild fear and anger Mrs. Dinneford exclaimed,
+
+"I'll kill you if you don't give me that letter!" and actually, in
+her blind rage, reached toward the table as if to get a knife. Mr.
+Dinneford, who had been for a moment stupefied, now started forward,
+and throwing his arms about his wife, held her tightly until Edith
+could escape with the letter, not releasing her until the sound of
+his daughter's retiring feet were no longer heard. By this time she
+had ceased to struggle; and when he released her, she stood still in
+a passive, dull sort of way, her arms falling heavily to her sides.
+He looked into her face, and saw that the eyes were staring wildly
+and the muscles in a convulsive quiver. Then starting and reaching
+out helplessly, she fell forward. Catching her in his arms, Mr.
+Dinneford drew her toward a sofa, but she was dead before he could
+raise her from the floor.
+
+When Edith reached her room, she shut and locked the door. Then all
+her excitement died away. She sat down, and opening the letter with
+hands that gave no sign of inward agitation or suspense, read it
+through. It was dated at Havana, and was as follows:
+
+"MRS. HELEN DINNEFORD: MADAM--My physician tells me that I cannot
+live a week--may die at any moment; and I am afraid to die with one
+unconfessed and unatoned sin upon my conscience--a sin into which I
+was led by you, the sharer of my guilt. I need not go into
+particulars. You know to what I refer--the ruin of an innocent,
+confiding young man, your daughter's husband. I do not wonder that
+he lost his reason! But I have information that his insanity has
+taken on the mildest form, and that his friends are only keeping him
+at the hospital until they can get a pardon from the governor. It is
+in your power and mine to establish his innocence at once. I leave
+you a single mouth in which to do this, and at the same time screen
+yourself, if that be possible. If, at the end of a month, it is not
+done, then a copy of this letter, with a circumstantial statement of
+the whole iniquitous affair, will be placed in the hands of your
+husband, and another in the hands of your daughter. I have so
+provided for this that no failure can take place. So be warned and
+make the innocence of George Granger as clear as noonday.
+
+"LLOYD FREELING."
+
+Twice Edith read this letter through before a sign of emotion was
+visible. She looked about the room, down at herself, and again at
+the letter.
+
+"Am I really awake?" she said, beginning to tremble. Then the glad
+but terrible truth grappled with her convictions, and through the
+wild struggle and antagonism, of feeling that shook her soul there
+shone into her face a joy so great that the pale features grew
+almost radiant.
+
+"Innocent! innocent!" fell from her lips, over which crept a smile
+of ineffable love. But it faded out quickly, and left in its place a
+shadow of ineffable pain.
+
+"Innocent! innocent!" she repeated, now clasping her hands and
+lifting her eyes heavenward. "Dear Lord and Saviour! My heart is
+full of thankfulness! Innocent! Oh, let it be made as clear as
+noonday! And my baby, Lord--oh, my baby, my baby! Give him back to
+me!"
+
+She fell forward upon her bed, kneeling, her face hidden among the
+pillows, trembling and sobbing.
+
+"Edith! Edith!" came the agitated voice of her father from without.
+She rose quickly, and opening the door, saw his pale, convulsed
+countenance.
+
+"Quick! quick! Your mother!" and Mr. Dinneford turned and ran down
+stairs, she following. On reaching the dining-room, Edith found her
+mother lying on a sofa, with the servants about her in great
+excitement. Better than any one did she comprehend what she saw.
+
+"Dead," fell almost coldly from her lips.
+
+"I have sent for Dr. Radcliffe. It may only be a fainting fit,"
+answered Mr. Dinneford.
+
+Edith stood a little way off from her mother, as if held from
+personal contact by an invisible barrier, and looked upon her ashen
+face without any sign of emotion.
+
+"Dead, and better so," she said, in an undertone heard only by her
+father.
+
+"My child! don't, don't!" exclaimed Mr. Dinneford in a deprecating
+whisper.
+
+"Dead, and better so," she repeated, firmly.
+
+While the servants chafed the hands and feet of Mrs. Dinneford, and
+did what they could in their confused way to bring her back to life,
+Edith stood a little way off, apparently undisturbed by what she
+saw, and not once touching her mother's body or offering a
+suggestion to the bewildered attendants.
+
+When Dr. Radcliffe came and looked at Mrs. Dinneford, all saw by his
+countenance that he believed her dead. A careful examination proved
+the truth of his first impression. She was done with life in this
+world.
+
+As to the cause of her death, the doctor, gathering what he could
+from her husband, pronounced it heart disease. The story told
+outside was this--so the doctor gave it, and so it was understood:
+Mrs. Dinneford was sitting at the table when her head was seen to
+sink forward, and before any one could get to her she was dead. It
+was not so stated to him by either Mr. Dinneford or Edith, but he
+was a prudent man, and careful of the good fame of his patients.
+Family affairs he held as sacred trusts. We'll he knew that there
+had been a tragedy in this home--a tragedy for which he was in part,
+he feared, responsible; and he did not care to look into it too
+closely. But of all that was involved in this tragedy he really knew
+little. Social gossip had its guesses at the truth, often not very
+remote, and he was familiar with these, believing little or much as
+it suited him.
+
+It is not surprising that Edith's father, on seeing the letter of
+Lloyd Freeling, echoed his daughter's words, "Better so!"
+
+Not a tear was shed on the grave of Mrs. Dinneford. Husband and
+daughter saw her body carried forth and buried out of sight with a
+feeling of rejection and a sense of relief. Death had no power to
+soften their hearts toward her. Charity had no mantle broad enough
+to cover her wickedness; filial love was dead, and the good heart of
+her husband turned away at remembrance with a shudder of horror.
+
+Yes, it was "better so!" They had no grief, but thankfulness, that
+she was dead.
+
+On the morning after the funeral there came a letter from Havana
+addressed to Mr. Dinneford. It was from the man Freeling. In it he
+related circumstantially all the reader knows about the conspiracy
+to destroy Granger. The letter enclosed an affidavit made by
+Freeling, and duly attested by the American consul, in which he
+stated explicitly that all the forgeries were made by himself, and
+that George Granger was entirely ignorant of the character of the
+paper he had endorsed with the name of the firm.
+
+Since the revelation made to Edith by Freeling's letter to her
+mother, all the repressed love of years, never dead nor diminished,
+but only chained, held down, covered over, shook itself free from
+bonds and the wrecks and debris of crushed hopes. It filled her
+heart with an agony of fullness. Her first passionate impulse was to
+go to him and throw herself into his arms. But a chilling thought
+came with the impulse, and sent all the outgoing heart-beats back.
+She was no longer the wife of George Granger. In a weak hour she had
+yielded to the importunities of her father, and consented to an
+application for divorce. No, she was no longer the wife of George
+Granger. She had no right to go to him. If it were true that reason
+had been in part or wholly restored, would he not reject her with
+scorn? The very thought made her heart stand still. It would be more
+than she could bear.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIV.
+
+
+
+
+
+_NO_ other result than the one that followed could have been hoped
+for. The strain upon Edith was too great. After the funeral of her
+mother mind and body gave way, and she passed several weeks in a
+half-unconscious state.
+
+Two women, leading actors in this tragedy of life, met for the first
+time in over two years--Mrs. Hoyt, _alias_ Bray, and Pinky Swett. It
+had not gone very well with either of them during that period.
+Pinky, as the reader knows, had spent the time in prison, and Mrs.
+Bray, who had also gone a step too far in her evil ways, was now
+hiding from the police under a different name from any heretofore
+assumed. They met, by what seemed an accident, on the street.
+
+"Pinky!"
+
+"Fan!"
+
+Dropped from their lips in mutual surprise and pleasure. A little
+while they held each other's hands, and looked into each other's
+faces with keenly-searching, sinister eyes, one thought coming
+uppermost in the minds of both--the thought of that long-time-lost
+capital in trade, the cast-adrift baby.
+
+From the street they went to Mrs. Bray's hiding-place a small
+ill-furnished room in one of the suburbs of the city--and there took
+counsel together.
+
+"What became of that baby?" was one of Mrs. Bray's first questions.
+
+"It's all right," answered Pinky.
+
+"Do you know where it is?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"And can you put your hand on it?"
+
+"At any moment."
+
+"Not worth the trouble of looking after now," said Mrs. Bray,
+assuming an indifferent manner.
+
+"Why?" Pinky turned on her quickly.
+
+"Oh, because the old lady is dead."
+
+"What old lady?"
+
+"The grandmother."
+
+"When did she die?"
+
+"Three or four weeks ago."
+
+"What was her name?" asked Pinky.
+
+Mrs. Bray closed her lips tightly and shook her head.
+
+"Can't betray thatt secret," she replied.
