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Michael O'Halloran

by Gene Stratton-Porter · English · Gutenberg #9489 · 806,795 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Michael O'Halloran

Author: Gene Stratton-Porter


        
Release date: December 1, 2005 [eBook #9489]
                Most recently updated: August 15, 2012

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/9489

Credits: Produced by Brendan Lane, Richard Prairie and PG Distributed Proofreaders


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MICHAEL O'HALLORAN ***




Produced by Brendan Lane, Richard Prairie and PG Distributed
Proofreaders










                                _MICHAEL_

                              _O'HALLORAN_

                         _Gene Stratton-Porter_

                          Copyright 1915, 1916

_Contents_

PAGE

I.     Happy Home in Sunrise Alley II.    Moccasins and Lady Slippers
III.   S.O.S. IV.    "Bearer of Morning" V.     Little Brother VI.
The Song of a Bird VII.   Peaches' Preference in Blessings VIII.  Big
Brother IX.    James Jr. and Malcolm X.     The Wheel of Life XI.
The Advent of Nancy and Peter XII.   Feminine Reasoning XIII.  A Safe
Proposition XIV.   An Orphans' Home XV.    A Particular Nix XVI.   The
Fingers in the Pie XVII.  Initiations in an Ancient and Honourable
Brotherhood XVIII. Malcolm and the Hermit Thrush XIX.   Establishing
Protectorates XX.    Mickey's Miracle



CHAPTER I


_Happy Home in Sunrise Alley_


"_Aw_ KID, _come on! Be square!_"

"_You look out what you say to me._"

"_But ain't you going to keep your word?_"

"_Mickey, do you want your head busted?_"

"_Naw! But I did your work so you could loaf; now I want the pay you
promised me._"

"_Let's see you get it! Better take it from me, hadn't you?_"

"_You're twice my size; you know I can't, Jimmy!_"

"_Then you know it too, don't you?_"

"_Now look here kid, it's 'cause you're getting so big that folks will
be buying quicker of a little fellow like me; so you've laid in the sun
all afternoon while I been running my legs about off to sell your
papers; and when the last one is gone, I come and pay you what they
sold for; now it's up to you to do what you promised._"

"_Why didn't you keep it when you had it?_"

"_'Cause that ain't business! I did what I promised fair and square; I
was giving you a chance to be square too._"

"_Oh! Well next time you won't be such a fool!_"

Jimmy turned to step from the gutter to the sidewalk. Two things
happened to him simultaneously: Mickey became a projectile. He smashed
with the force of a wiry fist on the larger boy's head, while above
both, an athletic arm gripped him by the collar.

Douglas Bruce was hurrying to see a client before he should leave his
office; but in passing a florist's window his eye was attracted by a
sight so beautiful he paused an instant, considering. It was spring;
the Indians were coming down to Multiopolis to teach people what the
wood Gods had put into their hearts about flower magic.

The watcher scarcely had realized the exquisite loveliness of a
milk-white birch basket filled with bog moss of silvery green, in which
were set maidenhair and three yellow lady slippers, until beside it was
placed another woven of osiers blood red, moss carpeted and bearing
five pink moccasin flowers, faintly fined with red lavender; between
them rosemary and white ladies' tresses. A flush crept over the lean
face of the Scotsman. He saw a vision. Over those baskets bent a girl,
beautiful as the flowers. Plainly as he visualized the glory of the
swamp, Douglas Bruce pictured the woman he loved above the orchids.
While he lingered, his heart warmed, glowing, his wonderful spring day
made more wonderful by a vision not adequately describable, on his ear
fell Mickey's admonition: "Be square!"

He sent one hasty glance toward the gutter. He saw a sullen-faced
newsboy of a size that precluded longer success at paper selling,
because public sympathy goes to the little fellows. Before him stood
one of these same little fellows, lean, tow-haired, and blue-eyed,
clean of face, neat in dress; with a peculiar modulation in his voice
that caught Douglas squarely in the heart. He turned again to the
flowers, but as his eyes revelled in beauty, his ears, despite the
shuffle of passing feet, and the clamour of cars, lost not one word of
what was passing in the gutter, while with each, slow anger surged
higher. Mickey, well aware that his first blow would be all the
satisfaction coming to him, put the force of his being into his punch.
At the same instant Douglas thrust forth a hand that had pulled for
Oxford and was yet in condition.

"Aw, you big stiff!" gasped Jimmy, twisting an astonished neck to see
what was happening above and in his rear so surprisingly. Had that
little Mickey O'Halloran gone mad to hit _him?_ Mickey standing back,
his face upturned, was quite as surprised as Jimmy.

