 8 What would you do, dear?" She joined in his laugh, albeit there was a tender look in her eyes. After a moment she said gently, It is not scheming, Evan, I am only trying to set about the work for which I have been chosen. I'll tell you how it all came to me. I was reading, my morning reading, you know, after you had gone, taking little dips here and there in the fashion that you think is so unsystematic, and I came upon this verse. He is a chosen vessel unto me. You know about Paul? Well, it came to me with a sudden sense of awe and beauty, the being chosen of God to do a great work. I stopped reading to think it out, what a grand moment it must have been to Paul when he realized it, and I began to feel almost sorry that we lived in such different times with no such opportunities. I stopped right in the midst of my folly to remember that I was as certainly chosen of God as ever Paul was, for assuredly I did not come to him of myself, nor begin to love him of myself, and therefore he must indeed have chosen me, and I wondered whether probably each Christian had not a work to do as definite as Paul's, a work that would be given to no other unless indeed the chosen one failed. I did not want to fail, and I asked God not to let me. Then, of course, I set to wondering what my work or my part of some other person's work could be. It was the morning after you had told me that about Esther Read. You cannot think how that impressed me. I could not get away from the wonderment as to how her work was prospering, and whether there were chosen ones enough, or if there might possibly be a little place for me. I couldn't settle anything, and finally I decided to look at Paul's work a little while. Of course, it was not reasonable to suppose that the duties of the great apostle had anything in common with my bits of effort. Still, I said, the directions given him may help me a little. And, Evan, what do you think was the first thing I found? Why this? The God of our fathers hath chosen thee that thou shouldst know his will. Surely, so far, the things for which both he and I were chosen were parallel. I looked further, and see that just one. That was the very next. Was not I too chosen for that? Thine eyes shall see the king in his beauty. I said over the beautiful promise to assure myself that it was true, and went on, and shouldst hear the voice of his mouth. Was it not strange, Evan? Certainly I shall hear my king speak, often and often, when I get home. Only think of it, so far Paul was not ahead of me. I hurried to find another reference to Paul's work, and I found this. Let me read it to you. Her bit of dainty sewing was suddenly pushed one side, and up from the depths of the rose-lined workbasket came a small, plainly bound Bible much marked, a rapid turning of the leaves, and an eager disciple read. I have appeared unto thee for this purpose, to make thee a minister and a witness, both of these things which thou hast seen, and of those things in which I will appear unto thee. Now, Evan, you know the various child can be a witness if he knows anything about the facts, and I do certainly know some wonderful things about Jesus to which I could witness. And besides, isn't it reasonable to suppose that he will appear to me every day with things for me to witness to? And then I read this, Paul sent to the Gentiles, you know, but for what? To open their eyes and to turn them from darkness to light, and from the power of Satan unto God, that they may receive forgiveness of sins and inheritance among them which are sanctified by the faith that is in me. Evan, was there ever a more wonderful work to do in the world than that? And yet I cannot tell you how it made me feel to discover, or at least to realize, that a great deal of it was my work. Of course, I naturally began to ask myself, what Gentile was there for me to reach? Whose eyes must I try to open? Do you know that very afternoon I met Mr. Reed and heard of those boys? They interested me from the first, and what he told me about his sister increased the interest. Then when I saw them, Evan, if ever boys were in the power of Satan they are, and to think that they may have an inheritance among them which are sanctified. This morning, when I saw where some of them lived and imagined how they lived, I felt stunned for a moment. It seemed to me impossible. What means could possibly be found of sufficient power to fit them for such an inheritance? And then directly came the closing words of the commission, through faith that is in me. Evan, God will save them, and I think he will let me help. Amen, said Mr. Roberts, and his voice was husky. When his wife was in one of her exalted moods, he always admired her with a sort of reverence. He had been for years an earnest worker. He carried business plans and business principles into the work. He studied cause and effect, and calculated and expected certain results to follow certain causes, like a mathematical problem. Not that he by any means forgot the power of faith, or in any sense attempted to do his work alone. He was a Christian who spent much time on his knees. But little Flossie brought so much of the childlike, unquestioning spirit into her work, that sometimes he stood in awe, not knowing whether he could follow her. It was not so much a mathematical problem to be worked out, as it was the faith that can move mountains. As a little child relies on a strength beyond his own, knows he is neither strong nor wise, fears to stir a step alone. Mr. Roberts often found himself quoting these lines when his wife gave him glimpses of her heart, and at such times he had no hesitancy in deciding that the steps she took were not alone, but the Lord was with her. The postman's ring broke in on their quiet. I hope there are letters from home tonight, Mrs. Roberts said, real long ones. It is a week since we have heard. And I ought to hope that they would require a first reading in private, her husband answered, as he seized his neglected pen. It is the only way in which these business letters will get answered. I find the temptation to talk to you irresistible. One letter, but that was of comfortable dimensions in weight. It is from Marion, Mrs. Roberts said, delight in her voice, after the first glance at the familiar writing. She was presently lost in its many pages, and the business of letter writing went on uninterruptedly for some time. Mrs. Marion Dennis had not forgotten her fondness for her pretty little flossy, nor forgotten that, softly innocent little creature though she was, she possessed a wisdom far above those who were credited with having keen insight, even a wisdom so subtle and with all so tender, that its source could only be infinite wisdom. So she, in company with many others, was learning to turn to the friend so much younger than herself, as one in whom she could safely confide. Dear little flossy, so the letter ran, I suppose though you should live to be a white-haired old lady, sitting with placid face and fluted cap and spectacles in your high-backed armchair, in the most treasured corner may have of some granddaughter's choicest room, I, writing to you, would still commence, dear little flossy, that I have to cover it from prying eyes by the dignified and respectable Mrs. Evan Roberts, is almost a matter of amusement to me. I fancy I can see you making a journey through some of the Chautauqua avenues, picking your way daintily towards Palestine, bending lovingly over the small white stones that mark the village of Bethany, a pink on your cheek, born as I thought, of the excitement of being among those tiny photographs of the wonderful past, but born in part, I now believe, of the fact that Mr. Evan Roberts joined us in our walk. Oh, little mousey, how quiet you were. Well, many things have since transpired. We are old married women, you, Ruth, and Yuri and I. I suppose the contrast in our lives, the outward portion of them, I mean, is still as strongly marked, perhaps more so than it was when we were in Chautauqua together. We were girls then, we are matrons now, and with the taking on of that title, Ruth and I took special and great responsibilities. Tonight it rains. Mr. Dennis has been called to the upper part of the city, a way out to Springdale, in fact, to see a sick and dying man, and I am alone and almost lonely. If I could summon any one of the three to my aid in comfort, I would. I am almost as lonely as I was on some of those evenings in the old boarding house. Still there are differences. The smoky old stove is not. A summer warmth floats through the house, born of steam. No ill-smelling kerosene lamp offends your aesthetic friend tonight, but the softest of shaded droplets sheds a halo around me. Isn't that almost poetic? Moreover, O blessed thought, I have no examination papers to prepare, no reports to make up, nothing to do but visit with you. Also, I will admit just to you, that this is another and most blessed difference between this and my lonely past. At almost any moment now I may hope for Dr. Dennis's ring, and when he comes, all sense of loneliness will instantly depart. Ah, flossy, dear flossy, this is such a difference as even you cannot appreciate. You had your mother and father and all your dear home friends, and I had no one. And besides, here I hesitate lest you may be too obtuse to understand the reasoning. You have only added Mr. Roberts to your circle of treasures. He is grand and good, I know, and I like him without even a mental reservation. But, my dear, I have added Dr. Dennis. Can human language say more? Nonsense aside, sweet little woman, God has been very good to you and me. Yet flossy, do you remember how, during those last months in which we were together, I fell into the habit of telling you a great deal about the thorns, and admitted to you once that they pricked glass when they had felt your soothing touch? I want to tell you something. Our Gracie, I am so sorry for her, yet I don't know what to do. She is living a most unhappy life, and of course she shadows our lives also. I told you, dear, about Professor Ellis. He is still trying to convince poor Gracie that I, being her stepmother, must be her natural enemy. Reminding her that before I came into the family, her father was entirely willing to receive his calls, and allowed her to accept his attentions. Don't you see, isn't it strange at all that the poor little girl should believe him and turn from me? She has many judicious helpers in her father's congregation. There are those who sigh over her almost in my hearing. Poor Gracie, they say, how changed she is. She used to be so bright and happy. There is something unnatural in these second-mother relations. All high-spirited children rebel. Imagine such talk helping Gracie. Meantime, what do you suppose can be Professor Ellis's motive? I cannot think that he cares for her. I almost do not believe that there is enough purity left in him even to admire a pure-hearted young girl, certainly not one with such high ideals and earnest ambitions as Gracie had. Why does she admire him, I fancy I hear you asking? My dear, she doesn't. She thinks she does, and at seventeen such thoughts sometimes work irreparable mischief. But left alone, one of these days she would make the discovery that she was flattered by his attentions because he is nearly fifteen years older than she and is brilliant in conversation and quoted as the finest musician in the city. I wish I knew more things about him. What I do know shows me plainly enough the sort of man he is. But with these guileless, young things, it seems as though one had to unmask wickedness very thoroughly before they will believe that it is anything but gossip or misrepresentation. He has gone away for a six-weeks vacation. I don't know where, nor does Dr. Dennis. Gracie knows, but does not enlighten me. Flossy dear, could you give me a little wholesome advice, do you think? I wonder sometimes whether I was not too complacent over my proposed duties. Such schemes as I had. I was going to be the blessedest stepmother that girl ever had. That would not be saying much possibly. Don't we all inclined to think that the second mothers must be wrong and the sons and daughters poor abused darlings? But I loved Gracie, you know, and she seemed to love me and to be so happy over the thought of our near relationship. There is very little happiness from any such source during these days. Gracie has retired into dignity. She can be the most dignified young woman on occasion that I ever beheld. She is not rude to me. On the contrary, she is ceremoniously polite, calls me Mrs. Dennis, and all that