+
+"Oh, just as you like;" and Pinky gave her head an impatient toss.
+"High sense of honor! Respect for the memory of a departed friend!
+But it won't go down with me, Fan. We know each other too well. As
+for the baby--a pretty big one now, by the way, and as handsome a
+boy as you'll find in all this city--he's worth something to
+somebody, and I'm on that somebody's track. There's mother as well
+as a grandmother in the case, Fan."
+
+Mrs. Bray's eyes flashed, and her face grew red with an excitement
+she could not hold back. Pinky watched her keenly.
+
+"There's somebody in this town to-day who would give thousands to
+get him," she added, still keeping her eyes on her companion. "And
+as I was saying, I'm on that somebody's track. You thought no one
+but you and Sal Long knew anything, and that when she died you had
+the secret all to yourself. But Sal didn't keep mum about it."
+
+"Did she tell you anything?" demanded Mrs. Bray, thrown off her
+guard by Pinky's last assertion.
+
+"Enough for me to put this and that together and make it nearly all
+out," answered Pinky, with great coolness. "I was close after the
+game when I got caught myself. But I'm on the track once more, and
+don't mean to be thrown off. A link or two in the chain of evidence
+touching the parentage of this child, and I am all right. You have
+these missing links, and can furnish them if you will. If not, I am
+bound to find them. You know me, Fan. If I once set my heart on
+doing a thing, heaven and earth can't stop me."
+
+"You're devil enough for anything, I know, and can lie as fast as
+you can talk," returned Mrs. Bray, in considerable irritation. "If I
+could believe a word you said! But I can't."
+
+"No necessity for it," retorted Pinky, with a careless toss of her
+head. "If you don't wish to hunt in company, all right. I'll take
+the game myself."
+
+"You forget," said Mrs. Bray, "I can spoil your game."
+
+"Indeed! how?"
+
+"By blowing the whole thing to Mr.--"
+
+"Mr. who?" asked Pinky, leaning forward eagerly as her companion
+paused without uttering the name that was on her lips.
+
+"Wouldn't you like to know?" Mrs. Bray gave a low tantalizing laugh.
+
+"I'm not sure that I would, from you. I'm bound to know somehow, and
+it will be cheapest to find out for myself," replied Pinky, hiding
+her real desire, which was to get the clue she sought from Mrs.
+Bray, and which she alone could give. "As for blowing on me, I
+wouldn't like anything better. I wish you'd call on Mr. Somebody at
+once, and tell him I've got the heir of his house and fortune, or on
+Mrs. Somebody, and tell her I've got her lost baby. Do it, Fan;
+that's a deary."
+
+"Suppose I were to do so?" asked Mrs. Bray, repressing the anger
+that was in her heart, and speaking with some degree of calmness.
+
+"What then?"
+
+"The police would be down on you in less than an hour."
+
+"And what then?"
+
+"Your game would be up."
+
+Pinky laughed derisively:
+
+"The police are down on me now, and have been coming down on me for
+nearly a month past. But I'm too much for them. I know how to cover
+my tracks."
+
+"Down on you! For what?"
+
+"They're after the boy."
+
+"What do they know about him? Who set them after him?"
+
+"I grabbed him up last Christmas down in Briar street after being on
+his track for a week, and them that had him are after him sharp."
+
+"Who had him?"
+
+"I'm a little puzzled at the rumpus it has kicked up," said Pinky,
+in reply. "It's stirred things amazingly."
+
+"How?"
+
+"Oh, as I said, the police are after me sharp. They've had me before
+the mayor twice, and got two or three to swear they saw me pick up
+the child in Briar street and run off with him. But I denied it
+all."
+
+"And I can swear that you confessed it all to me," said Mrs. Bray,
+with ill-concealed triumph.
+
+"It won't do, Fan," laughed Pinky. "They'll not be able to find him
+any more then than now. But I wish you would. I'd like to know this
+Mr. Somebody of whom you spoke. I'll sell out to him. He'll bid
+high, I'm thinking."
+
+Baffled by her sharper accomplice, and afraid to trust her with the
+secret of the child's parentage lest she should rob her of the last
+gain possible to receive out of this great iniquity, Mrs. Bray
+became wrought up to a state of ungovernable passion, and in a blind
+rage pushed Pinky from her room. The assault was sudden and
+unexpected---so sudden that Pinky, who was the stronger, had no time
+to recover herself and take the offensive before she was on the
+outside and the door shut and locked against her. A few impotent
+threats and curses were interchanged between the two infuriated
+women, and then Pinky went away.
+
+On the day following, as Mr. Dinneford was preparing to go out, he
+was informed that a lady had called and was waiting down stairs to
+see him. She did not send her card nor give her name. On going into
+the room where the visitor had been shown, he saw a little woman
+with a dark, sallow complexion. She arose and came forward a step or
+two in evident embarrassment.
+
+"Mr. Dinneford?" she said.
+
+"That is my name, madam," was replied.
+
+"You do not know me?"
+
+Mr. Dinneford looked at her closely, and then answered,
+
+"I have not that pleasure, madam."
+
+The woman stood for a moment or two, hesitating.
+
+"Be seated, madam," said Mr. Dinneford.
+
+She sat down, seeming very ill at ease. He took a chair in front of
+her.
+
+"You wish to see me?"
+
+"Yes, sir, and on a matter that deeply concerns you. I was your
+daughter's nurse when her baby was born."
+
+She paused at this. Mr. Dinneford had caught his breath. She saw the
+almost wild interest that flushed his face.
+
+After waiting a moment for some response, she added, in a low,
+steady voice,
+
+"That baby is still alive, and I am the only person who can clearly
+identify him."
+
+Mr. Dinneford did not reply immediately. He saw by the woman's face
+that she was not to be trusted, and that in coming to him she had
+only sinister ends in view. Her story might be true or false. He
+thought hurriedly, and tried to regain exterior calmness. As soon as
+he felt that he could speak without betraying too much eagerness, he
+said, with an appearance of having recognized her,
+
+"You are Mrs.----?"
+
+He paused, but she did not supply the name.
+
+"Mrs.----? Mrs.----? what is it?"
+
+"No matter, Mr. Dinneford," answered Mrs. Bray, with the coolness
+and self-possession she had now regained. "What I have just told you
+is true. If you wish to follow up the matter--wish to get possession
+of your daughter's child--you have the opportunity; if not, our
+interview ends, of course;" and she made a feint, as if going to
+rise.
+
+"Is it the child a woman named Pinky Swett stole away from Briar
+street on Christmas day?" asked Mr. Dinneford, speaking from a
+thought that flashed into his mind, and so without premeditation. He
+fixed his eyes intently on Mrs. Bray's face, and saw by its quick
+changes and blank surprise that he had put the right question.
+Before she could recover herself and reply, he added,
+
+"And you are, doubtless, this same Pinky Swett."
+
+The half smile, half sneer, that curved the woman's lips, told Mr.
+Dinneford that he was mistaken.
+
+"No, sir," was returned, with regained coolness. "I am not 'this
+same Pinky Swett.' You are out there."
+
+"But you know her?"
+
+"I don't know anything just now, sir," answered the woman, with a
+chill in her tones. She closed her lips tightly, and shrunk back in
+her chair.
+
+"What, then, are your here for?" asked Mr. Dinneford, showing
+considerable sternness of manner.
+
+"I thought you understood," returned the woman. "I was explicit in
+my statement."
+
+"Oh, I begin to see. There is a price on your information," said Mr.
+Dinneford.
+
+"Yes, sir. You might have known that from the first. I will be frank
+with you."
+
+"But why have you kept this secret for three years? Why did you not
+come before?" asked Mr. Dinneford.
+
+"Because I was paid to keep the secret. Do you understand?"
+
+Too well did Mr. Dinneford understand, and it was with difficulty
+he could suppress a groan as his head drooped forward and his eyes
+fell to the floor.
+
+"It does not pay to keep it any longer," added the woman.
+
+Mr. Dinneford made no response.
+
+"Gain lies on the other side. The secret is yours, if you will have
+it."
+
+"At what price?" asked Mr. Dinneford, without lifting his eyes.
+
+"One thousand dollars, cash in hand."
+
+"On production of the child and proof of its identity?"
+
+Mrs. Bray took time to answer. "I do not mean to have any slip in
+this matter," she said. "It was a bad business at the start, as I
+told Mrs. Dinneford, and has given me more trouble than I've been
+paid for, ten times over. I shall not be sorry to wash my hands
+clean of it; but whenever I do so, there must be compensation and
+security. I haven't the child, and you may hunt me to cover with all
+the police hounds in the city, and yet not find him."
+
+"If I agree to pay your demand," replied Mr. Dinneford, "it can only
+be on production and identification of the child."