"What did he promise you for selling his papers?" demanded a deep voice.

"Twen--ty-_five_," answered Mickey, with all the force of inflection in
his power. "And if you heard us, Mister, you heard him own up he was
owing it."

"I did," answered Douglas Bruce tersely. Then to Jimmy: "Hand him over
twenty-five cents."

Jimmy glared upward, but what he saw and the tightening of the hand on
his collar were convincing. He drew from his pocket five nickels,
dropping them into the outstretched hand of Douglas, who passed them to
Mickey, the soiled fingers of whose left hand closed over them, while
his right snatched off his cap. Fear was on his face, excitement was in
his eyes, triumph was in his voice, while a grin of comradeship curved
his lips.

"Many thanks, Boss," he said. "And would you add to them by keeping
that strangle hold 'til you give me just two seconds the start of him?"
He wheeled, darting through the crowd.

"Mickey!" cried Douglas Bruce. "Mickey, wait!"

But Mickey was half a block away turning into an alley. The man's grip
tightened a twist.

"You'll find Mickey's admonition good," he said. "I advise you to take
it. 'Be square!' And two things: first, I've got an eye on the Mickeys
of this city. If I ever again find you imposing on him or any one else,
I'll put you where you can't. Understand? Second, who is he?"

"Mickey!" answered the boy.

"Mickey who?" asked Douglas.

"How'd I know?" queried Jimmy.

"You don't know his name?" pursued Douglas.

"Naw, I don't!" said the boy.

"Where does he live?" continued Douglas.

"I don't know," answered Jimmy.

"If you have a charge to prefer, I'll take that youngster in for you,"
offered a policeman passing on his beat.

"He was imposing on a smaller newsboy. I made him quit," Douglas
explained. "That's all."

"Oh!" said the officer, withdrawing his hand. Away sped Jimmy; with him
went all chance of identifying Mickey, but Bruce thought he would watch
for him. He was such an attractive little fellow.

Mickey raced through the first alley, down a street, then looked
behind. Jimmy was not in sight.

"Got _him_ to dodge now," he muttered. "If he ever gets a grip on me
he'll hammer me meller! I'm going to have a bulldog if I half starve to
buy it. Maybe the pound would give me one. I'll see to-morrow."

He looked long, then started homeward, which meant to jump on a car and
ride for miles, then follow streets and alleys again. Finally he
entered a last alley that faced due east. A compass could not have
pointed more directly toward the rising sun; while there was at least
half an hour each clear morning when rickety stairs, wavering
fire-escapes, flapping washes, and unkept children were submerged in
golden light. Long ago it had been named. By the time of Mickey's
advent Sunrise Alley was as much a part of the map of Multiopolis as
Biddle Boulevard, and infinitely more pleasing in name. He began
climbing interminable stairs. At the top of the last flight he unlocked
his door to enter his happy home; for Mickey had a home, and it was a
happy one. No one else lived in it, while all it contained was his.

Mickey knew three things about his father: he had had one, he was not
square, and he drank himself to death. He could not remember his
father, but he knew many men engaged in the occupation of his passing,
so he well understood why his mother never expressed any regrets.

Vivid in his mind was her face, anxious and pale, but twinkling; her
body frail and overtaxed, but hitting back at life uncomplainingly. Bad
things happened, but she explained how they might have been worse; so
fed on this sop, and watching her example, Mickey grew like her. The
difficult time was while she sat over a sewing machine to be with him.
When he grew stout-legged and self-reliant, he could be sent after the
food, to carry the rent, and to sell papers, then she could work by the
day, earn more, have better health, while what both brought home paid
the rent of the top room back, of as bad a shamble as a self-respecting
city would allow; kept them fed satisfyingly if not nourishingly, and
allowed them to slip away many a nickel for the rainy day that she
always explained would come. And it did.

One morning she could not get up; the following Mickey gave all their
savings to a man with a wagon to take her to a nice place to rest. The
man was sure about it being a nice place. She had told Mickey so often
what to do if this ever happened, that when it did, all that was
necessary was to remember what he had been told. After it was over and
the nice place had been paid for, with the nickels and the sewing
machine, with enough left for the first month's rent, Mickey faced life
alone. But he knew exactly what to do, because she had told him. She
had even written it down lest he forget. It was so simple that only a
boy who did not mind his mother could have failed. The formula worked
perfectly.

_Morning: Get up early. Wash your face, brush your clothes. Eat what
was left from supper for breakfast. Put your bed to air, then go out
with your papers. Don't be afraid to offer them, or to do work of any
sort you have strength for; but be deathly afraid to beg, to lie, or to
steal, while if you starve, freeze, or die, never, never touch any kind
of drink_.