sort of thing, when necessity compels her to call me anything. But she speaks as little as possible, sits at table with us three times a day when she cannot secure an excuse for absence that her father will accept, says yes sir and no sir obediently to him, and no ma'am thank you to me, and that is the extent of our conversation. Generally her face is pale and her eyes red, and at the first possible moment she begs to be excused and retires to the privacy of her own room and locks her door. Her father has stopped her music lessons. At least she preferred to have them stopped rather than take lessons of any other person so she practices no more. She continues her German and French and secures good reports from the professors, but there is an air of weariness and dreariness about everything she does that makes one alternate between a feeling of deep pity for her and a desire to box her ears or shut her up in a corner until she can behave herself. As a rule, however, I am sorry for her. I was young once myself. I was undisciplined, I had no mother, and I had a thousand wild fancies, any one of which might have ruined me. What do you think you would do, dear, if Mr. Roberts had a daughter, and you were her mother? You are all in a flush now and have laying down this sheet and said aloud, but an idea, Marion does say the most absurd things. Well, then, if you were Marion Dennis and stood before God in the place of Mother to Grace Dennis, what do you imagine you would do? I'll tell you my policy. I am uniformly cheerful in her presence. Gay, if I can make gaiety out of anything, not toward her father, you understand, because I can fancy that might irritate her. I really try to be gay toward Gracie herself, but can you imagine an attempt to be cheery with a tombstone? I study as much as I can her tastes in the ordering of dinner and desserts and arrange the flowers that I know she likes best, and in short try to do all those little bits of nice things that I feel certain you would do in my place. And just here I may as well own that I learned these small prettinesses studying you. Never should have thought them out for myself. Flossy, Dr. Dennis is one of the most patient and long-suffering of men, but it is very hard for him to be patient with poor Gracie, harder than it is for me. First, because I know by personal experience just what a turbulent young creature a miss of seventeen or eighteen can be. And secondly, because it is upon me her displeasure falls most heavily, and that naturally he resents. Why am I writing all this to you? I don't know, Childie, really. Save that I remember what a curious way you have of telling Jesus all about your friends and their trials, and I remember with great comfort that you are my friend. Don't imagine me as miserable. I can never be that so long as Christ is the present helper that he is to me now, and you do not need to be told that I daily thank him for giving me my husband. But I think you will understand better than many would how earnestly I desire to fill the place of mother to my bright young motherless Gracie with her dangerous beauty and her dangerous talents and her capacity for being miserable. Oh, I want to do more than my duty. I want to love her with all my heart and to have her love me. If it were not for that man who always hated me and who I believe in my heart has sought her out and is pressing his attentions upon her because he sees a possibility of stinging me through her, I might hope to fill the place in her heart that I thought I could. The letter closed abruptly at this point and was finished a few days afterwards in a different strain, giving plenty of home news and being full of the brightness which always sparkled in Marion's letters. But it was the first two or three pages to which Mrs. Roberts turned back and which she thoughtfully re-read. Then she interrupted the busy pen. Evan, are not the business letters nearly done? I want to read this to you and then I want to talk to you. Delightful prospects both of them, he said with energy, as he added the last hurried line, signed and delivered to his wife to enclose in its envelope, then pushed aside writing materials and sat back to enjoy. It isn't all delightful, his wife said shaking her head. I did hope that poor Marion was going to have a few years of rest. Her life has been such a hard one. End of Chapter 8. Recording by Tricia G. Chapter 9. Tremendous facts, he said. It is well that Mrs. Marion Dennis felt entirely safe in her friend Flossie's hands, for her affairs were very thoroughly talked over that evening and sundry conclusions arrived at. One question Mrs. Roberts asked her husband at the close of the conference, which apparently had nothing to do with Marion Dennis's affairs. Evan, do you know Dr. Everett? Everett? Let me think. Yes, I know of him, a young physician comparatively, who had not been here long and has made his mark. In what direction? Several perhaps, but I have heard of him chiefly in the line of his profession. He was accidentally called to attend a young lady belonging to a very wealthy family out in Brookline. I say accidentally, that is a reverent way we have of speaking, you know. Of course, I mean providentially. The nursery governess in the family was sick and this Dr. Everett, who had fallen in with her somewhere, volunteered to cure her. He was calling on her one morning when the sick daughter, who by the way had been given up by her physician, was taken suddenly and alarmingly worse. In the emergency Dr. Everett was summoned, and while they waited for the regular physician, he succeeded in doing such a good service that he inspired the mother with confidence. She became anxious to put the case entirely into his hands, which was done, and the young lady recovered and Dr. Everett's physician professionally was assured. Isn't that an interesting little item for you? He is said to have marked success. And of course, since the Brookline occurrence, his practice is largely among the wealthy. How has your attention been called to him? My protector this morning said that he was a swell doctor, who was attending that Culkin's boy. I wondered if he did it because he loved Christ. He might be a helper. I want to call on that sick boy tomorrow if I can arrange it. I think I must take someone with me. You may take me with you, her husband said emphatically. However much trips through alleys with nimble dick might be conducive to that young man's moral development, Mr. Roberts felt that his wife had experimented sufficiently. Thus it transpired that, dressed in the plainest, quietest garb which her wardrobe would furnish, Mrs. Roberts went to the alley the next morning, accompanied by her husband. In one sense it was a mistake that the first call in the alley should have been made on the Culkin's family. It was calculated to give Mrs. Roberts mistaken ideas as to the manner in which poor people lived. A very enough room certainly, not even a bit of carpet laid before the bed, but it was a clean room. Floor and window and cupboard door were as clean as water could make them, and the bed, while it looked hopelessly hard and dreadful to Mrs. Roberts, was really a pattern of neatness and purity to every dweller in that attic. There was a straw tick covered with a dark calico spread which did duty as a sheet, and the boy who lay on it was covered by a patched quilt that had been mended and was clean. Wonderful things these to say of such a locality. Mr. Roberts suspected it, and Dr. Everett knew it. That gentleman was bending over his patient when the two guests arrived, and vouchsafed them not even a glance, while the dark-haired, dark-eyed, homely, decently dressed girl gave Mrs. Roberts a seat on the one chair which the room contained, and set a stool for her husband that had been made of four old chair legs and a square board. Sally Culkins was somewhat flurried by this unexpected call. She had no idea who the people were, nor for what they had come. A vague fear that they might be in some way connected with her brother's place at the printing-office, which he was in such fear of losing that his night had been a restless one, made her hasten to say in a tremulous voice. The doctor thinks he will be well in a little while. It isn't a bad break, he says, and Mark wants to keep his place. He thinks maybe some of the alley-boys would keep it for him if you would be so kind. She was evidently addressing Mr. Roberts, but she looked at Flossie. The fair, sweet face that gave her such sympathetic glances seemed the one to appeal to. Mr. Roberts, however, discerned that he was mistaken for the employer, and immediately dispelled the idea by asking where the boy worked and how the accident had happened. It was the elevator, sir, she said eagerly. The chain broke, and it went down with a bang, and Mark was on it, and he rolled off somehow, he doesn't know how. And he has been that bad that he couldn't tell me if he had. He was kind of wild, sir, all night, and talking about his place. Was there no one but you to be with him during the night? Mrs. Roberts asked. Where is the mother? We've got no mother, ma'am. There is only Mark and me, and father, she added, after a doubtful pause. But father was not home last night. Oh, I didn't need no one to take care of Mark. I wouldn't have left him. And he likes to have you take care of him, I am sure. What do you give him to eat? He will need nourishing food, I think, beef, teas, and broths, and nice little tempting dishes made with milk, perhaps. Are you his cook, too? I wonder if you wouldn't like to have me show you how to make good things for him. I've learned how to make some nice dishes that sick people like. Before the bewildered girl could answer, the doctor turned abruptly from his long examination of the patient, and gave the guests the first attention he had vouchsafed them. The truth was, this man had had some unfortunate experiences with district visitors, and had perhaps an unreasonable prejudice against them as a class. I can't help it, ma'am, he said to Mrs. Saunders, when she was taking him to task one day. There are exceptions, of course, at least we will hope there are, but if you had seen some of my specimens, you would be the first to wish an infusion of common sense would be introduced among them. As a rule, they offer a tract where they should give a loaf of bread or a bowl of broth, and wedge their advice and reproofs in with every helpful movement. It is like so many doses of medicine to the patient, to be endured because he is at their mercy and can't help himself. They mean well the most of them, but the trouble is we have a way of making district visitors out of people who have nothing to do, and who have never learned that all the nations of the earth were made of one blood. Something in Mrs. Robert's tones or words seemed to interest him, and he turned toward her. Does this alley belong to you, he asked abruptly, his mind still full of the district visitor. She regarded him with a puzzled air for a moment, then answered naively, I don't think it does, if it did I would have some things ever so different. Dr. Everett laughed, and Mr. Robert's came forward and introduced himself. My wife has hardly answered you fully, he said. I am under the impression that she desires to adopt a certain portion of this alley, at least I have heard of little else since last Sabbath afternoon. She is in search of some stray sheep who have been put under her care. Ah, the doctor said, turning quickly to her, a Sabbath schoolteacher, is this young man one of your scholars? No, she explained, but she had heard of him while inquiring where one of her boys lived, and she had called to see if she could help in any way. Dirk Coulson was the boy who, they told her, lived near this place. The eyes of the trim sister brightened. He lives on the next square, she said. Oh, ma'am, are you his teacher, and do you care for him? I'm so glad. He is a favorite of yours, is he, the doctor asked, looking from one speaking face to another, and seeming immensely interested in the matter. No indeed, the girl said quickly, he is horrid, but I'm sorry for his sister, and she wants Dirk to get on, and he never does get on, but I thought maybe such a kind of a teacher could help him. There was such intense and genuine admiration in the girl's voice for the vision of loveliness before her that Dr. Everett could not help smiling. It doesn't seem unlikely, said he, with significance, and added, who is this Dirk Coulson who seems to be an object of interest? He is one of the worst boys in the alley, sir. Sometimes I think he is