+
+"After which your humble servant will be quickly handed over to the
+police," a low, derisive laugh gurgling in the woman's throat.
+
+"The guilty are ever in dread, and the false always in fear of
+betrayal," said Mr. Dinneford. "I can make no terms with you for any
+antecedent reward. The child must be in my possession and his
+parentage clearly proved before I give you a dollar. As to what may
+follow to yourself, your safety will lie in your own silence. You
+hold, and will still hold, a family secret that we shall not care to
+have betrayed. If you should ever betray it, or seek, because of its
+possession, to annoy or prey upon us, I shall consider all honorable
+contract we may have at an end, and act accordingly."
+
+"Will you put in writing, an obligation to pay me one thousand
+dollars in case I bring the child and prove its identity?"
+
+"No; but I will give you my word of honor that this sum shall be
+placed in your hands whenever you produce the child."
+
+Mrs. Bray remained silent for a considerable time, then, as if
+satisfied, arose, saying,
+
+"You will hear from me by to-morrow or the day after, at farthest.
+Good-morning."
+
+As she was moving toward the door Mr. Dinneford said,
+
+"Let me have your name and residence, madam."
+
+The woman quickened her steps, partly turning her head as she did
+so, and said, with a sinister curl of the lip,
+
+"No, I thank you, sir."
+
+In the next moment she was gone.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXV.
+
+
+
+
+
+_NOTHING_ of all this was communicated to Edith. After a few weeks
+of prostration strength came slowly back to mind and body, and with
+returning strength her interest in her old work revived. Her feet
+went down again into lowly ways, and her hands took hold of
+suffering.
+
+Immediately on receipt of Freeling's letter and affidavit, Mr.
+Dinneford had taken steps to procure a pardon for George Granger. It
+came within a few days after the application was made, and the young
+man was taken from the asylum where he had been for three years.
+
+Mr. Dinneford went to him with Freeling's affidavit and the pardon,
+and placing them in his hands, watched him closely to see the effect
+they would produce. He found him greatly changed in appearance,
+looking older by many years. His manner was quiet, as that of one
+who had learned submission after long suffering. But his eyes were
+clear and steady, and without sign of mental aberration. He read
+Freeling's affidavit first, folded it in an absent kind of way, as
+if he were dreaming, reopened and read it through again. Then Mr.
+Dinneford saw a strong shiver pass over him; he became pale and
+slightly convulsed. His face sunk in his hands, and he sat for a
+while struggling with emotions that he found it almost impossible to
+hold back.
+
+When he looked up, the wild struggle was over.
+
+"It is too late," he said.
+
+"No, George, it is never too late," replied Mr. Dinneford. "You have
+suffered a cruel wrong, but in the future there are for you, I doubt
+not, many compensations."
+
+He shook his head in a dreary way, murmuring,
+
+"I have lost too much."
+
+"Nothing that may not be restored. And in all you have not lost a
+good conscience."
+
+"No, thank God!" answered the young man, with a sudden flush in his
+face. "But for that anchor to my soul, I should have long ago
+drifted out to sea a helpless wreck. No thank God! I have not lost a
+good conscience."
+
+"You have not yet read the other paper," said Mr. Dinneford. "It is
+your pardon."
+
+"Pardon!" An indignant flash came into Granger's eyes. "Oh, sir,
+that hurts too deeply. Pardon! I am not a criminal."
+
+"Falsely so regarded in the eyes of the law, but now proved to be
+innocent, and so expressed by the governor. It is not a pardon in
+any sense of remission, but a declaration of innocence and sorrow
+for the undeserved wrongs you have suffered."
+
+"It is well," he answered, gloomily--"the best that can be done; and
+I should be thankful."
+
+"You cannot be more deeply thankful than I am, George." Mr.
+Dinneford spoke with much feeling. "Let us bury this dreadful past
+out of our sight, and trust in God for a better future. You are free
+again, and your innocence shall, so far as I have power to do it, be
+made as clear as noonday. You are at liberty to depart from here at
+once. Will you go with me now?"
+
+Granger lifted a half-surprised look to Mr. Dinneford's face.
+
+"Thank you," he replied, after a few moments' thought. "I shall
+never forget your kindness, but I prefer remaining here for a few
+days, until I can confer with my friends and make some decision as
+to the future."
+
+Granger's manner grew reserved, almost embarrassed. Mr. Dinneford
+was not wrong in his impression of the cause. How could he help
+thinking of Edith, who, turning against him with the rest, had
+accepted the theory of guilt and pronounced her sentence upon him,
+hardest of all to bear? So it appeared to him, for he had nothing
+but the hard fact before him that she had applied for and obtained a
+divorce.
+
+Yes, it was the thought of Edith that drew Granger back and covered
+him with reserve. What more could Mr. Dinneford say? He had not
+considered all the hearings of this unhappy case; but now that he
+remembered the divorce, he began to see, how full of embarrassment
+it was, and how delicate the relation he bore to this unhappy victim
+of his wife's dreadful crime.
+
+What could he say for Edith? Nothing! He knew that her heart had
+never turned itself away from this man, though she had, under a
+pressure she was not strong enough to resist, turned her back upon
+him and cast aside his dishonored name, thus testifying to the world
+that she believed him base and criminal. If he should speak of her,
+would not the young man answer with indignant scorn?
+
+"Give me the address of your friends, and I will call upon them
+immediately," said Mr. Dinneford, replying, after a long silence, to
+Granger's last remark. "I am here to repair, to any extent that in
+me lies the frightful wrongs you have suffered. I shall make your
+cause my own, and never rest until every false tarnish shall be
+wiped from your name. In honor and conscience I am bound to this."
+
+Looking at the young man intently, he saw a grateful response in the
+warmer color that broke into his face and in the moisture that
+filled his eyes.
+
+"I would be base if I were not thankful, Mr. Dinneford," Granger
+replied. "But you cannot put yourself in my place, cannot know what
+I have suffered, cannot comprehend the sense of wrong and cruel
+rejection that has filled my soul with the very gall of bitterness.
+To be cast out utterly, suddenly and without warning from heaven
+into hell, and for no evil thought or act! Ah, sir! you do not
+understand."
+
+"It was a frightful ordeal, George," answered Mr. Dinneford, laying
+his hand on Granger with the tenderness of a father. "But, thank
+God! it is over. You have stood the terrible heat, and now, coming
+out of the furnace, I shall see to it that not even the smell of
+fire remain upon your garments."
+
+Still the young man could not be moved from his purpose to remain at
+the asylum until he had seen and conferred with his friends, in
+whose hands Mr. Dinneford placed the governor's pardon and the
+affidavit of Lloyd Freeling setting forth his innocence.
+
+Mrs. Bray did not call on Mr. Dinneford, as she had promised. She
+had quarreled with Pinky Swett, as the reader will remember, and in
+a fit of blind anger thrust her from the room. But in the next
+moment she remembered that she did not know where the girl lived,
+and if she lost sight of her now, might not again come across her
+for weeks or months. So putting on her hat and cloak hurriedly, she
+waited until she heard Pinky going down stairs, and then came out
+noiselessly, and followed her into the street. She had to be quick
+in her movements, for Pinky, hot with anger, was dashing off at a
+rapid speed. For three or four blocks Mrs. Bray kept her in view;
+but there being only a few persons in the street, she had to remain
+at a considerable distance behind, so as not to attract her
+attention. Suddenly, she lost sight of Pinky. She had looked back on
+hearing a noise in the street; turning again, she could see nothing
+of the girl. Hurrying forward to the corner which Pinky had in all
+probability turned, Mrs. Bray looked eagerly up and down, but to her
+disappointment Pinky was not in sight.
+
+"Somewhere here. I thought it was farther off," said Mrs. Bray to
+herself. "It's too bad that I should have lost sight of her."
+
+She stood irresolute for a little while, then walked down one of the
+blocks and back on the other side. Halfway down, a small street or
+alley divided the block.
+
+"It's in there, no doubt," said Mrs. Bray, speaking to herself
+again. On the corner was a small shop in which notions and trimmings
+were sold. Going into this, she asked for some trifling articles,
+and while looking over them drew the woman who kept the shop into
+conversation.
+
+"What kind of people live in this little street?" she inquired, in a
+half-careless tone.
+
+The woman smiled as she answered, with a slight toss of the head,
+
+"Oh, all kinds."
+
+"Good, bad and indifferent?"
+
+"Yes, white sheep and black."
+
+"So I thought. The black sheep will get in. You can't keep 'em out."
+
+"No, and 'tisn't much use trying," answered the shop-keeper, with a
+levity of manner not unmarked by Mrs. Bray, who said,
+
+"The black sheep have to live as well as the white ones."
+
+"Just so. You hit the nail there."
+
+"And I suppose you find their money as good as that of the whitest?"