Any fellow could do that; Mickey told dozens of them so.

He got along so well he could pay the rent each month, dress in whole
clothing, have enough to eat, often cooked food on the little gasoline
stove, if he were not too tired to cook it, and hide nickels in the old
place daily. He had a bed and enough cover; he could get water in the
hall at the foot of the flight of stairs leading to his room for his
bath, to scrub the floor, and wash the dishes. From two years on, he
had helped his mother with every detail of her housekeeping; he knew
exactly what must be done.

It was much more dreadful than he thought it would be to come home
alone, and eat supper by himself, but if he sold papers until he was
almost asleep where he stood, he found he went to sleep as soon as he
reached home and had supper. He did not awaken until morning; then he
could hurry his work and get ahead of the other boys, and maybe sell to
their customers. It might be bad to be alone, but always he could
remember her, and make her seem present by doing every day exactly what
she told him. Then, after all, being alone was a very wonderful thing
compared with having parents who might beat and starve him and take the
last penny he earned, not leaving enough to keep him from being hungry
half the time.

When Mickey looked at some of the other boys, and heard many of them
talk, he almost forgot the hourly hunger for his mother, in
thankfulness that he did not have a father and that his mother had been
herself. Mickey felt sure that if she had been any one of the mothers
of most other boys he knew, he would not have gone home at all. He
could endure cold, hunger, and loneliness, but he felt that he had no
talent for being robbed, beaten, and starved; while lately he had fully
decided upon a dog for company, when he could find the right one.

Mickey unlocked his door, entering for his water bucket. Such was his
faith in his environment that he relocked the door while he went to the
water tap. Returning to the room he again turned the key, then washed
his face and hands. He looked at the slip nailed on the wall where she
had put it. He knew every word of it, but always it comforted him to
see her familiar writing, to read aloud what to do next as if it were
her voice speaking to him. Evening: "Make up your bed." Mickey made
his. "Wash any dirty dishes." He had a few so he washed them. "Sweep
your floor." He swept. "Always prepare at least one hot thing for
supper." He shook the gasoline tank to the little stove. It sounded
full enough, so he went to the cupboard his mother had made from a
small packing case. There were half a loaf of bread wrapped in its
oiled paper, with two bananas discarded by Joe of the fruit stand. He
examined his pocket, although he knew perfectly what it contained.
Laying back enough to pay for his stock the next day, then counting in
his twenty-five cents, he had forty cents left. He put thirty in the
rent box, starting out with ten. Five paid for a bottle of milk, three
for cheese, two for an egg for breakfast.

Then he went home. At the foot of the fire-escape that he used in
preference to the stairs, he met a boy he knew tugging a heavy basket.

"Take an end for a nickel," said the boy.

"Thanks," said Mickey. "It's my time to dine. 'Sides, I been done once
to-day."

"If you'll take it, I'll pay first," he offered.

"How far?" questioned Mickey.

"Oh, right over here," said the boy indefinitely.

"Sure!" said Mickey. "Cross my palm with the silver."

The nickel changed hands. Mickey put the cheese and egg in his pocket,
the milk in the basket, then started. The place where they delivered
the wash made Mickey feel almost prosperous. He picked up his milk
bottle and stepped from the door, when a long, low wail that made him
shudder, reached his ear.

"What's that?" he asked the woman.

"A stiff was carried past to-day. Mebby they ain't took the kids yet."

Mickey went slowly down the stairs, his face sober. That was what his
mother had feared for him. That was why she had trained him to care for
himself, to save the pennies, so that when she was taken away, he still
would have a home. Sounded like a child! He was halfway up the long
flight of stairs before he realized that he was going. He found the
door at last, then, stood listening. He heard long-drawn,
heart-breaking moaning. Presently he knocked. A child's shriek was the
answer. Mickey straightway opened the door. The voice guided him to a
heap of misery in a corner.

"What's the matter kid?" inquired Mickey huskily.

The bundle stirred, while a cry issued. He glanced around the room.
What he saw reassured him. He laid hold of the tatters, beginning to
uncover what was under them. He dropped his hands, stepping back, when
a tangled yellow mop and a weazened, bloated girl-child face peered at
him, with wildly frightened eyes.

"If you'd put the wind you're wastin' into words, we'd get something
done quicker," advised Mickey.

The tiny creature clutched the filthy covers, still staring.

"Did you come to '_get_' me?" she quavered.

"No," said Mickey. "I heard you from below so I came to see what hurt
you. Ain't you got folks?"

She shook her head: "They took granny in a box and they said they'd
come right back and '_get_' me. Oh, please, please don't let them!"