the very worst, because he is cross as well as hateful. But Mark is always kind of sorry for him, and says he has such a bad father, he can't help it. And Mark, that's his sister, she is a friend of mine, and she feels bad about Dirk, but she can't do nothing. He ain't a bit like Mark there. The last words were spoken tenderly, and the sisterly eyes turned toward the boy on the bed, and obeying a sign from his eyes she went over to him. The doctor applied his questions. Have you recently taken a class, madame, and is their general reputation as encouraging as this special scamp of whom we are hearing? His words almost jarred on Mrs. Roberts. She had already prayed enough for her boys to have a sort of tender feeling for them, a half desire to cover their faults from the gaze of the indifferent world. Did Dr. Everett represent the indifferent world, or did he love her master? She wished she knew. There is nothing encouraging about them, she said, with grave earnestness, save the facts that they are made in the image of God, and that he wants them to turn from the power of Satan unto God that they may receive forgiveness of sins and an inheritance among them which are sanctified. A rare flash of intelligence and appreciation greeted her now from those fine eyes bent so scrutinizingly on her. Tremendous facts, he said. Glorious possibilities. Himself hath said it. I claim kinship with you. I am an heir of the same inheritance. He held a hand to each, and they were cordially grasped. Then Dr. Everett proceeded to business. There is enough to do, he said. Everything is lacking here. There is severe poverty, united to the most scrupulous tenderness and the most tender love on the part of this brother and sister. I stumbled on the case, and will do professionally all that is needed. And I have a friend who would undoubtedly come to the rescue, but she is crowded just now. She shall be rejoiced to report to her a helper. Do you know Joy Saunders? Well, I wish you did. She is one whom you could appreciate. She is young though and without a husband to guard her, and there are some places to which she cannot come. As she learned that important fact, asked Mr. Roberts with a significant smile, then some explanation seemed necessary. This lady, he said, tried the alley alone yesterday and lost her way and went lower down, quite near to Burke Street, I imagine. And what happened? The quick question and the doctor's tone suggested possibilities not pleasant. Oh, she met one of her new recruits, as hard a boy so one of the policemen on this beat tells me, as there is in the row, and pressed him into service to escort her back to civilization. And strange to say, the fellow did it without placing any tricks. The doctor turned on the small lady a curious glance. I think you may be able to do something, even for Dirk Coulson, he said. Do you know him? He laughed over the eagerness of the question. Never heard of him before. I was only thinking of our friend's description of his awfulness. Ah, whom have we here? For the door had opened abruptly and a pair of great blue eyes set in a frame of tawny hair, all in a frizzle, had peered in on them. The vision was clothed in garments so torn, the wonder was that they stayed on at all, and there was a general look of abject poverty about her, to which Sally Calkins, with all the bareness of her lot, was a stranger. She stood for just a moment, as if transfixed by astonishment at the unwanted sight in the room, then turned and sped away as swiftly and silently as she had come. That is Dirk's sister, Sally Calkins said, coming forward, her homely face aglow with shame. She isn't a bad girl, ma'am, she doesn't mean to be, but she has a dreadful time. Her mother is sickly, and has to go out washing, times when she isn't able to sit up, and there'll be days when she can't hold up her head. And the father is bad, ma'am, in drinks and swears, and sells things for drink till there ain't nothing left to sell. And Marte hasn't anything to mend her clothes with, and she doesn't know how anyway. And she hasn't even got a comb to comb her hair with, her father took it to sell, and everything there is horrid, and Dirk, he's awful. It was strange she could not herself account for it, but with every added word of misery that set poor Dirk Coulson lower and lower in the scale of humanity, there seemed to come into this woman's heart and shine in her face, an assurance that he was to be a chosen vessel unto God. The doctor was watching her again curious, apparently, to see how this pitiful appeal for forbearance in judging of poor Marte affected her, and something in his face made her say, speaking low, an inheritance among them which are sanctified. Amen, he said, and there came to Mrs. Roberts a feeling that this earnest prayer, for the second time repeated by two men who prayed, was a sort of seal from the master. She turned away from both gentlemen then, the tears were very near the surface. She must do something to tone down the beating of her heart. Sally was at hand, and she went with her to another corner of the room, and a low-toned conversation was carried on, scraps of which floated back to the gentleman in the form of sheets, grape jelly, mutton broth, a soft pillow, and the like. I feel my patient growing better, the doctor said with satisfaction. Is there no father here? Mr. Roberts asked. The doctor shook his head but answered. There is the most pitiful apology for a father that I ever saw, a mere wreck of a man, spends his time in a sort of weak drinking if I may coin a phrase to describe him. He actually uses no energy even in that business, just daggers around and bemoans his lot, a most unfortunate man in his own estimation, with whom the world through no fault of his has gone wrong. He is never downright intoxicated, and never free from the effects of liquor. He is much like a wilted leaf in the hands of this boy and girl. They could pitch him out of the window without much difficulty, and if the fall did not kill him, he would shed tears and say it was a hard world. But now what do we see when the name of father is so dishonored, made a wreck as it were? Why, the order of nature is reversed, and these children take on the protective. They are father and mother, and he is the weak sinning child. The way that that boy and girl have worked to keep their miserable father from starving or freezing is something to astonish the very angels. They shield him, too. Nobody who wants to reach their hearts must blame him. They are a study, as different from the other inhabitants of the alley, as the sky is different from that mud-hole down there. It isn't a good simile, either. There is no religion in their efforts. They are the various heathen. How do you account for the development? The doctor shook his head. I don't account for it. It is abnormal. There must have been a mother who left her impress. I can't learn anything about the mother. She died when the girl was an infant. But I would like to know her history. I venture to assert that she belonged to Christ, and that a gleam of the divine pity that she saw in him and loved left its impress on her children. That is somewhat mystical, he said, smiling. I rarely talk in this way. It must have been your wife who set me off. But she is the most practical and energetic of beings. I, so are the angels, I fancy, and make us think of heaven directly. We hear the rustle of their wings. Has your wife been a Christian long? Barely two years since she began to think of these things. I thought as much. She impresses me as one who is being led, who does not choose to go alone, has not learned how, indeed. A very few Christians never learn how, and with them the Lord does his special work. Well, sir, I must go. I'm glad to have met you and glad to leave you here. Good morning. Esther read yet speaking. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Esther read yet speaking by Pansy, Chapter 10, and she always tried. Other business was transacted that morning which brought results. A curious habit of Mrs. Roberts, one of which perhaps most strongly marked the difference between her ways of working and those of other people, was that of appealing to the person at hand for information on any subject which chanced to be the one prominent in her mind at the time. Where other and more systematic persons would have said, he is not the one to ask about this matter, there is no reason for supposing that he has any knowledge in this direction. Mrs. Roberts would say, I cannot be sure that he may not be able to give just the information which I need. In any case, what harm will it do to try? And she always tried. It was on this principle that she arrested Dr. Everett's speedy departure with a question. Dr. Everett, are you familiar with boarding houses for young men? Something like a vision swept instantly before the doctor, in which he saw the long line of young men and the long line of boarding houses in the world, and he laughed with eyes and lips. The question seemed so clearly put. With how many of them met him? There was amusement in his voice, but there was also curiosity. He wanted to know what this original little lady was in search of. One would do if it were just the right stamp. I'll tell you what I want. A nice, quiet, comfortable home sort of place, with a small room capable of being warmed, a single bedstead with a passably good bed, and a moderate rate of board. Are not those modest enough requirements? Not at all. They are preposterous. A boarding house to which one could conveniently apply the word home, fire in a young man's room. He is expected to enjoy freezing in a city, and if he came from the country, he should be grateful for the privilege. But the idea of calling for a good bed, that is the wildest suggestion of all. Has she ever boarded Mr. Roberts? Not at a boarding house at least, said that gentleman, enjoying the fun. But Mrs. Roberts looked grave. Are you serious? She asked gently. Is there no chance in this great city for a Christian young man to have the ordinary comforts of common life, just a little quiet room where he can pray, and where he can invite some tempted soul and try to help him? Doesn't it seem all wrong? The laugh was gone from the doctor's face. There was a look of keen interest and genuine respect. How many young men were you thinking about? There are many Christians, I believe, among that class, poor young men away from home, and I have reason to fear that their chances for comfortable retirement are very scarce. I have thought about the problem somewhat, how to help them. In the concrete, I don't see the way. Of how many are you thinking? I am willing to think about them all, Mrs. Roberts said, and now it was her turn to laugh. But I am panning for just one. I cannot work in great ways, but I thought I might help one. Exactly. Mr. Roberts, if every Christian in our city would undertake to help one, the problem would be solved. Well, there is one boarding-house to which the word home may properly be applied, and there is one small room on the third floor vacated yesterday. I wonder if the master wants it for your young man. It seems to me, if there is any one thing more than another that we need in that house just now, it is a Christian young man. Of what type is your friend? Will he help or hinder a gay young scamp much sought after by Satan? He will try hard to help, said both Mr. and Mrs. Roberts, and before they parted the doctor had taken Mr. Reid's address and promised to call on him and negotiate the matter. That plan will work in two ways, said Mrs. Roberts gleefully. Mr. Reid will be in the same home with and somewhat under the influence of that grand doctor. Isn't it splendid that we asked just him? And her husband smilingly assented and added that he should not have thought of such a thing as asking him. On her way downtown Mrs. Roberts had dropped a letter in the mail, which also brought results. It read thus, Dear Marion, I have time for but a line, for I want to catch the morning mail. I have such a nice plan. Suppose you let your Gracie come and stay with me for a few weeks. You know she always liked me a little, and Evan and I think we can make it pleasant for her. I will try to get her so much interested in seven boys whom I know that she will forget all about Professor Ellis. Mr. Barnwell, a confidential clerk in the store, old and grey-headed, will go tomorrow to transact some business with Papa. Evan will give him a letter of introduction to Dr. Dennis. He expects to return on Saturday, and if you will trust Gracie to us, and she is willing to come, she