+
+"Oh yes."
+
+"And quite as freely spent?"
+
+"As to that," answered the woman, who was inclined to be talkative
+and gossipy, "we make more out of the black sheep than out of the
+white ones. They don't higgle so about prices. Not that we have two
+prices, but you see they don't try to beat us down, and never stop
+to worry about the cost of a thing if they happen to fancy it. They
+look and buy, and there's the end of it."
+
+"I understand," remarked Mrs. Bray, with a familiar nod. "It may be
+wicked to say so; but if I kept a store like this, I'd rather have
+the sinners for customers than the saints."
+
+She had taken a seat at the counter; and now, leaning forward upon
+her arms and looking at the shop-woman in a pleasant,
+half-confidential way, said,
+
+"You know everybody about here?"
+
+"Pretty much."
+
+"The black sheep as well as the white?"
+
+"As customers."
+
+"Of course; that's all I mean," was returned. "I'd be sorry if you
+knew them in any other way--some of them, at least." Then, after a
+pause, "Do you know a girl they call Pinky?"
+
+"I may know her, but not by that name. What kind of a looking person
+is she?"
+
+"A tall, bold-faced, dashing, dare-devil sort of a girl, with a
+snaky look in her eyes. She wears a pink hat with a white feather."
+
+"Yes, I think I have seen some one like that, but she's not been
+around here long."
+
+"When did you see her last?"
+
+"If it's the same one you mean, I saw her go by here not ten minutes
+ago. She lives somewhere down the alley."
+
+"Do you know the house?"
+
+"I do not; but it can be found, no doubt. You called her Pinky."
+
+"Yes. Her name is Pinky Swett."
+
+"O-h! o-h!" ejaculated the shop-woman, lifting her eyebrows in a
+surprised way. "Why, that's the girl the police were after. They
+said she'd run off with somebody's child."
+
+"Did they arrest her?" asked Mrs. Bray, repressing, as far as
+possible, all excitement.
+
+"They took her off once or twice, I believe, but didn't make
+anything out of her. At any rate, the child was not found. It
+belonged, they said, to a rich up-town family that the girl was
+trying to black-mail. But I don't see how that could be."
+
+"The child isn't about here?"
+
+"Oh dear, no! If it was, it would have been found long before this,
+for the police are hunting around sharp. If it's all as they say,
+she's got it hid somewhere else."
+
+While Mrs. Bray talked with the shop-woman, Pinky, who had made a
+hurried call at her room, only a hundred yards away, was going as
+fast as a street-car could take her to a distant part of the city.
+On leaving the car at the corner of a narrow, half-deserted street,
+in which the only sign of life was a child or two at play in the
+snow and a couple of goats lying on a cellar-door, she walked for
+half the distance of a block, and then turned into a court lined on
+both sides with small, ill-conditioned houses, not half of them
+tenanted. Snow and ice blocked the little road-way, except where a
+narrow path had been cut along close to the houses.
+
+Without knocking, Pinky entered one of these poor tenements. As she
+pushed open the door, a woman who was crouching down before a small
+stove, on which something was cooking, started up with a look of
+surprise that changed to one of anxiety and fear the moment she
+recognized her visitor.
+
+"Is Andy all right?" cried Pinky, alarm in her face.
+
+The woman tried to stammer out something, but did not make herself
+understood. At this, Pinky, into whose eyes flashed a fierce light,
+caught her by the wrists in a grip that almost crushed the bones.
+
+"Out with it! where is Andy?"
+
+Still the frightened woman could not speak.
+
+"If that child isn't here, I'll murder you!" said Pinky, now white
+with anger, tightening her grasp.
+
+At this, with a desperate effort, the woman flung her off, and
+catching up a long wooden bench, raised it over her head.
+
+"If there's to be any murder going on," she said, recovering her
+powers of speech, "I'll take the first hand! As for the troublesome
+brat, he's gone. Got out of the window and climbed down the spout.
+Wonder he wasn't killed. Did fall--I don't know how far--and must
+have hurt himself, for I heard a noise as if something heavy had
+dropped in the yard, but thought it was next door. Half an hour
+afterward, in going up stairs and opening the door of the room where
+I kept him locked in, I found it empty and the window open. That's
+the whole story. I ran out and looked everywhere, but he was off.
+And now, if the murder is to come, I'm going to be in first."
+
+And she still kept the long wooden bench poised above her head.
+
+Pinky saw a dangerous look in the woman's eyes.
+
+"Put that thing down," she cried, "and don't be a fool. Let me see;"
+and she darted past the woman and ran up stairs. She found the
+window of Andy's prison open and the print of his little fingers on
+the snow-covered sill outside, where he had held on before dropping
+to the ground, a distance of many feet. There was no doubt now in
+her mind as to the truth of the woman's story. The child had made
+his escape.
+
+"Have you been into all the neighbors' houses?" asked Pinky as she
+came down hastily.
+
+"Into some, but not all," she replied.
+
+"How long is it since he got away?"
+
+"More than two hours."
+
+"And you've been sticking down here, instead of ransacking every
+hole and corner in the neighborhood. I can hardly keep my hands off
+of you."
+
+The woman was on the alert. Pinky saw this, and did not attempt to
+put her threat into execution. After pouring out her wrath in a
+flood of angry invectives, she went out and began a thorough search
+of the neighborhood, going into every house for a distance of three
+or four blocks in all directions. But she could neither find the
+child nor get the smallest trace of him. He had dropped out of
+sight, so far as she was concerned, as completely as if he had
+fallen into the sea.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXVI.
+
+
+
+
+
+_DAY_ after day Mr. Dinneford waited for the woman who was to
+restore the child of Edith, but she did not come. Over a week
+elapsed, but she neither called nor sent him a sign or a word. He
+dared not speak about this to Edith. She was too weak in body and
+mind for any further suspense or strain.
+
+Drew Hall had been nearly thrown down again by the events of that
+Christmas day. The hand of a little child was holding him fast to a
+better life; but when that hand was torn suddenly away from his
+grasp, he felt the pull of evil habits, the downward drift of old
+currents. His steps grew weak, his knees trembled. But God did not
+mean that he should be left alone. He had reached down to him
+through the hand of a little child, had lifted him up and led him
+into a way of safety; and now that this small hand, the soft, touch
+of which had gone to his heart and stirred him with old memories,
+sad and sweet and holy, had dropped away from him, and he seemed to
+be losing his hold of heaven, God sent him, in Mr. Dinneford, an
+angel with a stronger hand. There were old associations that held
+these men together. They had been early and attached friends, and
+this meeting, after many years of separation, under such strange
+circumstances, and with a common fear and anxiety at heart, could
+not but have the effect of arousing in the mind of Mr. Dinneford the
+deepest concern for the unhappy man. He saw the new peril into which
+he was thrown by the loss of Andy, and made it his first business to
+surround him with all possible good and strengthening influences. So
+the old memories awakened by the coming of Andy did not fade out and
+lose their power over the man. He had taken hold of the good past
+again, and still held to it with the tight grasp of one conscious of
+danger.
+
+"We shall find the child--no fear of that," Mr. Dinneford would say
+to him over and over again, trying to comfort his own heart as well,
+as the days went by and no little Andy could be found. "The police
+have the girl under the sharpest surveillance, and she cannot baffle
+them much longer."
+
+George Granger left the asylum with his friends, and dropped out of
+sight. He did not show himself in the old places nor renew old
+associations. He was too deeply hurt. The disaster had been too
+great for any attempt on his part at repairing the old
+dwelling-places of his life. His was not what we call a strong
+nature, but he was susceptible of very deep impressions. He was fine
+and sensitive, rather than strong. Rejected by his wife and family
+without a single interview with her or even an opportunity to assert
+his innocence, he felt the wrong so deeply that he could not get
+over it. His love for his wife had been profound and tender, and
+when it became known to him that she had accepted the appearances of
+guilt as conclusive, and broken with her own hands the tie that
+bound them, it was more than he had strength to bear, and a long
+time passed before he rallied from this hardest blow of all.
+
+Edith knew that her father had seen Granger after securing his
+pardon, and she had learned from him only, particulars of the
+interview. Beyond this nothing came to her. She stilled her heart,
+aching with the old love that crowded all its chambers, and tried to
+be patient and submissive. It was very hard. But she was helpless.
+Sometimes, in the anguish and wild agitation of soul that seized
+her, she would resolve to put in a letter all she thought and felt,
+and have it conveyed to Granger; but fear and womanly delicacy drove
+her back from this. What hope had she that he would not reject her
+with hatred and scorn? It was a venture she dared not make, for she
+felt that such a rejection would kill her. But for her work among
+the destitute and the neglected, Edith would have shut herself up at
+home. Christian charity drew her forth daily, and in offices of
+kindness and mercy she found a peace and rest to which she would
+otherwise have been stranger.