"Why they'd be good to you," said Mickey largely. "They'd give you"--he
glanced at all the things the room lacked, then enumerated--"a clean
bed, lots to eat, a window you could be seeing from, a doll, maybe."

"No! No!" she cried. "Granny always said some day she'd go and leave
me; then they'd '_get_' me. She's gone! The big man said they'd come
right back. Oh don't let them! Oh hide me quick!"

"Well--well--! If you're so afraid, why don't you cut and hide yourself
then?" he asked.

"My back's bad. I can't walk," the child answered.

"Oh Lord!" said Mickey. "When did you get hurt?"

"It's always been bad. I ain't ever walked," she said.

"Well!" breathed Mickey, aghast. "And knowing she'd have to leave you
some day, your granny went and scared you stiff about the Home folks
taking you, when it's the only place for you to be going? Talk about
women having the sense to vote!"

"I won't go! I won't! I'll scratch them! I'll bite them!" Then in swift
change: "Oh boy, don't. Please, please don't let them '_get_' me."

Mickey took both the small bony hands reaching for him. He was so
frightened with their hot, tremulous clutch, that he tried to pull
away, dragging the tiny figure half to light and bringing from it moans
of pain.

"Oh my back! Oh you're hurting me! Oh don't leave me! Oh boy, oh _dear_
boy, please don't leave me!"

When she said "Oh dear boy," Mickey heard the voice of his mother in an
hourly phrase. He crept closer, enduring the touch of the grimy claws.

"My name's Mickey," he said. "What's your?"

"Peaches," she answered. "Peaches, when I'm good. Crippled brat, when
I'm bad."

"B'lieve if you had your chance you could look the peaches," said
Mickey, "but what were you bad for?"

"So's she'd hit me," answered Peaches.

"But if me just pulling a little hurt you so, what happened when she
hit you?" asked Mickey.

"Like knives stuck into me," said Peaches.

"Then what did you be bad for?" marvelled Mickey.

"Didn't you ever get so tired of one thing you'd take something that
hurt, jus' for a change?"

"My eye!" said Mickey. "I don't know one fellow who'd do that, Peaches."

"Mickey, hide me. Oh hide me! Don't let them '_get_' me!" she begged.

"Why kid, you're crazy," said Mickey. "Now lemme tell you. Where
they'll take you _looks_ like a nice place. Honest it does. I've seen
lots of them. You get a clean soft bed all by yourself, three big hot
meals a day, things to read, and to play with. Honest Peaches, you do!
I wouldn't tell you if it wasn't so. If I'll stay with you 'til they
come, then go with you to the place 'til you see how nice it is, will
you be good and go?"

She burrowed in the covers, screeching again.

"You're scared past all reason," said Mickey. "You don't know anything.
But maybe the Orphings' Homes ain't so good as they look. If they are,
why was mother frightened silly about them getting _me?_ Always she
said she just _had_ to live until I got so big they wouldn't 'get' me.
And I kept them from getting me by doing what she told me. Wonder if I
could keep them from getting you? There's nothing of you. If I could
move you there, I bet I could feed you more than your granny did, while
I know I could keep you cleaner. You could have my bed, a window to
look from, and clean covers." Mickey was thinking aloud. "Having you to
come home to would be lots nicer than nothing. You'd beat a dog all
hollow, 'cause you can talk. If I could get you there, I believe I
could be making it. Yes, I believe I could do a lot better than this,
and I believe I'd like you, Peaches, you are such a game little kid."

"She could lift me with one hand," she panted. "Oh Mickey, take me!
Hurry!"

"Lemme see if I can manage you," said Mickey. "Have you got to be took
any particular way?"

"Mickey, ain't you got folks that beat you?" she asked.

"I ain't got folks now," said Mickey, "and they didn't beat me when I
had them. I'm all for myself--and if you say so, I guess from now on,
I'm for you. Want to go?"

Her arms wound tightly around his neck. Her hot little face pressed
against it.

"Put one arm 'cross my shoulders, an' the other round my legs," she
said.

"But I got to go down a lot of stairs; it's miles and miles," said
Mickey, "and I ain't got but five cents. I spent it all for grub.
Peaches, are you hungry?"

"No!" she said stoutly. "Mickey, hurry!"

"But honest, I can't carry you all that way. I would if I could,
Peaches, honest I would."

"Oh Mickey, dear Mickey, hurry!" she begged.

"Get down and cover up 'til I think," he ordered. "Say you look here!
If I tackle this job do you want a change bad enough to be mean for me?"

"Just a little bit, maybe," said Peaches.

"But I won't hit you," explained Mickey.