might travel in Mr. Barnwell's care, and we would meet her at the depot. Dear Marion, we should like it ever so much, and I have prayed about it all the morning and cannot help thinking that Jesus likes it too. Thus it came to pass that when Mrs. Roberts took her seat on the next Sabbath afternoon before her seven boys at the South End Mission, a vision of loveliness, such as the mission had not often seen, came in with her and looked with wide-open eyes on all the new and strange sights and sounds about her. A very pretty creature was Gracie Dennis. Her eyes had lost none of their brightness, although they had shed some tears during her recent experiences. They were fairly sparkling today, for the great city into which she had come for the first time was like Fairyland to her, albeit she had passed through scenes that afternoon which bore no resemblance to her idea of Fairyland. What the boys thought of her could only be determined from their stares. Let us hope that her presence had nothing to do with their conduct, for never in all the annals of the South End Mission had seven boys comported themselves as did those before whom Mrs. Roberts sat that winter afternoon. Nimble Dick, as if to be revenged for his unintentional courtesy of the Monday before, placed his ill-capped feet on the seat in front of him in alarming proximity to Mrs. Roberts' shoulders and chewed his tobacco and defiled the floor with its juice and talked aloud and was in every sense disgusting. Neither was Dirk Coulson one whit behind him. The spirit of entertainment was upon him. He mimicked Mr. Durant's somewhat hoarse tones, exaggerating the imitation of course, until it was ludicrous. He imitated the somewhat shrill tenor and the nasal tones of Deacon Carter, who was doing good work with a class of meek-looking women. He even imitated Mrs. Roberts' soft low voice, as she assayed to interest them in Moses and some of the wonders which he performed. Vane Hope, struggle as she might to be intensely dramatic in her narrative, she did not for a moment gain the ascendancy. Moses interrupted Nimble Dick in the very midst of one of her most earnest sentences. Let's see, he was the old fellow who swallowed the serpents, wasn't it? I should have thought he would have been used up. You don't know nothing, interrupted Stephen Crowley with a nudged at Dirk that the latter pretended tipped him entirely off the seat and left him a limp heap at Mrs. Roberts' feet. He don't know nothing, repeated Stephen, addressing Mrs. Roberts in a confidential tone. It was the serpents swallowed Moses, wasn't it? Question is, how did he get around again? Quit that, came at this point from Dirk Coulson in his fiercest tone. Look here, you, Bill Snyder, if you try pinching on me again, I'll pitch you over the head of old Durand in less than a second. What was the poor pale little woman to do, with one boy crawling about the floor and two others in a hand-to-hand fight, with the rest in a giggle, of what used to try to talk to them about Moses? You should have seen Gracie Dennis' eyes by that time. Horror and disgust were about equally expressed, and rising above them both, a look of actual fear. Mr. Durand came over to attempt to rescue his face distressed beyond measure. Mrs. Roberts, this is too much. I am sure that patience has ceased to be a virtue. They have never gone so far before. I suspected mischief today. I have heard from several of them during the week, and never anything but evil. I am prepared for it. There is a full police force on guard in the next room. What I propose is to have every one of these fellows taken to the lock-up. It will be a lesson that they richly deserve and may do them good. Whispering was not one of Mr. Durand's strong points. He meant to convey secret intelligence of carefully laid plans to Mrs. Roberts alone. In reality, not a boy in the class, but heard every word. They were startled into silence. A full police force. They were not fonder of the lock-up than our most boys who deserved that punishment. They were skillful in escaping the hands of policemen. They had not believed that the South End mission would resort to any such means. They recognized in the mission an attempt to do them good, and without any effort at reasoning it out, they had by tacit consent decided that policemen and lock-ups and Christian effort did not match. They had chuckled much over the stationing of little Duffer at the door on guard. Any two of the strong young fellows were a match for him, and in the event of a riot, which they would like no better fun than to help get up, how many choice spirits all about the room would join them if given the word, and in the delightful confusion which would result how easy to escape from sight and hearing while policeman Duffer was summoning aid. They had felt comparatively safe. But a full police force detailed for duty was quite another thing. They felt caught in a trap. Nimble Dick got up in haste from the floor and took his seat, and the boys looked from one to another with ominous frowns. There were reasons why none of them cared to come before the police court just now. What was to be done? While they waited and considered, Mrs. Roberts did it. Her hand was on Mr. Durand's arm, and directly the loud whispering ceased, she spoke in slow but distinctly emphatic tones. I beg of you, Mr. Durand, do know such thing. I would dismiss every policeman at once with thanks if I were you. We shall not need their help. I give you my word of honor that the boys will be quiet during the rest of the session, not because they are afraid of policemen, but because they respect me and do not want to see me frightened or annoyed. Please don't let a policeman come near us. I am not sure which was the more astonished, the superintendent or the boys. He returned to his desk with the bewildered air of one whose de-played schemes had come to naught in an unexpected manner, without giving him time to rally, and the boys looked at one another in perplexity and were silent. Mrs. Roberts turned to them with quiet voice. Boys, she said, you have spoiled the story that I was going to tell you. I have lost my place, and there isn't time to go back and find it. I am sorry, for I think you would have liked the story. I spent a good deal of time this week trying to make it interesting. But never mind now, there is something else I want to say. Will you spend the hours from eight to ten with me tomorrow evening at my house? I brought cards with me for each of you containing my address that you might have no trouble in finding the place, whereupon she produced the delicate bits of pasteboard with her name and address handsomely engraved thereon. Nimbledick took his between his soiled thumb and finger, turned it over in a pretense of great interest, and finally endeavored to cite it with his eye as a workman does his board. What'll you do with us if we come, Stephen Crowley asked, fixing what was intended to be a wise look upon her, the leer in his eye hinting that he was smart enough to see another trap, and meant not to fall into it. Mrs. Roberts laughed pleasantly. It is an unusual question when one invites company, she said, but I don't mind answering it. For one thing I thought we would have an oyster stew and some good coffee together. Then, if any of you like music, I have a friend with me who is a good singer. And I have a few pictures I should like you to see if you cared to. And I don't know whether you are fond of flowers, but some of you may have a mother or sister at home who is, and the greenhouse is all aglow just now. Oh, how can I tell you what I should do to entertain guests? Just what seemed to me to be pleasant at the time. That is the way I generally do. May I expect you? The boys stared. This was a new departure indeed. How much of it did she mean? What was she trying to do? Was it a trap? Still she had rescued them from the police force, and they had not expected that, for every boy of them knew that he had treated her shamefully. Timothy Haskell was generally the quietest one of the group, and perhaps the most straightforward. He went directly to the point of the question that he saw in the eyes of the others. What do you do it for? Yes, that's the talk, said Nimble Dick. What do you want of us? Why, I want you to spend the evening with me, didn't I tell you? If you really mean to be friends with me, of course I must invite you to my home. What could I want except to have a nice time? I'm trying to make you like me. Of course I want you to like me. How can we have pleasant times together unless you do? End of Chapter 10, Recording by Tricia G. Chapter 11 of Esther Read Yet Speaking. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Esther Read Yet Speaking by Pansy. Chapter 11. I have but to try again. Pleasant times like we've been having today, said Nimble Dick with a wicked leer. If he meant to disconcert her he missed his point. No, she said promptly, we haven't had a bit nice times today, and as for liking you I haven't done so today at all. If I had the least idea that you meant often to treat me as you have this afternoon, I should know it was of no use. But I cannot think that you will continue to treat a lady in such a manner, particularly when I am really trying to make a pleasant time for you. There is no object you see in spoiling it. This plain bit of truth, for the time being so commended itself to the judgment of the boys that they regarded the speaker gravely without attempting a reply. She was not moralizing, at least it was unlike any moralizing that they had ever heard. It seemed to be simply a bit of practical common sense. Not a boy would have owned it, but each felt just at that moment a faint hope that she would not decide it was of no use and give them up. Straightforward Tim Haskell had one more question to ask. Why didn't you let them bring in their police and settle us? Their teacher hesitated just a moment. Would the whole truth do to speak in this case? Could she hope to make them understand that she saw in it a step lower down and that thus degraded before her eyes she feared her possible hold on them would be gone forever? No, it wouldn't do. A little, a very little piece of the truth was all that she could treat them to. A faint sparkle in her bright eyes, which every one of them saw, and she said, I was afraid you might not be excused in time to keep your engagement with me tomorrow evening. They all laughed, not boisterously, actually in appreciative laugh. They were bright. There is hardly a street boy living by his wits who isn't. They recognized the humor hidden in the answer and enjoyed it. Then the superintendent's bell rang. That bell always did seem to have an evil influence on those boys. Indeed, Mrs. Roberts was known to remark a few Sundays afterwards that if there were no opening and closing exercises in the Sabbath school her work would be easier. That street boys did not seem to have one element of devotion in them and needed to be kept at high pressure in order to be able to control themselves. The thought is worthy of study, perhaps. It is just possible that our opening and closing exercises are too long drawn out, even for those who are not street boys. Be that as it may, the little spell which Mrs. Roberts had been able for a few minutes to weave around her boys on this particular Sabbath was broken by the sound of the bell. The boys returned to their memories of insult as they regarded the police force. They muttered sullenly among themselves about traps and cells and guessed they wouldn't get caught here again, and Mrs. Roberts, seeming not to hear, heard with a heavy heart. How angry they looked, even nimble dicks usually merry face was clouded over. What a curious thing it was that even they had their ideas of propriety and felt themselves insulted. Was it an instinct, she wondered, a reminder that there was in them material for manhood? Would they ever, any of them, be men, Christian gentlemen? It seemed almost too great a stretch for even her imagination. As she moved in her seat, her delicately embroidered, her fumed handkerchief fell to the floor. Mrs. Roberts was used to young men, mere boys even, whose instinctive movement would be to instantly restore it to her. Not a boy before her thought of such a thing. She had not expected it, of course, yet she wondered if the instinct were not dormant, meeting but the suggestion. It was a queer little notion, worthy of Flossy Shipley herself, who, from being continually busy about little things, had come to the conclusion that nothing anywhere was little, that the so-called