+
+She was on her way home one afternoon from a visit to the
+mission-school where she had first heard of the poor baby in Grubb's
+court. All that day thoughts of little Andy kept crowding into her
+mind. She could not push aside his image as she saw it on Christmas,
+when he sat among the children, his large eyes resting in such a
+wistful look upon her face. Her eyes often grew dim and her heart
+full as she looked upon that tender face, pictured for her as
+distinctly as if photographed to natural sight.
+
+"Oh my baby, my baby!" came almost audibly from her lips, in a burst
+of irrepressible feeling, for ever since she had seen this child,
+the thought of him linked itself with that of her lost baby.
+
+Up to this time her father had carefully concealed his interview
+with Mrs. Bray. He was in so much doubt as to the effect that
+woman's communication might produce while yet the child was missing
+that he deemed it best to maintain the strictest silence until it
+could be found.
+
+Walking along with heart and thought where they dwelt for so large a
+part of her time, Edith, in turning a corner, came upon a woman who
+stopped at sight of her as if suddenly fastened to the
+ground--stopped only for an instant, like one surprised by an
+unexpected and unwelcome encounter, and then made a motion to pass
+on. But Edith, partly from memory and partly from intuition,
+recognized her nurse, and catching fast hold of her, said in a low
+imperative voice, while a look of wild excitement spread over her
+face,
+
+"Where is my baby?"
+
+The woman tried to shake her off, but Edith held her with a grasp
+that could not be broken.
+
+"For Heaven's sake," exclaimed the woman "let go of me! This is the
+public street, and you'll have a crowd about us in a moment, and the
+police with them."
+
+But Edith kept fast hold of her.
+
+"First tell me where I can find my baby," she answered.
+
+"Come along," said the woman, moving as she spoke in the direction
+Edith was going when they met. "If you want a row with the police, I
+don't."
+
+Edith was close to her side, with her hand yet upon her and her
+voice in her ears.
+
+"My baby! Quick! Say! Where can I find my baby?"
+
+"What do I know of your baby? You are a fool, or mad!" answered the
+woman, trying to throw her off. "I don't know you."
+
+"But I know you, Mrs. Bray," said Edith, speaking the name at a
+venture as the one she remembered hearing the servant give to her
+mother.
+
+At this the woman's whole manner changed, and Edith saw that she was
+right--that this was, indeed, the accomplice of her mother.
+
+"And now," she added, in voice grown calm and resolute, "I do not
+mean to let you escape until I get sure knowledge of my child. If
+you fly from me, I will follow and call for the police. If you have
+any of the instincts of a woman left, you will know that I am
+desperately in earnest. What is a street excitement or a temporary
+arrest by the police, or even a station-house exposure, to me, in
+comparison with the recovery of my child? Where is he?"
+
+"I do not know," replied Mrs. Bray. "After seeing your father--"
+
+"My father! When did you see him?" exclaimed Edith, betraying in her
+surprised voice the fact that Mr. Dinneford had kept so far, even
+from her, the secret of that brief interview to which she now
+referred.
+
+"Oh, he hasn't told you! But it's no matter--he will do that in good
+time. After seeing your father, I made an effort to get possession
+of your child and restore him as I promised to do. But the woman who
+had him hidden somewhere managed to keep out of my way until this
+morning. And now she says he got off from her, climbed out of a
+second-story window and disappeared, no one knows where."
+
+"This woman's name is Pinky Swett?" said Edith.
+
+"Yes."
+
+Mrs. Bray felt the hand that was still upon her arm shake as if from
+a violent chill.
+
+"Do you believe what she says?--that the child has really escaped
+from her?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Where does she live?"
+
+Mrs. Bray gave the true directions, and without hesitation.
+
+"Is this child the one she stole from the Briar-street mission on
+Christmas day?" asked Edith.
+
+"He is," answered Mrs. Bray.
+
+"How shall I know he is mine? What proof is there that little Andy,
+as he is called, and my baby are the same?"
+
+"I know him to be your child, for I have never lost sight of him,"
+replied the woman, emphatically. "You may know him by his eyes and
+mouth and chin, for they are yours. Nobody can mistake the likeness.
+But there is another proof. When I nursed you, I saw on your arm,
+just above the elbow, a small raised mark of a red color, and
+noticed a similar one on the baby's arm. You will see it there
+whenever you find the child that Pinky Swett stole from the
+mission-house on Christmas day. Good-bye!"
+
+And the woman, seeing that her companion was off of her guard,
+sprang away, and was out of sight in the crowd before Edith could
+rally herself and make an attempt to follow. How she got home she
+could hardly tell.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXVII.
+
+
+
+
+
+_FOR_ weeks the search for Andy was kept up with unremitting
+vigilance, but no word of him came to the anxious searchers. A few
+days after the meeting with Mrs. Bray, the police report mentioned
+the arrest of both Pinky Swett and Mrs. Bray, _alias_ Hoyt, _alias_
+Jewett, charged with stealing a diamond ring of considerable value
+from a jewelry store. They were sent to prison, in default of bail,
+to await trial. Mr. Dinneford immediately went to the prison and had
+an interview with the two women, who could give him no information
+about Andy beyond what Mrs. Bray had already communicated in her
+hurried talk with Edith. Pinky could get no trace of him after he
+had escaped. Mr. Dinneford did not leave the two women until he had
+drawn from them a minute and circumstantial account of all they knew
+of Edith's child from the time it was cast adrift. When he left
+them, he had no doubt as to its identity with Andy. There was no
+missing link in the chain of evidence.
+
+The new life that had opened to little Andy since the dreary night
+on which, like a stray kitten, he had crept into Andrew Hall's
+miserable hovel, had been very pleasant. To be loved and caressed
+was a strange and sweet experience. Poor little heart! It fluttered
+in wild terror, like a tiny bird in the talons of a hawk, when Pinky
+Swett swooped down and struck her foul talons into the frightened
+child and bore him off.
+
+"If you scream, I'll choke you to death!" she said, stooping to his
+ear, as she hurried him from the mission-house. Scared into silence,
+Andy did not cry out, and the arm that grasped and dragged him away
+was so strong that he felt resistance to be hopeless. Passing from
+Briar street, Pinky hurried on for a distance of a block, when she
+signaled a street-car. As she lifted Andy upon the platform, she
+gave him another whispered threat:
+
+"Mind! if you cry, I'll kill you!"
+
+There were but few persons in the car, and Pinky carried the child
+to the upper end and sat him down with his face turned forward to
+the window, so as to keep it as much out of observation as possible.
+He sat motionless, stunned with surprise and fear. Pinky kept her
+eyes upon him. His hands were laid across his breast and held
+against it tightly. They had not gone far before Pinky saw great
+tear-drops falling upon the little hands.
+
+"Stop crying!" she whispered, close to his ear; "I won't have it!
+You're not going to be killed."
+
+Andy tried to keep back the tears, but in spite of all he could do
+they kept blinding his eyes and falling over his hands.
+
+"What's the matter with your little boy?" asked a sympathetic,
+motherly woman who had noticed the child's distress.
+
+"Cross, that's all." Pinky threw out the sentence in at snappish,
+mind-your-own-business tone.
+
+The motherly woman, who had leaned forward, a look of kindly
+interest on her face, drew back, chilled by this repulse, but kept
+her eyes upon the child, greatly to Pinky's annoyance. After riding
+for half a mile, Pinky got out and took another car. Andy was
+passive. He had ceased crying, and was endeavoring to get back some
+of the old spirit of brave endurance. He was beginning to feel like
+one who had awakened from a beautiful dream in which dear ideals had
+almost reached fruition, to the painful facts of a hard and
+suffering life, and was gathering up his patience and strength to
+meet them. He sat motionless by the side of Pinky, with his eyes
+cast down, his chin on his breast and his lips shut closely
+together.
+
+Another ride of nearly half a mile, when Pinky left the car and
+struck away from the common thoroughfare into a narrow alley, down
+which she walked for a short distance, and then disappeared in one
+of the small houses. No one happened to observe her entrance.
+Through a narrow passage and stairway she reached a second-story
+room. Taking a key from her pocket, she unlocked the door and went
+in. There was a fire in a small stove, and the room was comfortable.
+Locking the door on the inside she said to Andy, in a voice changed
+and kinder,
+
+"My! your hands are as red as beets. Go up to the stove and warm
+yourself."
+
+Andy obeyed, spreading out his little hands, and catching the
+grateful warmth, every now and then looking up into Pinky's face,
+and trying with a shrewder insight than is usually given to a child
+of his age to read the character and purposes it half concealed and
+half made known.
+
+"Now, Andy," said Pinky, in a mild but very decided way--"your
+name's Andy?"