"You can if you want to," she said. "I won't cry. Give me a good crack
now, an' see if I do."

"You make me sick at my stummick," said Mickey. "Lord, kid! Snuggle
down 'til I see. I'm going to get you there some way."

Mickey went back to the room where he helped deliver the clothes
basket. "How much can you earn the rest of the night?" he asked the
woman.

"Mebby ten cents," she said.

"Well, if you will loan me that basket and ten cents, and come with me
an hour, there's that back and just a dollar in it for you, lady," he
offered.

She turned from him with a sneering laugh.

"Honest, lady!" said Mickey. "This is how it is: that crying got me so
I went Anthony Comstockin'. There's a kid with a lame back all alone up
there, half starved and scared fighting wild. We could put her in that
basket, she's just a handful, and take her to a place she wants to go.
We could ride most of the way on the cars and then a little walk, and
get her to a cleaner, better room, where she'd be taken care of, and in
an hour you'd be back with enough nickels in your pocket to make a
great, big, round, shining, full-moon cartwheel. Dearest lady, doesn't
the prospect please you?"

"It would," she said, "if I had the cartwheel now."

"In which case you wouldn't go," said Mickey. "Dearest lady, it isn't
business to pay for undone work."

"And it isn't business to pay your employer's fare to get to your job
either," she retorted.

"No, that beats business a mile," said Mickey. "That's an _investment_.
You invest ten cents and an hour's time on a gamble. Now look what you
get, lady. A nice restful ride on the cars. Your ten cents back, a
whole, big, shining, round, lady-liberty bird, if you trust in God, as
the coin says the bird does, and more'n that, dearest lady, you go to
bed feeling your pinfeathers sprouting, 'cause you've done a kind deed
to a poor crippled orphing."

"If I thought you really had the money--" she said.

"Honest, lady, I got the money," said Mickey, "and 'sides, I got a
surprise party for you. When you get back you may go to that room and
take every scrap that's in it. Now come on; you're going to be enough
of a sporting lady to try a chance like that, ain't you? May be a gold
mine up there, for all I know. Put something soft in the bottom of the
basket while I fetch the kid."

Mickey ran up the stairs.

"Now Peaches," he said, "I guess I got it fixed. I'm going to carry you
down; a nice lady is going to put you in a big basket, then we'll take
you to the cars and so get you to my house; but you got to promise,
'cross your heart, you won't squeal, nor say a word, 'cause the police
will 'get' you sure, if you do. They'll think the woman is your ma, so
it will be all right. See?"

Peaches nodded. Mickey wrapped her in the remnants of a blanket,
carried her downstairs and laid her in the basket. By turning on her
side and drawing up her feet, she had more room than she needed.

"They won't let us on the cars," said the woman.

"Dearest lady, wait and see," said Mickey. "Now Peaches, shut your
eyes, also your mouth. Don't you take a chance at saying a word. If
they won't stand the basket, we'll carry you, but it would hurt you
less, while it would come in handy when we run out of cars. You needn't
take coin only for going, dearest lady; you'll be silver plated coming
back."

"You little fool," said the woman, but she stooped to her end of the
basket.

"Ready, Peaches," said Mickey, "and if it hurts, 'member it will soon
be over, and you'll be where nobody will ever hurt you again."

"Hurry!" begged the child.

Down the long stairs they went and to the car line. Crowded car after
car whirled past; finally one came not so full, it stopped to let off
passengers. Mickey was at the conductor's elbow.

"Please mister, a lame kid," he pleaded. "We want to move her. Please,
please help us on."

"Can't!" said the conductor. "Take a taxi."

"Broke my limousine," said Mickey. "Aw come on mister; ain't you got
kids of your own?"

"Get out of the way!" shouted the conductor.

"Hang on de back wid the basket," cried the woman.

With Peaches laid over her shoulder, she swung to the platform, and
found a seat, while Mickey grabbed the basket and ran to the back
screaming after her: "I got my fare; only pay for yourself." Mickey
told the conductor to tell the lady where to leave the car. When she
stepped down he was ready with the basket. Peaches, panting and in cold
perspiration with pain, was laid in it.

"Lovely part of the village, ain't it, lady?" said Mickey. "See the
castles of the millyingaires piercing the sky; see their automobiles at
the curb; see the lovely ladies and gents promenading the streets
enjoying the spring?"

Every minute Mickey talked to keep the woman from noticing how far she
was going; but soon she growled: "How many miles furder is it?"

"Just around a corner, up an alley, and down a side street a step.
Nothing at all! Nice promenade for a spry, lovely young lady like you.
Evening walk, smell spring in the air. 'Most there now, Peaches."