trifles, which make up many lives, had much to do with the happiness of other lives. Was it worth her while to try to teach these street Arabs to pick up fallen handkerchiefs? She differed from many Christian workers, in that, in her simplicity, she really thought it was. There was a lull just at that moment, a hymn had been announced, but the organist's notebook had been mislaid and was being sought after. It could disturb no one if Mrs. Roberts tried her little experiment. She looked longingly at Dirk Coulson, but his brows were black and his eyes fierce. There was no time to reach him. Nimble Dick looked much more approachable. She determined to venture him. Mr. Bolton, spoken in her sweetest voice, I have dropped my handkerchief. Anybody with half an eye could see that, Mom, and a mighty dirty spot you picked out for such a nice little rag to lie in. This was her only response. Then the discomfited experimenter told herself that she was a blunderer. How could the poor fellow be expected to know what she meant? Why had she not asked the service from him? She would try again. Would he be kind enough to pick it up for her? It was long afterwards before Mrs. Roberts could think of his answer without a sinking heart. Fixing bold, saucy eyes on her, he spoke in deliberate tones, loud enough to be heard halfway across the room. Why, pick it up yourself, Mom. It is as near to you as it is to me, and you don't look weakly. She picked it up, her poor cheeks burning, but she did not forget it. Various after-school conferences told their different stories. Well, Mr. Durant said, stopping in the act of mopping his hot forehead to shake hands with her. Mrs. Roberts, I honor your courage. Those boys were simply fearful today. I really feared some outbreak that would be hard to quell. I'm afraid we shall have to give them up. Yes, I know how you feel, but you haven't been here to see what we have borne from them. All sorts of teachers have been tried. We have given them the best material we had, both men and women, and everyone has failed. Then you actually want to try it for another Sabbath. Well, I'm glad of it. Oh, I don't want to give them up. It makes my heart ache to think of it. But if we can't keep them in sufficient order to get any benefit, nor find a teacher who is willing to hold on to them, what else is there for us to do? But that last complaint I needn't make so long as you hold on, need I? This last with a genial smile. Well, God bless you. I couldn't begin to tell you how much I hope you will succeed. But his face said, however, I know you won't. He turned from her and said as much to young Reid. She is an earnest Reid and she has resources, but she can't catch them simply because they don't mean to be caught. They come here to make trouble and for nothing else. Just look at the way they have performed today, worse than ever, and they never had a better teacher. I've watched her and I believe she knows how. I'll tell you what it is, Reid. We must hold on to her. And when she gives up those boys, we must secure her for that class of girls down by the door. I really think we have a prize. Now if he had but known it, Mrs. Evan Roberts meant to teach no other class at the South End Mission saved those boys. Flossie Shipley. This was Gracie Dennis's exclamation. When she was very much excited, she went back to the old's name. What are you trying to do with those horrid boys? And how can you endure their impudence? I never saw anything like their actions in my life and I thought I had seen bad boys. You look completely worn out and no wonder. I shouldn't think Mr. Roberts would let you do this. What good can you do to such creatures, Flossie? My dear Gracie, don't you think that Jesus Christ died to save them? Well, said Gracie hesitatingly. It was a favorite phrase with her, as it is with many people when they don't know what to say next. And don't you think he wants them saved? And will he not be pleased with even my little bits of efforts if he knows that my sincere desire is to save those souls for his glory? But what I mean is, what good can you do them so long as they act as they do now? They didn't listen to a word you said, so as to get any good out of it. I don't know that, dear, nor do you. Don't you think the Holy Spirit sometimes presses words on people that they do not seem to be heeding? In any event, that is a part with which I have nothing to do. I tried. And if I failed utterly, I have but to try again. It isn't as though there were some good teacher ready to take them. Nobody will make a second effort. Now there is one thing I can certainly do. I can keep on making efforts. Who knows but some of them may bear fruit. By the way, Gracie, I want ever so much of your help. Mine, said Gracie, with wide open eyes. I don't know how to help people. I'm not good. And her face darkened in a frown. Some unpleasant memories that went far toward proving the truth of that statement coming to mind just then. After a moment she spoke in a somewhat more gentle tone. Don't count on me, Flossie, for help about those boys. They frightened me. I never saw such fellows. I couldn't help wondering what Papa would have said to them. Between the wondering and the now, there had been an observable pause. Mrs. Roberts suspected that the thought in Gracie's mind was rather what Mrs. Dennis, who was supposed to have much knowledge of boys, would have thought of them. But since her arrival, Gracie had studiously avoided any reference to her stepmother, and Mrs. Roberts had humored her folly. Never mind. You can help them. And when you begin to realize that, you will forget your fears. Do you expect to see one of those creatures tomorrow evening? What in the world would you do with them if they did come? I'm not sure that I expect them. I only hope for them. As to what to do with them, I trust to you to help answer that question. I want to give them an idea of what a nice time is. I cannot help, said Gracie again, but she was interested, and referred again and again to the subject, cross-questioning Mrs. Roberts as to her plans and hopes, until that lady gave a satisfied smile to the thought that her seven boys had begun their work. The first part of this conversation was held while they waited in one of the classrooms for Mr. Reed to give in his report before joining them. The waiting suggested to Gracie another question. Who is this Mr. Reed who seems to have us in charge? He is one of the clerks from the store, which accounts in part for his attendance on us, but I am interested in him for other reasons. He had a wonderful sister, that is, she was a wonderful Christian. She died when quite young, but one might be ready to go to heaven early if one had accomplished as much as she did. By one of those strange arrangements, which I should think would go far toward making observing people believe in a special providence, her life, or I might almost say her death, was the means of changing the current of my husband's life. He says he was a gay young fellow, a member of the church, but giving just as little attention to religion as many do whom you and I know. An accident to one of his family held him for several weeks in the town where this Esther Reed lived, and her physician, with whom he became acquainted, introduced him to her. It seems she was very much interested in young men in their Christian development. He went to see her several times, and, to use his own expression, she made him realize that there was such a thing as zeal, and then she set it on fire. What she had begun in life she finished in her death. Evan attended her funeral services, and the walls were hung with Bible texts of her selection, the most wonderful texts, all about Christian work and about being an earnest because the time was short. Evan says he began to understand then that the service of Christ was first, best, and always. Wasn't it a singular providence that led him under the influence of that young girl during the closing weeks of her life? Only think he has been doing her work ever since, doing it possibly in ways that she could not compass. That is one reason why I am so much interested in those boys. It seems to me as though they were her boys. Did I tell you that her heart went out especially after the neglected? I learned about the boys through Mr. Reed. He was but a child when his sister died, and yet she succeeded in so enthusing him with her ideas that he is all the time trying to carry out her plans. She had some wonderful ones. This idea of inviting the boys socially I had from her. Do you see how plainly she is working yet, though she has been in heaven so long? Do you think, asked Gracie Dennis, a timid, gentle sound to her voice, that all Christians ought to put religion first, best, and always as your husband said, I fancied that some were set apart to do a special work. We are all set apart, dear, don't you think, given to him to use as he will? The trouble is that so many of us take back the gifts and use our time and our tongues as though they were our own. Our tongues, repeated Gracie, amazement in her voice. Why, yes, didn't you give him your tongue when you gave him yourself, and yet you are fortunate if you have not dishonored him with it many a time? Said Gracie, what a queer way you have of putting things. Then came Alfred Reed and Haste, and apologizing for the long delay. Gracie Dennis watched him curiously, listened critically to his words. Was it to be supposed that this young man put religion first, best, and always, and considered his tongue as given to the Lord? Alfred bore the scrutiny well. He took very little notice of Miss Gracie being entirely absorbed with another matter. He had subtle opinions about Mrs. Roberts now, from which he would not be likely to waver. He had seen much of her during the week, and he knew she had not been idle. She had given him much valuable information concerning the boys in whom he had been interested all winter, and whom she had known for a week. Also he was aware that Sally and Mark Culkins had seen much of her to their great benefit. She had made him her messenger on one occasion, and he had seen Sally Culkins take from the basket the clean, sweet-smelling sheets that were to freshen her brother's bed, and bestow on them rapturous kisses while she murmured, I'd walk on my knees in broad daylight through the gutter to serve her that I would. Sheets aren't much, I suppose, moralized the young man as he walked thoughtfully homeward. People with much less money than she has must have furnished them. It is thinking about things that makes the difference between her and others. But he had not quite found the secret. The main difference between her and many other people lay in the fact that she set steadily about doing the things she thought of that would be nice to do. On the whole, young Reed was fully prepared to sympathize with Mr. Duran's opinion that the South End mission had secured a prize. Not that he was very hopeful over those boys. He felt that their conduct under the circumstances showed a depth of depravity which was beyond the reach of mission schools. But it was a comfort to think that good things were arranged for them if they had but chosen to receive. He began at once to talk about them. Mrs. Roberts, they are worse than I had supposed. I am afraid that your patience is exhausted. Her answer was peculiar. Mr. Reed, I want you to spend tomorrow evening with me. I have invited my boys, and I depend on you and Gracie here to help entertain them. Are you equal to such formidable work as that? asked Gracie with a mist of a smile. He did not respond to the smile. He was looking at Mrs. Roberts, studying her face as one bewildered with the rapidity of her moves. I want to be, he said with feeling. I want to know how to work, and I'm learning. Mrs. Roberts, I moved to my new boarding house last evening, and my room is a perfect little gem. There is an illuminated text in it, and all around it is twined in ivy, growing, don't you think? Hidden, you know, behind the frame in a bottle. And the text is one of my sister's treasures. Isn't that a singular coincidence? It is very nice," said Mrs. Roberts with satisfied eyes. She still made much use of that little word. And Mrs. Roberts, I asked one of your boys to come in this evening and see my room. Those two people can think and talk of nothing but those dreadful boys," said Gracie to herself, half annoyed and wholly interested. She found herself that very evening turning over the music with the wonderment in her mind as to what she could sing that they would be likely to care