+
+"Yes, ma'am," answered the child, fixing his large, intelligent eyes
+on her face.
+
+"Well, Andy, if you'll be a good and quiet boy, you needn't be
+afraid of anything--you won't get hurt. But if you make a fuss, I'll
+throw you at once right out of the window."
+
+Pinky frowned and looked so wicked as she uttered the last sentence
+that Andy was frightened. It seemed as if a devouring beast glared
+at him out of her eyes. She saw the effect of her threat, and was
+satisfied.
+
+The short afternoon soon passed away. The girl did not leave the
+room, nor talk with the child except in very low tones, so as not to
+attract the attention of any one in the house. As the day waned snow
+began to fall, and by the time night set in it was coming down thick
+and fast. As soon as it was fairly dark, Pinky wrapped a shawl about
+Andy, pinning it closely, so as to protect him from the cold, and
+quietly left the house. He made no resistance. A car was taken, in
+which they rode for a long distance, until they were on the
+outskirts of the city. The snow had already fallen to a depth of two
+or three inches, and the storm was increasing. When she left the car
+in that remote neighborhood, not a person was to be seen on the
+street. Catching Andy into her arms, Pinky ran with him for the
+distance of half a block, and then turned into a close alley with
+small houses on each side. At the lower end she stopped before one
+of these houses, and without knocking pushed open the door.
+
+"Who's that?" cried a voice from an upper room, the stairway to
+which led up from the room below.
+
+"It's me. Come down, and be quiet," answered Pinky, in a warning
+voice.
+
+A woman, old and gray, with all the signs of a bad life on her
+wrinkled face, came hastily down stairs and confronted Pinky.
+
+"What now? What's brought you here?" she demanded, in no friendly
+tones.
+
+"There, there, Mother Peter! smooth down your feathers. I've got
+something for you to do, and it will pay," answered Pinky, who had
+shut the outside door and slipped the bolt.
+
+At this, the manner of Mother Peter, as Pinky had called her,
+softened, and she said,
+
+"What's up? What deviltry are you after now, you huzzy?"
+
+Without replying to this, Pinky began shaking the snow from Andy and
+unwinding the shawl with which she had bound him up. After he was
+free from his outside wrappings, she said, looking toward the woman,
+
+"Now, isn't he a nice little chap? Did you ever see such eyes?"
+
+The worn face of the woman softened as she turned toward the
+beautiful child, but not with pity. To that feeling she had long
+been a stranger.
+
+"I want you to keep him for a few days," said Pinky, speaking in the
+woman's ears. "I'll tell you more about it after he's in bed and
+asleep."
+
+"He's to be kept shut up out of sight, mind," was Pinky's
+injunction, in the conference that followed. "Not a living soul in
+the neighborhood must know he's in the house, for the police will be
+sharp after him. I'll pay you five dollars a week, and put it down
+in advance. Give him plenty to eat, and be as good to him as you
+can, for you see it's a fat job, and I'll make it fatter for you if
+all comes out right."
+
+The woman was not slow to promise all that Pinky demanded. The house
+in which she lived had three rooms, one below and two smaller ones
+above. From the room below a stove-pipe went up through the floor
+into a sheet-iron drum in the small back chamber, and kept it
+partially heated. It was arranged that Andy should be made a close
+prisoner in this room, and kept quiet by fear. It had only one
+window, looking out upon the yard, and there was no shed or porch
+over the door leading into the yard below upon which he could climb
+out and make his escape. In order to have things wholly secure the
+two women, after Andy was asleep, pasted paper over the panes of
+glass in the lower sash, so that no one could see his face at the
+window, and fastened the sash down by putting a nail into a
+gimlet-hole at the top.
+
+"I guess thatt will fix him," said Pinky, in a tone of satisfaction.
+"All you've got to do now is to see that he doesn't make a noise."
+
+On the next morning Andy was awake by day-dawn. At first he did not
+know where he was, but he kept very still, looking around the small
+room and trying to make out what it all meant. Soon it came to him,
+and a vague terror filled his heart. By his side lay the woman into
+whose hands Pinky had given him. She was fast asleep, and her face,
+as he gazed in fear upon it, was even more repulsive than it had
+looked on the night before. His first impulse, after comprehending
+his situation, was to escape if possible. Softly and silently he
+crept out of bed, and made his way to the door. It was fastened. He
+drew the bolt back, when it struck the guard with a sharp click. In
+an instant the old woman was sitting up in bed and glaring at him.
+
+"You imp of Satan!" she cried, springing after him with a singular
+agility for one of her age, and catching him by the arm with a
+vice-like grip that bruised the tender flesh and left it marked for
+weeks, drew him back from the door and flung him upon the bed.
+
+"Stay there till I tell you to get up," she added, with a cruel
+threat in her voice. "And mind you, there's to be no fooling with
+me."
+
+The frightened child crept under the bed-clothes, and hid his face
+beneath them. Mother Peter did not lie down again, but commenced
+dressing herself, muttering and grumbling as she did so.
+
+"Keep where you are till I come back," she said to Andy, with the
+same cruel threat in her voice. Going out, she bolted the door on
+the other side. It was nearly half an hour before the woman
+returned, bringing a plate containing two or three slices of bread
+and butter and a cup of milk.
+
+"Now get up and dress yourself," was her sharply-spoken salutation
+to Andy as she came into the room. "And you're to be just as still
+as a mouse, mind. There's your breakfast." She set the plate on a
+table and went out, bolting, as before, the door on the other side.
+Andy did not see her again for over an hour. Left entirely alone in
+his prison, his restless spirit chafed for freedom. He moved about
+the apartment, examining everything it contained with the closest
+scrutiny, yet without making any noise, for the woman's threat,
+accompanied as it had been with such a wicked look, was not
+forgotten. He had seen in that look a cruel spirit of which he was
+afraid. Two or three times he thought he heard a step and a movement
+in the adjoining chamber, and waited, almost holding his breath,
+with his eyes upon the door, expecting every moment to see the
+scowling face of his jailer. But no hand touched the door.
+
+Tired at last with everything in the room, he went to the window and
+sought to look out, as he had already done many times. He could not
+understand why this window, was so different from any he had ever
+seen, and puzzled over it in his weak, childish way. As he moved
+from pane to pane, trying to see through, he caught a glimpse of
+something outside, but it was gone in a moment. He stepped back,
+then came up quickly to the glass, all the dull quietude of manner
+leaving him. As he did so a glimpse of the outside world came again,
+and now he saw a little hole in the paper not larger than a pin's
+head. To scrape at this was a simple instinct. In a moment he saw it
+enlarging, as the paper peeled off from the glass. Scraping away
+with his finger-nail, the glass was soon cleared of paper for the
+space of an inch in diameter, and through this opening he stood
+gazing out upon the yards, below, and the houses that came up to
+them from a neighboring street. There was a woman in one of these
+yards, and she looked up toward the window where Andy stood,
+curiously.
+
+"You imp of Satan!" were the terrible words that fell upon his ears
+at this juncture, and he felt himself caught up as by a vulture. He
+knew the cruel voice and the grip of the cruel hands that had
+already left their marks in his tender flesh. Mother Peter, her face
+red with passion and her eyes slowing like coals of fire, held him
+high in the air, and shook him with savage violence. She did not
+strike, but continued shaking him until the sudden heat of her
+passion had a little cooled.
+
+"Didn't I tell you not to meddle with anything in this room?" and
+with another bruising grip of Andy's arms, she threw him roughly
+upon the floor.
+
+The little hole in the paper was then repaired by pasting another
+piece of paper over it, after which Andy was left alone, but with a
+threat from Mother Peter that if he touched the window again she
+would beat the life out of him. She had no more trouble with him
+that day. Every half hour or so she would come up stairs
+noiselessly, and listen at the door, or break in upon the child
+suddenly and without warning. But she did not find him again at the
+window. The restlessness at first exhibited had died out, and he sat
+or lay upon the floor in a kind of dull, despairing stupor. So that
+day passed.
+
+On the second day of Andy's imprisonment he distinctly heard the old
+woman go out at the street door and lock it after her. He listened
+for a long time, but could hear no sound in the house. A feeling of
+relief and a sense of safety came over him. He had not been so long
+in his prison alone without the minutest examination of every part,
+and it had not escaped his notice that the panes of glass in the
+upper sash of the window were not covered with paper, as were those
+below. But for the fear of one of Mother Peter's noiseless pouncings
+in upon him, he would long since have climbed upon the sill and
+taken a look through the upper sash. He waited now for full half an
+hour to be sure that his jailer had left the house, and then,
+climbing to the window-sill with the agility of a squirrel, held on
+to the edge of the lower sash and looked out through the clear glass
+above. Dreary and unsightly as was all that lay under his gaze, it
+was beautiful in the eyes of the child. His little heart swelled and
+glowed; he longed, as a prisoner, for freedom. As he stood there he
+saw that a nail held down the lower sash, which he had so often
+tried, but in vain, to lift. Putting his finger on this nail, he
+felt it move. It had been placed loosely in a gimlet-hole, and could
+be drawn out easily. For a little while he stood there, taking out
+and putting in the nail. While doing this he thought he heard a
+sound below, and instantly dropped noiselessly from the window. He
+had scarcely done so when the door of his room opened and Mother
+Peter came in. She looked at him sharply, and then retired without
+speaking.