"Where are ye takin' this kid? How'll I ever get back to the car line?"
asked the woman.

Mickey ignored the first question. "Why, I'll be eschorting you of
course, dearest lady," he said.

At the point of rebellion, Mickey spoke. "Now set the basket down right
here," he ordered. "I'll be back in no time with the lady-bird."

He returned in a few minutes. Into her outstretched palm he counted
twenty-two nickels, picked the child from the basket, darted around a
corner calling, "Back in a minute," and was gone.

"Now Peaches, we got some steps to climb," he said. "Grip my neck tight
and stand just a little more."

"I ain't hurt!" she asserted. "I like seein' things. I never saw so
much before. I ain't hurt--much!"

"Your face, your breathing, and the sweating on your lips, is a little
disproving," said Mickey, "but I'll have to take your word for it,
'cause I can't help it; but it'll soon be over so you may rest."

Mickey climbed a flight, then sat down until he could manage another.
The last flight he rested three times. One reason he laid Peaches on
the floor was because he couldn't reach the bed. After a second's pause
he made a light, and opened the milk bottle.

"Connect with that," he said. "I got to take the lady back to the cars."

"Oh!" cried the connected child. "Oh Mickey, how good!"

"Go slow!" said Mickey. "You better save half to have with some bread
for your supper. Now I got to leave you a little bit, but you needn't
be afraid, 'cause I'll lock you in. Nobody will '_get_' you here."

"Now for the cars," said Mickey to his helper.

"What did them folks say?" she asked.

"Tickled all over," answered Mickey promptly.

"That bundle of dirty rags!" she scoffed.

"They are going to throw away the rags and wash her," said Mickey.
"She's getting her supper now."

"Sounds like lying," said the woman, "but mebby it ain't. Save me, I
can't see why anybody would want a kid at any time, let alone a reekin'
bunch of skin and crooked bones."

"You've known folks to want a dog, ain't you?" said Mickey. "Sure
something that can think and talk back must be a lot more amusing. I
see the parks are full of the rich folks dolling up the dogs, feeding
them candy and sending them out for an airing in their automobiles; so
it's up to the poor people to look after the homeless children, isn't
it?"

"Do you know the folks that took her?"

"Sure I do!" said Mickey.

"Do you live close?" she persisted.

"Yes! I'm much obliged for your help, dearest lady. When you get home,
go up to the last attic back, and if there is anything there you want,
help yourself. Peaches don't need it now, while there's no one else.
Thank you, and good-bye. Don't fly before your wings grow, 'cause I
know you'll feel like trying to-night."

Mickey hurried back to his room. The milk bottle lay on the floor, the
child asleep beside it. The boy gazed at her. There were strange and
peculiar stirrings in his lonely little heart. She was so grimy he
scarcely could tell what she looked like, but the grip of her tiny hot
hands was on him. Presently he laughed.

"Well fellers! Look what I've annexed! And I was hunting a dog! Well,
she's lots better. She won't eat much more, she can talk, and she'll be
something alive waiting when I come home. Gee, I'm _glad_ I found her."

Mickey set the washtub on the floor near the sleeping child, and
filling the dishpan with water, put it over the gasoline burner. Then
he produced soap, a towel, and comb. He looked at the child again, and
going to the box that contained his mother's clothing he hunted out a
nightdress. Then he sat down to wait for the water to heat. The door
slammed when he went after a bucket of cold water, and awakened the
girl. She looked at him, then at his preparations.

"I ain't going to be washed," she said. "It'll hurt me. Put me on the
bed."

"Put you on my bed, dirty like you are?" cried Mickey. "I guess not!
You are going to be a soaped lady. If it hurts, you can be consoling
yourself thinking it will be the last time, 'cause after this you'll be
washed every day so you won't need skinning alive but once."

"I won't! I won't!" she cried.

"Now looky here!" said Mickey. "I'm the boss of this place. If I say
wash, it's _wash!_ See! I ain't going to have a dirty girl with mats in
her hair living with me. You begged me and begged me to bring you, now
you'll be cleaned up or you'll go back. Which is it, back or soap?"

The child stared at him, then around the room.

"Soap," she conceded.

"That's a lady," said Mickey. "Course it's soap! All clean and sweet
smelling like a flower. See my mammy's nice white nightie for you? How
bad is your back, Peaches? Can you sit up?"

"A little while," she answered. "My legs won't go."

"Never you mind," said Mickey. "I'll work hard and get a doctor, so
some day they will."

"They won't ever," insisted Peaches. "Granny carried me to the big
doctors once, an' my backbone is weak, an' I won't ever walk, they all
said so."