for, provided one of them appeared, which thing she did not expect. But I have not told you of all the discussions had that day. The boys went their various ways, their minds also busy with the events of the afternoon. Dirk Coulson and Stephen Crowley went off together. Not that they were special friends, but their homes lay near together. For the distance of half a block they walked in silence. Then Stephen Crowley spoke his mind. Nimble Dick wasn't near as smart today as he thinks he was, according to my way of thinking. He was meaner than dirt, burst forth Dirk fiercely. To go back on her like that after she saved us from a row with the police ain't what I believe in. Why couldn't he have picked up the rag, seeing she wanted him to? That's what I say. I'd have done it myself if she had given me the chance. That there Dick Bolton can be too mean for anything when he sets out, said Stephen, with a grave ear of superiority. I don't go in for anything of that kind myself. We wasn't none of us much debosed of, but Dick, he went too fur. I say, Dirk, what do you suppose all that yarn means about tomorrow night, and what we'd be going to do about it? Dick, he said it was all a game to get a hold of us somehow, and he wasn't going to have nothing to do with it. Had Stephen Crowley desired exceedingly to secure Dirk's boat in favor to the proposed entertainment, he could not at that moment have chosen a better way. Dirk tossed his thick mat of black hair in a defiant fashion and answered, He didn't have a thing to do with it so far as I care. I don't know who will miss him, but if he thinks he's got all the fellows under his thumb and they're going to do as he says, I'll show him a thing or two. I'm a go-in tomorrow night. I don't care what it is nor what it is for. She was nice and friendly to us today, and I'm willing to trust her tomorrow. I shall go up there and see what she does want. It can't kill a fellow to do that much. Then I'm a go-in too, declared Stephen, with decision. Dick, he thinks there won't none of us go if he don't, and I'd just like to show him that he must get up early in the morning if he wants to keep track of us. If Dirk Coulson needed anything to strengthen his resolution, there was material in that last sentence which supplied it. He had long chafed under the control of Dick Bolton. Here was a chance to assert superiority. He even, just at that moment, conceived the brilliant idea of supplanting Dick, running an opposition party as it were. What if he should get every fellow in the class to promise to go, and Dick, the acknowledged leader, should find himself left out alone in the cold? The thought actually made his grim face break into a smile. Thus it came to pass that the most efficient worker for the success of the Monday evening entertainment, so far at least as securing the presence of the guests, was Dirk Coulson. In Mr. Robert's mansion preparations for receiving and entertaining the hoped four guests went briskly forward. Preparations which astonished the young guest already arrived. Are you really going to let them come in here? She asked as she followed Mrs. Robert's through the elegant parlors and watched her putting delicate touches here and there. Certainly, why not? Don't you open your parlors when you receive your friends? I don't think we have such peculiar friends on our list, Gracie said with a little laugh, and then, flossy, they will spoil your furniture. If one evening in the master's service will spoil anything, it surely ought to be spoiled, Mrs. Robert's answered serenely. But flossy, with a touch of impatience in her voice, what is the use? Wouldn't the dining room answer every purpose, be to them the most elegant room they ever be held, and be less likely to suffer from their contact? The busy little mistress of all the beauty around her turned to her guests with a peculiar smile on her face, half mischievous and wholly sweet, as she said. I want them to get used to parlors, my dear. They may have much to do with them, as well as with dining rooms. They are more likely to have to do with penitentiaries and prisons, Gracie said, but she abandoned discussion and gave herself to the pleasure of arranging lonely flowers in their lovely bases. There was a divided house as to the probability of the guests appearing. Mr. Robert's inclining to the belief that some of them would come, while Gracie was entirely skeptical. Mrs. Robert's kept her own counsel, neither expressing wish nor fear, but steadily pushing her preparations. As a matter of fact, the entire seven appeared together, promptly, as the clock struck eight. At the last moment Dick Bolton, the usual leader, finding himself in a minority of one, not to be outwitted, protested that he had not the least notion of staying away. Of course he was going, and good-naturedly joined the group. I wonder if you have the least conception of how those boys looked. The ideas of some people cannot get below nicely patched clothes, carefully brushed boots, clean collars, and neatly arranged hair. Clean collars, not a boy of them owned a collar. No thought of brushing their worn-out, unmended boots ever entered their minds. Their clothes were much patched, but in many places needed it still. Stephen Crowley had made a somewhat unsuccessful attempt to put his mass of hair in order. Most of the others had not thought even of that. Why should they? For a jerk, you will remember, if he had thought of it, had no comb with which to experiment. It is doubtful if many of the others were any better off in this respect. Imagine the seven standing, a confused, grinning heave, in the center of Mrs. Robert's large and brilliantly lighted hall. She came forward to welcome them, shaking hands, though they made no attempt to offer a hand in greeting. She had to grasp after each. She assayed to introduce Gracie, not one of them attempted a bow. Come this way, Mrs. Robert said, and take seats. Then she led the way into the long, bright, elegantly furnished, flower-decked room. They followed her in a row. Midway in the room they made a halt. They caught a view of themselves, full length at that, revealed by the great mirrors. They had never seen themselves set in contrast before. They could not sit in a row, for the easy chairs and sofas, though plentiful, had the air of having been just vacated by people who had left them carelessly just where they had a chance to sit. It required diplomacy to seat those boys. When at last Stephen Crowley dropped into one of the great pillowy chairs, he instantly sprang up again and looked at it doubtfully. Was the thing a trap? How far down would it sink with him? This was too much for Nimble Dick, even under the present overpowering circumstances. He laughed. His hostess blessed him for that laugh. The horrible stiffness was somewhat broken, and all were seated. Just at that moment came Alfred Reed, hurriedly, like one who had intended promptness and missed it. I'll hear ahead of me, he exclaimed. Mrs. Roberts, I beg your pardon. At the last moment I went in search of Dr. Everett. There was serious illness in a house next door, and I happened to know just where he was. During this address he was shaking hands with his hostess, his manner easy and graceful, as one used to it all. Then he crossed the room, that wonderful room, treading down those flowers on the carpet as though he had no fears of breaking their stems. Good evening, Miss Dennis, he said, and he was bowing in a manner that Dirk Coulson was confident he could imitate. Then he turned to the boys, shaking hands. How are you, Haskell? By the way, Crowley, I called on you today at the office. Sorry not to find you in. Mrs. Roberts, allow me, and he wheeled one of the easy chairs to the spot where that lady was standing. How well he enters into the thing, said Gracie Dennis to herself, looking on in admiration at this young man, who, still so young, was adapting himself to circumstances that might well have embarrassed older heads than his. He plunged into talk with the boys, making them answer questions. He had come but a few moments before from Mark Culkins, stopped there with a message from Dr. Everett, and these boys knew Mark and Sally and the worthless father and all the more or less worthless neighbors who ran in and out, and young Reed had a dozen questions to ask. His quick wittedness and the ease with which he made talk to these young men who lived in such an utterly different world from himself surprised his hostess very much. Even she did not know to what an exalted pitch his enthusiasm and excitement reached, though he had flashed a pair of most appreciative eyes on her when she gave him her invitation for the evening. Here was actually his sister Esther's darling scheme being worked out before his eyes. Not only that, but he was being called upon to help. Esther had wanted him to grow up to undertake just such efforts as these, and only last week they had seemed to him so altogether good and noble and so impossible to try. Yet here he was helping try them. No wonder Alfred Reed could talk. It had been determined in Family Council that Mr. Roberts must absent himself. He was in the house indeed, no further away than the library, ready for call in event of an emergency. But it was judged that another stranger and such a formidable one as the head of the house must be avoided for this one evening. As for Mr. Reed, would they remember that he was not much older than some of them, and that he was not a rich young man living on his income, but was earning his living by daily work? And would they note the contrast between themselves and him? This was what their hostess wondered. A few moments and then came a summons to the dining room. Seated at last, though one of the poor fellows stumbled over a chair and barely saved himself from falling. If you could have seen that dining table, the picture of it would have lingered long in your memory. The whitest and finest of Damasque table linen, napkins so large that they almost justified Dick Bolton's whisper, what you'd be going to do with your sheet? China's so delicate that Gracie Dennis could not restrain an inward shiver when any of the clumsy fingers touched a bit of it, and such a glitter of silver as even Gracie had never seen before. One thing was different from the conventional tea party. Every servant was banished. None but tender eyes, interested in her experiment and ready to help it on, should witness the blunders of the boys. So the hostess had decreed and so instructed Alfred and Gracie. The consequence was that Alfred himself served the steaming oysters with liberal hand, and Gracie presided over jellies and sauces, while Mrs. Roberts sugared and creamed and poured cups of such coffee as those boys had never even smelled before. If you think they were embarrassed to the degree that they could not eat, you are mistaken. They were street boys. Their lives had been spent in a hardening atmosphere. Directly the first scents of novelty passed away, and their poorly fed stomachs craved the unusual fare served up for them. The fellows grinned at one another, seized their silver spoons, and dived into the stews in a fashion that would have horrified every servant in the house. How they ate, oysters and coffee and pickles and cakes and jellies, there seemed no limit to their capacities. Neither did they make the slightest attempt to correct their table manners. None of them paid any outward attention to their sheets, although Alfred and Gracie spread theirs with elaborate care. They leaned their elbows on the table, they made loud swooping sounds with their lips, and in short transgressed every law known to civilized life. Why not? What did they know about civilized life? Nevertheless not one movement of young Reed escaped the notice of some of them. He tried still to carry on a conversation, though the business of eating was being too closely attended to on all sides to let him be very successful. Gracie studied him, and was not only interested in his efforts, but roused to make some attempts herself. What could she talk about with such people? School, the literary club, the last concert, the course of lectures, the last new book that everybody was reading? No, not everybody assuredly not these seven. On what ground was she to meet them? Yet talk she must and would. Mr. Reed should see that she at least wanted to help. End of Chapter 12. Recording by Tricia G. Chapter 13 of Esther Reed Yet Speaking. One feature of the hour was not only entirely new to the boys, but gave them a curious feeling, the name of which they did not understand. When the last one sat