+
+All the next day Andy listened after Mother Peter, waiting to hear
+her go out. But she did not leave the house until after he was
+asleep in the evening.
+
+On the next day, after waiting until almost noon, the child's
+impatience of confinement grew so strong that he could no longer
+defer his meditated escape from the window, for ever since he had
+looked over the sash and discovered how it was fastened down, his
+mind had been running on this thing. He had noticed that Mother
+Peter's visits to his room were made after about equal intervals of
+time, and that after she gave him his dinner she did not come up
+stairs again for at least an hour. This had been brought, and he was
+again alone.
+
+For nearly five minutes after the woman went out, he sat by the
+untasted food, his head bent toward the door, listening. Then he got
+up quietly, climbed upon the window-sill and pulled the nail out.
+Dropping back upon the floor noiselessly, he pushed his hands upward
+against the sash, and it rose easily. Like an animal held in
+unwilling confinement, he did not stop to think of any danger that
+might lie in the way of escape when opportunity for escape offered.
+The fear behind was worse than any imagined fear that could lie
+beyond. Pushing up the sash, Andy, without looking down from the
+window, threw himself across the sill and dropped his body over,
+supporting himself with his hands on the snow-encrusted ledge for a
+moment, and then letting himself fall to the ground, a distance of
+nearly ten feet. He felt his breath go as he swept through the air,
+and lost his senses for an instant or two.
+
+Stunned by the fall, he did not rise for several minutes. Then he
+got up with a slow, heavy motion and looked about him anxiously. He
+was in a yard from which there was no egress except by way of the
+house. It was bitter cold, and he had on nothing but the clothing
+worn in the room from which he had just escaped. His head was bare.
+
+The dread of being found here by Mother Peter soon lifted him above
+physical impediment or suffering. Through a hole in the fence he saw
+an alley-way; and by the aid of an old barrel that stood in the
+yard, he climbed to the top of the fence and let himself down on the
+other side, falling a few feet. A sharp pain was felt in one of his
+ankles as his feet touched the ground. He had sprained it in his
+leap from the window, and now felt the first pangs attendant on the
+injury.
+
+Limping along, he followed the narrow alley-way, and in a little
+while came out upon a street some distance from the one in which
+Mother Peter lived. There were very few people abroad, and no one
+noticed or spoke to him as he went creeping along, every step
+sending a pain from the hurt ankle to his heart. Faint with
+suffering and chilled to numbness, Andy stumbled and fell as he
+tried, in crossing a street, to escape from a sleigh that turned a
+corner suddenly. It was too late for the driver to rein up his
+horse. One foot struck the child, throwing him out of the track of
+the sleigh. He was insensible when taken up, bleeding and apparently
+dead. A few people came out of the small houses in the neighborhood,
+attracted by the accident, but no one knew the child or offered to
+take him in.
+
+There were two ladies in the sleigh, and both were greatly pained
+and troubled. After a hurried consultation, one of them reached out
+her hands for the child, and as she received and covered him with
+the buffalo-robe said something to the driver, who turned his
+horse's head and drove off at a rapid speed.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXVIII.
+
+
+
+
+
+_EVERY_ home for friendless children, every sin or poverty-blighted
+ward and almost every hovel, garret and cellar where evil and
+squalor shrunk from observation were searched for the missing child,
+but in vain. No trace of him could be found. The agony of suspense
+into which Edith's mind was brought was beginning to threaten her
+reason. It was only by the strongest effort at self-compulsion that
+she could keep herself to duty among the poor and suffering, and
+well for her it was that she did not fail here; it was all that held
+her to safe mooring.
+
+One day, as she was on her way home from some visit of mercy, a lady
+who was passing in a carriage called to her from the window, at the
+same time ordering her driver to stop. The carriage drew up to the
+sidewalk.
+
+"Come, get in," said the lady as she pushed open the carriage door.
+"I was thinking of you this very moment, and want to have some talk
+about our children's hospital. We must have you on our ladies'
+visiting committee."
+
+Edith shook her head, saying, "It won't be possible, Mrs. Morton. I
+am overtaxed now, and must lessen, instead of increasing, my work."
+
+"Never mind, about that now. Get in. I want to have some talk with
+you."
+
+Edith, who knew the lady intimately, stepped into the carriage and
+took a seat by her side.
+
+"I don't believe you have ever been to our hospital," said the lady
+as the carriage rolled on. "I'm going there now, and want to show
+you how admirably everything is conducted, and what a blessing it is
+to poor suffering children."
+
+"It hurts me so to witness suffering in little children," returned
+Edith, "that it seems as if I couldn't bear it much longer. I see so
+much of it."
+
+"The pain is not felt as deeply when we are trying to relieve that
+suffering," answered her friend. "I have come away from the hospital
+many times after spending an hour or two among the beds, reading and
+talking to the children, with an inward peace in my soul too deep
+for expression. I think that Christ draws very near to us while we
+are trying to do the work that he did when he took upon himself our
+nature in, the world and stood face to face visibly with men--nearer
+to us, it may be, than at any other time; and in his presence there
+is peace--peace that passeth understanding."
+
+They were silent for a little while, Edith not replying. "We have
+now," resumed the lady, "nearly forty children under treatment--poor
+little things who, but for this charity, would have no tender care
+or intelligent ministration. Most of them would be lying in garrets
+or miserable little rooms, dirty and neglected, disease eating out
+their lives, and pain that medical skill now relieves, racking their
+poor worn bodies. I sat by the bed of a little girl yesterday who
+has been in the hospital over six months. She has hip disease. When
+she was brought here from one of the vilest places in the city,
+taken away from a drunken mother, she was the saddest-looking child
+I ever saw. Dirty, emaciated, covered with vermin and pitiable to
+behold, I could hardly help crying when I saw her brought in. Now,
+though still unable to leave her bed, she has as bright and happy a
+face as you ever saw. The care and tenderness received since she
+came to us have awakened a new life in her soul, and she exhibits a
+sweetness of temper beautiful to see. After I had read a little
+story for her yesterday, she put her arms about my neck and kissed
+me, saying, in her frank, impulsive way, 'Oh, Mrs. Morton, I do love
+you so!' I had a great reward. Never do I spend an hour among these
+children without thanking God that he put it into the hearts of a
+few men and women who could be touched with the sufferings of
+children to establish and sustain so good an institution."
+
+The carriage stopped, and the driver swung open the door. They were
+at the children's hospital. Entering a spacious hall, the two ladies
+ascended to the second story, where the wards were located. There
+were two of these on opposite sides of the hall, one for boys and
+one for girls. Edith felt a heavy pressure on her bosom as they
+passed into the girls' ward. She was coming into the presence of
+disease and pain, of suffering and weariness, in the persons of
+little children.
+
+There were twenty beds in the room. Everything was faultlessly
+clean, and the air fresh and pure. On most of these beds lay, or sat
+up, supported by pillows, sick or crippled children from two years
+of age up to fifteen or sixteen, while a few were playing about the
+room. Edith caught her breath and choked back a sob that came
+swiftly to her throat as she stood a few steps within the door and
+read in a few quick glances that passed from face to face the
+sorrowful records that pain had written upon them.
+
+"Oh, there's Mrs. Morton!" cried a glad voice, and Edith saw a girl
+who was sitting up in one of the beds clap her hands joyfully.
+
+"That's the little one I was telling you about," said the lady, and
+she crossed to the bed, Edith following. The child reached up her
+arms and put them about Mrs. Morton's neck, kissing her as she did
+so.
+
+It took Edith some time to adjust herself to the scene before her.
+Mrs. Morton knew all the children, and had a word of cheer or
+sympathy for most of them as she passed from bed to bed through the
+ward. Gradually the first painful impressions wore off, and Edith
+felt herself drawn to the little patients, and before five minutes
+had passed her heart was full of a strong desire to do whatever lay
+in her power to help and comfort them. After spending half an hour
+with the girls, during which time Edith talked and read to a number
+of them, Mrs. Morton said,
+
+"Now let us go into the boys' ward."