"Poot! Doctors don't know everything," scorned Mickey. "That was _long_
ago, maybe. By the time I can earn enough to get you a dress and shoes,
a doctor will come along who's found out how to make backs over.
There's one that put different legs on a dog. I read about it in the
papers I sold. We'll save our money and get him to put another back on
you. Just a bully back."

"Oh Mickey, will you?" she cried.

"Sure!" said Mickey. "Now you sit up and I'll wash you like Mammy
always did me."

Peaches obeyed. Mickey soaped a cloth, knelt beside her; then he
paused. "Say Peaches, when was your hair combed last?"

"I don't know, Mickey," she answered.

"There's more dirt in it than there is on your face."

"If you got shears, just cut it off," she suggested.

"Sure!" said Mickey.

He produced shears and lifting string after string cut all of them the
same distance from her head.

"Girls' shouldn't be short, like boys'," he explained. "Now hang your
head over the edge of the tub and shut your eyes so I can wash it," he
ordered.

Mickey soaped and scoured until the last tangle was gone, then rinsed
and partly dried the hair, which felt soft and fine to his fingers.

"B'lieve it's going to curl," he said.

"Always did," she answered.

Mickey emptied and rinsed the tub at the drain, then started again on
her face and ears, which he washed thoroughly. He pinned a sheet around
her neck, then she divested herself of the rags. Mickey lifted her into
the tub, draped the sheet over the edge, poured in the water, and
handed her the soap.

"Now you scour, while I get supper," he said.

Peaches did her best. Mickey locked her in and went after more milk. He
wanted to add several extras, but remembering the awful hole the dollar
had made in his finances, he said grimly: "No-sir-ee! With a family to
keep, and likely to need a doctor at any time and a Carrel back to buy,
there's no frills for Mickey. Seeing what she ain't had, she ought to
be thankful for just milk."

So he went back, lifted Peaches from the tub and laid her on the floor,
where he dried her with the sheet. Then he put the nightdress over her
head, she slipped her arms in the sleeves, and he stretched her on his
bed. She was so lost in the garment he tied a string under her arms to
hold it, and cut off the sleeves at her elbows. The pieces he saved for
washcloths. Mickey spread his sheet over her, rolled the bed before the
window where she could have air, see sky and housetops, then brought
her supper. It was a cup of milk with half the bread broken in, and a
banana. Peaches was too tired to eat, so she drank the milk while
Mickey finished the remainder. Then he threw her rags from the window,
and spread his winter covers on the floor for his bed. Soon both of
them were asleep.



CHAPTER II


_Moccasins and Lady Slippers_


"No messenger boy for those," said Douglas Bruce as he handed the
florist the price set on the lady slippers. "Leave them where people
may enjoy them until I call."

As he turned, another man was inquiring about the orchids; he too
preferred the slippers; but when he was told they were taken, he had
wanted the moccasins all the time, anyway. The basket was far more
attractive. He refused delivery, returning to his waiting car smiling
over the flowers. He also saw a vision of the woman into whose sated
life he hoped to bring a breath of change with the wonderful gift. He
saw the basket in her hands, and thrilled in anticipation of the
favours her warmed heart might prompt her to bestow upon him.

In the mists of early morning the pink orchids surrounded by rosemary
and ladies' tresses had glowed and gleamed from the top of a silvery
moss mound four feet deep, under a big tamarack in a swamp, through the
bog of which the squaw plunged to her knees at each step to uproot
them. In the evening glow of electricity, snapped from their stems, the
beautiful basket untouched, the moccasins lay on the breast of a woman
of fashion, while with every second of contact with the warmth of her
body, they drooped lower, until clasped in the arms of her lover, they
were quite crushed, then flung from an automobile to be ground to pulp
by passing wheels.

The slippers had a happier fate. Douglas Bruce carried them reverently.
He was sure he knew the swamp in which they grew. As he went his way,
he held the basket, velvet-white, in strong hands, swaying his body
with the motion of the car lest one leaf be damaged. When he entered
the hall, down the stairs came Leslie Winton.

"Why Douglas, I wasn't expecting you," she said.

Douglas Bruce held up the basket.

"Joy!" she cried. "Oh joy unspeakable! Who has been to the tamarack
swamp?"

"A squaw was leaving Lowry's as he put these in his window," answered
Douglas.

"Bring them," she said.

He followed to a wide side veranda, set the basket on a table in a cool
spot, then drew a chair near it. Leslie Winton seated herself, leaning
on the table to study the orchids. Unconsciously she made the picture
Douglas had seen. She reached up slim fingers in delicate touchings
here and there of moss, corolla and slipper.