back in his chair, thereby admitting himself vanquished, Mrs. Roberts, looking at the young man who sat at the foot of the table, said, Will you return thanks? What did that mean? To be sure they had heard of thanking people, but even they were aware that it was an unusual thing for persons to demand thanks for themselves. They watched, behold, the young man bowed his head, and these were the words he spoke. Dear Saviour, we thank thee for the joys of this evening. We pray thee to teach us so to live that we may all meet some day in our Father's house. Amen. The boys looked at one another, then looked down at their plates. Their sole experience of prayer was connected with the South End Mission. To meet it at a supper table was a revelation. Did the people who lived in grand houses and had such wonderful things to eat always pray at their supper tables? This was the problem which they were turning over in their minds. Returning to the parlor, Gracie went at once to the piano. She had spent a good deal of Monday settling the question of what to play, and had chosen the most sparkling music she could find. I am anxious to have it recorded that, all uncultured as they were, these boys neither talked nor laughed during the music, but appeared at least to listen. It was Dirk Coulson who sat nearest the piano and who listened in that indescribable way which always flatters a musician. Do you like it? Gracie asked, running off the final notes in a tinkle of melody. His dark face flushed a deep red. I don't know, he said with an awkward laugh. It's queer-sounding. I don't see how you make so many tinkles. Do you make all your fingers go at once on those black and white things? Not quite, but sometimes they have to dance about in a very lively fashion. I have to keep my wits at work, I assure you. Is it hard to do? Not very nowadays. When I first commenced, the practicing was horrid. I hated it. What made you do it then? Oh, the same reason which makes people do a great many things that they don't like, she said lightly. I wanted the results. I knew if I worked at it steadily, the time would come when I should not only enjoy it myself, but be able to give pleasure to other people. Why, don't you ever do things that you don't particularly like? He shrugged his shoulders and bestowed on her a very wise look. Often enough, he said fiercely, and he thought of his drunken father. But then I wouldn't if I could help it. That would depend on whether you thought the thing would pay in the end, would it not? Then, without waiting for an answer, she asked, What is your business? My business, with a curiously puzzled air. Yes, how do you spend your time? Hunting up something to eat, he said, with a grim smile, visions of his aimless loafing appearing before him as the only occupation he could be said to have. It had not occurred to him to try to mislead her, but she evidently did not understand. Oh, yes, she said seriously, so I suppose. Isn't it queer how busy men and women have to be day after day and year after year, just getting themselves and others something to eat? Do you have other people to help get it for? Mother, for instance, and little brothers and sisters? I've got a mother, he said, and a sister. And that makes work easier, does it not? I always thought it would be stupid to work all the time just for oneself. But I meant, what do you work at in order to get something to eat? There are so many different ways. How do you know I work at all? Dirk's voice was growing sullen. A consciousness that he would appear at a disadvantage in admitting himself an idler in a busy world was donning upon him as an entirely new idea. At his question, Gracie turned on her music stool and regarded him with surprise. Why, of course you work, she said. All people do. She was not acting apart. Her experience among poor people was limited to that outwardly respectable class who, however disreputable their conduct might be on Sabbath, had nevertheless a Monday occupation with which they pretended to earn a living. Dirk shrugged his shoulders again. Do they, he said? Her evident ignorance of the world made him good-natured. She was not trying to preach to him, he decided, a thing which Dirk hated in common with all persons of his class. But the lull in the music had started conversation in other parts of the room. Dirk heard Young Reid's question. Mrs. Roberts, do you know of any young man looking for work? I heard of a good situation this afternoon. Oh, there are plenty of applicants, but the gentleman is an old friend of my brother-in-law, and I could speak a helpful word for somebody. I have no one in mind, Mrs. Roberts said, and she glanced eagerly at the boys lounging in various attitudes in her easy chairs. Only three of them she knew made any pretense of earning their living. Did Alfred mean one of them? Here is a chance for you young gentleman, she said lightly. Who bids for a situation? What is the place? It was Dirk Coulson who asked the question. Ever since he could remember he was supposed to have been hunting for work, but I am not sure that he ever felt quite such a desire to find it as at that moment. It is at Grays, on Ninth Street, a good chance, but the one who secures it must have a fair knowledge of figures. Oh, Land, said Dirk, sinking lower in his easy chair. No use in me asking about it. Are figures your weak point? Mrs. Roberts asked, smiling on him. I can sympathize with you. I had to work harder over arithmetic than at any other study, but I learned to like it. Do you know I think it should be a favorite study with you? It is so nice to conquer an obstinate-looking row of figures and fairly oblige the right result to appear. What did you find hardest about the study, Mr. Coulson? The others chuckled, but Dirk glowered at them fiercely. There's nothing to laugh about as I see, he said. I didn't find nothing hard because I never had no chance to try. I never went to no school nor had books nor nothing. Now that's the truth and I am blamed if I ain't going to own it. What a good thing it is that you are young. This was her animated answer. There is a chance to make up for lost time. Mr. Reed, I have such a nice idea. I heard you and Dr. Everett speaking of the literary club the other night. Why cannot we have a literary club of our own? A reading circle or something of that sort? Suppose we should meet once a week and read aloud something interesting and have talks about it afterwards. Do you ever read aloud? If Mrs. Roberts in all sincerity had not been one of the most simple-hearted and in some respects ignorant little creatures on the face of the globe, she could never, with serious face, have addressed such a question to Nimble Dick. Young Reed could not have done it, for he realized the folly of supposing that Nimble Dick ever read anything. By just so much was Mrs. Roberts ahead of him. She supposed that these boys had their literature and read it and perhaps met somewhere on occasion and read together. This made it possible for her to ask surprising questions with honest face. Less me, said Nimble Dick, startled into an upright posture. Oh no, Mom, never! And even Dirk Coulson laughed at the expression on his face. Still, I think you would enjoy it after a little practice, and I can't help fancying you would make a good reader. The boys were all laughing now, Nimble Dick with the rest. You're in for an awful blunder there, he said good-naturedly. I'm like Black Dirk, never had no chances, and didn't do nothing worth speaking of with them that I had. Why bless your body, Mom. I can't even read to myself. I make the awfulest work you ever heard of spelling out the showbills. I have to get Black Dirk to help me, and him and me as a team. By this time Dirk's face had lost its smile, and his fierce eyes were flashing, but the hostess was serene. That doesn't prove anything against my statement. I was speaking of what could be, not necessarily of what was. Let us have a club. The more I think of it, the more it pleases me. I'll tell you, the word club doesn't quite suit me. Let's be fashionable. Gracie, don't you know how fashionable it is becoming to have evenings set apart for special occasions? Mr. Reed, you know Mrs. Judson's Tuesday evenings and Mrs. Simon's Friday evenings? Very well, let us have our Monday evenings, in which we will do all sorts of nice things. Sometimes literary, sometimes musical, and sometimes, well, anything that we please. What do you say, gentlemen? Shall we organize? Mr. Reed, will you give Monday evenings to us? Gracie, you are my guest and cannot, of course, refuse. It was a novel idea, certainly. Even Alfred, while trying to heartily second her, was in doubt as to what she could hope to accomplish by it. As for the boys, not one of them promised to attend, but neither did they refuse. Mrs. Roberts presently left the subject, seeming to consider her point carried, and proposed a visit to the conservatory. I think it very doubtful whether the boy lives who does not like flowers. There are those who seem to consider it a mark of manliness to affect indifference to them, but these, as they grow older, become real men, generally lay this bit of folly aside. Then there are those, plenty of them, who really do not know that they care for flowers. The boys, ushered for the first time in their lives into the full bloom of a conservatory, were most of them of this latter stamp. What a scene of beauty it was! Great white callas bending their graceful cups, great red and yellow roses making the air rich with their breath, vines and mosses and ferns, and small flowers in almost endless variety. Alfred and Gracie moved among the glories, the latter exhausting all her superlatives in honest delight, although she had visited the spot a dozen times that day, and Alfred, who had been less favored, was hardly less eager and responsive than she. But Mrs. Roberts watched the boys. It was all very well for those two to enjoy her flowers, of course they would, but what language would the silent, lovely things speak to her untutored boys? They said not a word, not one of them. They made no exclamations, they had no superlatives at command. But Stephen Crowley stooped before a lovely carnation and smelled and smelled, drying in long breaths as though he meant to take its fragrance all away with him. And Nimble Dick picked up the straying end of an ivy and restored it to its support again in a way that was not to be lost sight of by one who was looking for hearts. And Dirk Coulson brushed back his matted hair and stood long before a great pure lily and looked down into its heart with an expression on his face that his teacher never forgot. She came over to him presently, standing beside him, saying nothing. Then at last she reached forth her hand and broke the lily from its stock. He started almost as if something had struck him. What did you do that for? And his voice was fierce. I want you to take this for me to your sister, the girl with beautiful golden hair. I saw her one day and I shall remember her hair and eyes. She will like this flower and she will like you to bring it to her. Gracie, raising her voice, gathers some flowers will you and make into bouquets? These young gentlemen will like to carry them to someone. There must be mothers at home who enjoy bouquets brought by their sons. Over this gently spoken sentence Nimbledick laughed a hard, derisive laugh. It made the dark blood flow into black Dirk's indignant face. Even Alfred Reed lost control for a moment and flashed a glance at him out of angry eyes. How could there be any hope of a boy who sneered at his mother? Yet you need not judge him too harshly. He thought of his mother indeed when he laughed, but alas he thought of her as drunk, and he knew her scarcely at all, save as that word described her. How could mother mean to him what it meant to Alfred Reed? What it meant even to Dirk Coulson, whose mother, weak indeed in body and spirit, full of complaining words, oftentimes weakly bitter words to him, yet patched his clothes so long as she could get patches and thread, and would have washed them if she could have got soap and been able to bring the water, and if her only tub hadn't been in pond. Oh yes, there are degrees in mothers. Mrs. Roberts, meantime, broke off blossoms with a lavish hand and made bouquets for Nimbledick and for Dirk. He took the bright-hued ones with a smile, but the lily he held by itself and still looked at it. They went away at last noisily, growing almost, if not quite, rough towards one another at least, and directly they were out of the door. Nimbledick gave a whoop that would have chilled the blood of nervous women, but Matron and Maiden looked at each other and laughed. We have kept them pent up all the evening, and that is the escape valve being raised to avoid a general explosion. This was Mrs. Roberts' explanation. They were quite alone. Alfred, on being invited in low tones to tarry and talk things over, had shaken his head and replied significantly. Thank you, no, I am one of them and must stand on the same level. You are right, Mrs. Roberts said, smilingly. You must have been an apt pupil, my friend, that dear sister taught you a great deal. He held up the bouquet which she had made for him. I am going to put it before Esther's picture, he said. Her work is going on. Well, said Gracie, it is over, and we lived through it, and they did all come. I am amazed over that, and how they did eat. I suppose the next thing is to open all the windows and air out. Flossie Roberts, I am afraid you are going insane. It is the idea of your inviting that horde here every Monday. What a parlor you would have! And they would breed a pestilence. They won't come to be sure, but just imagine it if they should. I really think Mr. Roberts ought to send you home for Dr. Mitchell to look after. Well, Flossie, what next? Next, dear, you must pray. Pray as you never have done before, for the souls of these boys and for the success of my Monday evenings. Gracie, we are at work for immortal souls. Think of it. They must live forever. Shall they, through all eternity, keep dropping lower and lower, or shall they wear crowns? End of Chapter 13, Recording by Tricia G. Chapter 14 of Esther Read Yet Speaking. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Esther Read Yet Speaking by Pansy. Chapter 14. Something's Happened. Sally Culkin sat on a common little rocking chair and rocked, and while she rocked she sewed, setting neat stitches in a brown coat which was already patched and darned and was threadbare in many places. There was a look of deep content on Sally's face. There were many reasons for it. Dr. Everett had that morning pronounced Mark's broken limb to be healing rapidly. He had also reported that Mark's place was to be held open for him by his employers. At this present moment Mark, arrayed in a clean shirt, was resting on a very white sheet, his head reposing on a real feather pillow dressed in white and frilled. Over him was carefully spread another of those wonderful sheets, and to make the crowning glory, a white quilt, warm and soft, tucked him in on every side. How could Sally but rejoice? All about the room there had been changes. A neat little table stood at the bedside. It was covered with a white cloth and a china bowl sat thereon with a silver spoon beside it, a delicate goblet and china pitcher also, both carefully covered with a napkin. Did Mrs. Roberts know how homely Sally gloried in the thinness of that china and the fineness of that napkin? How does it happen that some of the very poor seem born with such aesthetic tastes? Mrs. Roberts had intuitions and was given to certain acts concerning which she could not give to others satisfactory explanations. Therefore she sometimes left China where others would have judged the plainest stoneware more prudent and sensible. A bit of bright carpet was spread at the side of the bed, a fire glowed in the neatly brushed stove, a white muslin curtain hung at the window, and the chair in which Sally rocked and sewed was new and gaily painted. There were other traces of Mrs. Roberts. You might not have noticed them, but it seemed to Sally that her fingers had touched everywhere. Yet the lady herself thought that she had done very little. She had held her inclinations in check with severe judgment. The door opened softly and a mass of golden hair from out of which peered great eyes peeped cautiously in. Alone, it said, nodding first toward the figure on the bed and intimating that she was aware of Mark's presence and did not mean him. Yes, said Sally, come in. Mark's asleep, but you won't disturb him. He don't disturb easy. He sleeps just like a baby since the doctor stopped that pain in his knee. There's my new chair. Just try it and see how nice it is. Saying which she got herself out of the little rocker in haste and pushed it toward her guest, meantime taking a plain wooden chair also new and adding. Did you ever hear of anybody like her before? Some things happened, said Mark Coulson, ignoring the reference to the mysterious pronoun. Her voice was so full of a new and strange meaning that had Sally been acquainted with the word, she might have said it was filled with awe. As it was, she only exclaimed, What? In an intensely interested tone. Why, look here, I brought it along to show you. Whereupon she produced from under her piece of a torn shawl a large broken-nosed pitcher, a piece of brown paper carefully tied over the top. She untied the bit of calico string with fingers that shook from excitement. Look in there, she exclaimed at last, triumph in her tone, reaching forward the pitcher. Sally looked and drew in her breath with a long expressive, Oh! There, reposing in stately beauty, lay the great white lily with its golden bell. Yes, I should think so, Mark said, satisfied with the expression. Did you ever see anything like it before? It ain't made of wax nor anything else that folks ever made. It's alive. I felt of it. It looks like velvet and satin and all them lovely store things, but it doesn't feel so. It feels alive and it grew. But Sally Culkins, if you should live a hundred years and guess all the time, you would never guess where I got it. Sally Culkins, if you'll believe it, Dirk gave it to me. Dirk? Yes, he did. Who would have supposed Mark Coulson's voice capable of such a triumphant ring? You see, the way of it was. Last night he didn't come for his supper at all, and that always scares me dreadful. I'm expecting something to happen, you know. Father, he didn't come either. For the matter of that, he hasn't come yet, and mother, she was awful tired and hadn't had no dinner to speak of, and she just broke down and took on awful. Mother don't often cry, and it's good she don't, for she just goes into it with all her might when the time comes. It wasn't about father, she's used to him, you know, and don't expect nothing else. But Dirk drives her wild with what may happen to him. I was worried about him too, but I was mad at him. It seemed too awful mean in him to stay away and scare mother. At last I got her to go to bed, and she was all tuckered out and went to sleep. Then I wrapped myself in the quilt and sat down to wait, but I got asleep and dreamed I saw her. She had wings to each side of her, and she flew over the tops of all those houses and made them turn white like the snow looks when it's coming down before it drops into the gutters. Isn't that queer? Well, some noise woke me up. I was sitting flat on the floor by mother, and I sat up straight, all of a tremble. And there was the old stool and the brown pitcher on it half full of water, and this wonderful thing stood in it looking at me, and Dirk he stood off the other side looking at it. It's for you and she sent it. That's what he said to me, and I wasn't real wide awake, you know. I suppose that's what made his voice sound so queer. And what do you think I said? I was thinking of my dream and says I. Did she have her wings on? Then Dirk made a queer noise. It was a laugh, but it sounded almost like a cry. I guess so, says he, and then he turned and went off to bed. And I can't get any more out of him. He is as snarly when I ask any questions as though he was mad about it all. If it hadn't been for this great white thing, I might have thought this morning that it all belonged to the dream. But Dirk brought this home from somewhere and put it in the pitcher and gave it to me his own self. That's sure. The story closed in triumph. It is beautiful, said Sally, the brown jacket slipping to the floor while she bent over the lily. It is beautiful, all of it, and it looks just like her and sounds like her wings and all. Of course she sent it. And Dirk brought it. That part of the story Mark Coulson did not forget. Sometimes it seems to me a pity that hearts are not laid bare to the gaze of others. What, for instance, might not this little incident have done for Dirk Coulson had he known how the starved heart of his sister fed on the thought that he brought her the flower. Still, on the other hand, I don't know what the effect would have been on Mark had she known what a tremendous amount of courage it had taken to present the flower to her. A dozen times on the way home had Dirk been on the point of consigning it to the gutter. He carried home a flower. If it had been a loaf of bread he thought it would be more consistent. Some way he recognized a fine sarcasm in the thought that he, who had never in his life contributed toward the necessities of family, should carry to that dreary home a flower. Yet the fair Lily did its work well during that long walk from East Fifty-Fifth Street to the shadow of the alley. It made Dirk Coulson tell it fiercely that he hated himself, that he was a brute and a loafer, a blot on the earth and ought not to live. Why didn't he go to work? Why didn't he have things to bring home to Mart every little while, as Mark Culkins did to Sally? Hadn't he seen Mark only a few evenings before he was hurt, with a pair of girl's shoes strung over his shoulder, and heard him whistle as he ran two steps at a time up the rickety stairs? What would Mart think if he should bring her home a pair of shoes? What would she think of his bringing her a flower? She would sneer, of course, and in the mood which then possessed him, Dirk said angrily that she had a right to sneer and would be a fool not to. And yet he hated the thought of it. There was nothing in life that Dirk hated more than sneers, and he had been fed on them ever since he could remember. He was altogether unprepared for the reception which the Lily received. That suggestion about wings, which seemed so apt, had brought the queer sound to his voice that Mart had noticed. If only she had understood and not spoiled next morning the effect of her words. In the prosaic daylight, the illusion of wings being banished, she was bent on knowing how Dirk came into possession of the Lily. Who sent it, Dirk? I don't believe anybody told you to give it to me. Who would care about my having a flower? Where did you get it? Where do you suppose? Dirk's voice was ominously gruff. It is a painful truth that by daylight he was ashamed of his part of the transaction. I told you she sent it. It's no ways likely that I'd take the trouble to make up a lie about that weed. How do I know what she wanted you to have it for? Maybe she thought it matched your looks. There was a bitter sneer in Dirk's voice, yet all the time he heard the sweet, low voice saying, that girl with the beautiful golden hair. Suppose he should tell Mart that. Why not? Let me tell you that Dirk Coulson would not have repeated that sentence for the world, and yet he did not know why. Mart's face burned red under his sneer. How am I to know who she is? she said in bitter scorn. Some of your bar room beauties for whom you dance in whistle, I suppose. You can tell her I would rather have my shawl out of pond, or some shoes for my feet, enough sight. What do I care for a great flower mocking at me? Pitch it into the fire, then, and it will be many a long day before I bring you anything else, said Dirk, pushing himself angrily back from the table, where he had been eating bread dipped in a choice bit of pork fat. There isn't a bit of danger of my doing that, she called after him mockingly. There isn't a spark of fire nor likely to be today unless some of your admirers send me a shovel of coal. Mercy knows I wish they would. He mercifully lost part of this sentence for the reason that before it was concluded he was moving with long angry strides up the alley. And then Mart took the broken-nosed pitcher away into the furthest corner, although she was alone in the room, and laid her face against the cool, pure lily, and wept into it great burning tears. Poor ignorant soul! She wanted, oh how she wanted, Dirk to be brave and good like Mark Colkins, her one type of manhood. Yet she did not know that she was crushing out the germ which might have grown in his heart. True, she knew herself to be very different from Sally, but she thought, poor soul, that that was because Mark was so different from Dirk. Isn't it a pity that the sweet-faced lily could not have told its tender story to both these ignorant ones?