+
+They crossed the hall together, and entered the room on the other
+side. Here, as in the opposite ward, Mrs. Morton was recognized as
+welcome visitor. Every face that happened to be turned to the door
+brightened at her entrance.
+
+"There's a dear child in this ward," said Mrs. Morton as they stood
+for a moment in the door looking about the room. "He was picked up
+in the street about a week ago, hurt by a passing vehicle, and
+brought here. We have not been able to learn anything about him."
+
+Edith's heart gave a sudden leap, but she held it down with all the
+self-control she could assume, trying to be calm.
+
+"Where is he?" she asked, in a voice so altered from its natural
+tone that Mrs. Morton turned and looked at her in surprise.
+
+"Over in that corner," she answered, pointing down the room.
+
+Edith started forward, Mrs. Morton at her side.
+
+"Here he is," said the latter, pausing at a bed on which child with
+fair face, blue eyes and golden hair was lying. A single glance sent
+the blood back to Edith's heart. A faintness came over her;
+everything grew dark. She sat down to keep from falling.
+
+As quickly as possible and by another strong effort of will she
+rallied herself.
+
+"Yes," she said, in a faint undertone in which was no apparent
+interest, "he is a dear little fellow."
+
+As she spoke she laid her hand softly on the child's head, but not
+in a way to bring any response. He looked at her curiously, and
+seemed half afraid.
+
+Meanwhile, a child occupying a bed only a few feet off had started
+up quickly on seeing Edith, and now sat with his large brown eyes
+fixed eagerly upon her, his lips apart and his hands extended. But
+Edith did not notice him. Presently she got up from beside the bed
+and was turning away when the other child, with a kind of despairing
+look in his face, cried out,
+
+"Lady, lady! oh, lady!"
+
+The voice reached Edith's ears. She turned, and saw the face of
+Andy. Swift as a flash she was upon him, gathering him in her arms
+and crying out, in a wild passion of joy that could not be
+repressed,
+
+"Oh, my baby! my baby! my boy! my boy! Bless God! thank God! oh, my
+baby!"
+
+Startled by this sudden outcry, the resident physician and two
+nurses who were in the ward hurried down the room to see what it
+meant. Edith had the child hugged tightly to her bosom, and resisted
+all their efforts to remove him.
+
+"My dear madam," said the doctor, "you will do him some harm if you
+don't take care."
+
+"Hurt my baby? Oh no, no!" she answered, relaxing her hold and
+gazing down upon Andy as she let him fall away from her bosom. Then
+lifting her eyes to the physician, her face so flooded with love and
+inexpressible joy that it seemed like some heavenly transfiguration,
+she murmured, in a low voice full of the deepest tenderness,
+
+"Oh no. I will not do my baby any harm."
+
+"My dear, dear friend," said Mrs. Morton, recovering from the shock
+of her first surprise and fearing that Edith had suddenly lost her
+mind, "you cannot mean what you say;" and she reached down for the
+child and made a movement as if she were going to lift him away from
+her arms.
+
+A look of angry resistance swept across Edith's pale face. There was
+a flash of defiance in her eyes.
+
+"No, no! You must not touch him," she exclaimed; "I will die before
+giving him up. My baby!"
+
+And now, breaking down from her intense excitement, she bent over
+the child again, weeping and sobbing. Waiting until this paroxysm
+had expended itself, Mrs. Morton, who had not failed to notice that
+Andy never turned his eyes for an instant away from Edith, nor
+resisted her strained clasp or wild caresses, but lay passive
+against her with a look of rest and peace in his face, said,
+
+"How shall we know that he is your baby?"
+
+At this Edith drew herself up, the light on her countenance fading
+out. Then catching at the child's arm, she pulled the loose sleeve
+that covered it above the elbow with hands that shook like aspens.
+Another cry of joy broke from her as she saw a small red mark
+standing out clear from the snowy skin. She kissed it over and over
+again, sobbing,
+
+"My baby! Yes, thank God! my own long-lost baby!"
+
+And still the child showed no excitement, but lay very quiet,
+looking at Edith whenever he could see her countenance, the peace
+and rest on his face as unchanging as if it were not really a living
+and mobile face, but one cut into this expression by the hands of an
+artist.
+
+"How shall you know?" asked Edith, now remembering the question of
+Mrs. Morton. And she drew up her own sleeve and showed on one of her
+arms a mark as clearly defined and bright as that on the child's
+arm.
+
+No one sought to hinder Edith as she rose to her feet holding Andy,
+after she had wrapped the bed-clothes about him.
+
+"Come!" she spoke to her friend, and moved away with her precious
+burden.
+
+"You must go with us," said Mrs. Morton to the physician.
+
+They followed as Edith hurried down stairs, and entering the
+carriage after her, were driven away from the hospital.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIX.
+
+
+
+
+
+_ABOUT_ the same hour that Edith entered the boys' ward of the
+children's hospital, Mr. Dinneford met Granger face to face in the
+street. The latter tried to pass him, but Mr. Dinneford stopped, and
+taking his almost reluctant hand, said, as he grasped it tightly,
+
+"George Granger!" in a voice that had in it a kind of helpless cry.
+
+The young man did not answer, but stood looking at him in a
+surprised, uncertain way.
+
+"George," said Mr. Dinneford, his utterance broken, "we want you!"
+
+"For what?" asked Granger, whose hand still lay in that of Mr.
+Dinneford. He had tried to withdraw it at first, but now let it
+remain.
+
+"To help us find your child."
+
+"My child! What of my child?"
+
+"Your child and Edith's," said Mr. Dinneford. "Come!" and he drew
+his arm within that of Granger, the two men moving away together.
+"It has been lost since the day of its birth--cast adrift through
+the same malign influence that cursed your life and Edith's. We are
+on its track, but baffled day by day. Oh, George, we want you,
+frightfully wronged as you have been at our hands--not Edith's. Oh
+no, George! Edith's heart has never turned from you for an instant,
+never doubted you, though in her weakness and despair she was driven
+to sign that fatal application for a divorce. If it were not for the
+fear of a scornful rejection, she would be reaching out her hands to
+you now and begging for the old sweet love, but such a rejection
+would kill her, and she dare not brave the risk."
+
+Mr. Dinneford felt the young man's arm begin to tremble violently.
+
+"We want you, George," he pursued. "Edith's heart is calling out for
+you, that she may lean it upon your heart, so that it break not in
+this great trial and suspense. Your lost baby is calling for you out
+of some garret or cellar or hovel where it lies concealed. Come, my
+son. The gulf that lies between the dreadful past and the blessed
+future can be leaped at a single bound if you choose to make it. We
+want you--Edith and I and your baby want you."
+
+Mr. Dinneford, in his great excitement, was hurrying the young man
+along at a rapid speed, holding on to his arm at the same time, as
+if afraid he would pull it away and escape.
+
+Granger made no response, but moved along passively, taking in every
+word that was said. A great light seemed to break upon his soul, a
+great mountain to be lifted off. He did not pause at the door from
+which, when he last stood there, he had been so cruelly rejected,
+but went in, almost holding his breath, bewildered, uncertain, but
+half realizing the truth of what was transpiring, like one in a
+dream.
+
+"Wait here," said Mr. Dinneford, and he left him in the parlor and
+ran up stairs to find Edith.
+
+George Granger had scarcely time to recognize the objects around
+him, when a carriage stopped at the door, and in a moment afterward
+the bell rang violently.
+
+The image that next met his eyes was that of Edith standing in the
+parlor door with a child all bundled up in bed-clothing held closely
+in her arms. Her face was trembling with excitement. He started
+forward on seeing her with an impulse of love and joy that he could
+not restrain. She saw him, and reading his soul in his eyes, moved
+to meet him.
+
+"Oh, George, and you too!" she exclaimed. "My baby and my husband,
+all at once! It is too much. I cannot bear if all!"
+
+Granger caught her in his arms as she threw herself upon him and
+laid the child against his breast.
+
+"Yours and mine," she sobbed. "Yours and mine, George!" and she put
+up her face to his. Could he do less than cover it with kisses?
+
+A few hours later, and a small group of very near friends witnessed
+a different scene from this. Not another tragedy as might well be
+feared, under the swift reactions that came upon Edith. No, no! She
+did not die from a excess of joy, but was filled with new life and
+strength. Two hands broken asunder so violently a few years ago were
+now clasped again, and the minister of God as he laid them together
+pronounced in trembling tones the marriage benediction.
+
+This was the scene, and here we drop the curtain.
+The Project Gutenberg Etext of Cast Adrift
+by T. S. Arthur
+******This file should be named cstdr10.txt or cstdr10.zip******
+
+Corrected EDITIONS of our etexts get a new NUMBER, cstdr11.txt
+VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, cstdr10a.txt
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+End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Cast Adrift
+by T. S. Arthur
+
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