"Never in all my days--" she said. "Never in all my days--I shall keep
the basket always, and the slippers as long as I possibly can. See this
one! It isn't fully open. I should have them for a week at least.
Please hand me a glass of water."

Douglas started to say that ice water would be too cold, but with the
wisdom of a wise man waited; and as always, was joyed by the waiting.
For the girl took the glass and cupping her hands around it sat talking
to the flowers, and to him, as she warmed the water with heat from her
body. Douglas was so delighted with the unforeseen second that had
given him first chance at the orchids, and so this unexpected call,
that he did not mind the attention she gave the flowers. He had reasons
for not being extravagant; but seldom had a like sum brought such
returns. He began drawing interest as he watched Leslie. Never had her
form seemed so perfect, her dress so becoming and simple. How could
other women make a vulgar display in the same pattern that clothed her
modestly? How wonderful were the soft coils of her hair, the tints
paling and flushing on her cheeks, her shining eyes! Why could not all
women use her low, even, perfectly accented speech and deliberate
self-control?

He was in daily intercourse with her father, a high official of the
city, a man of education, social position, and wealth. Mr. Winton had
reared his only child according to his ideas; but Douglas, knowing
these things, believed in blood also. As Leslie turned and warmed the
water, watching her, the thought was strong in his mind: what a woman
her mother must have been! Each day he was with Leslie, he saw her do
things that no amount of culture could instil. Instinct and tact are
inborn; careful rearing may produce a good imitation, they are genuine
only with blood. Leslie had always filled his ideal of a true woman. To
ignore him for his gift would have piqued many a man; Douglas Bruce was
pleased.

"You wonders!" she said softly. "Oh you wonders! When the mists lifted
in the marshes this morning, and the first ray of gold touched you to
equal goldness, you didn't know you were coming to me. I almost wish I
could put you back. Just now you should be in such cool mistiness,
while you should be hearing a hermit thrush sing vespers, a cedar bird
call, and a whip-poor-will cry. But I'm glad I have you! Oh I'm so glad
you came to me! I never materialized a whole swamp with such vividness
as only this little part of it brings. Douglas, when you caught the
first glimpse of these, how far into the swamp did you see past them?"

"To the heart--of the swamp--and of my heart."

"I can see it as perfectly as I ever did," she said. "But I eliminate
the squaw; possibly because I didn't see her. And however exquisite the
basket is, she broke the law when she peeled a birch tree. I'll wager
she brought this to Lowry, carefully covered. And I'm not sure but
there should have been a law she broke when she uprooted these orchids.
Much as I love them, I doubt if I can keep them alive, and bring them
to bloom next season. I'll try, but I don't possess flower magic in the
highest degree."

She turned the glass, touching it with questioning palm. Was it near
the warmth of bog water? After all, was bog water warm? Next time she
was in a swamp she would plunge her hand deeply in the mosses to feel
the exact temperature to which those roots had been accustomed. Then
she spoke again.

"Yes, I eliminate the squaw," she said. "These golden slippers are the
swamp to me, but I see you kneeling to lift them. I am so glad I'm the
woman they made you see."

Douglas sat forward and opened his lips. Was not this the auspicious
moment?

"Did the squaw bring more?" she questioned.

"Yes," he answered. "Pink moccasins in a basket of red osiers, with the
same moss, rosemary and white tresses. Would you rather those?"

She set down the glass, drawing the basket toward her with both hands.
As she parted the mosses to drop in the water she slowly shook her head.

"One must have seen them to understand what that would be like," she
said. "I know it was beautiful, but I'm sure I should have selected the
gold had I been there. Oh I wonder if the woman who has the moccasins
will give them a drink to-night! And will she try to preserve their
roots?"

"She will not!" said Douglas emphatically.

"How can you possibly know?" queried the girl.

"I saw the man who ordered them," laughed Douglas.

"Oh!" cried Leslie, comprehendingly.

"I'd stake all I'm worth the moccasins are drooping against a lavender
dress; the roots are in the garbage can, while the cook or maid has the
basket," he said.

"Douglas, how can you!" exclaimed Leslie.

"I couldn't! Positively couldn't! Mine are here!"

The slow colour crept into her cheek. "I'll make those roots bloom next
spring; you shall see them in perfection," she promised.

"That would be wonderful!" he exclaimed warmly.

"Tell me, were there yet others?" she asked hastily.

"Only these," he said. "But there was something else. I came near
losing them. While I debated, or rather while I possessed these, and
worshipped the others, there was a gutter row that almost made me lose
yours."

"In the gutter again?" she laughed.

"Once again," he admitted. "Such a little chap, with an appealing
voice, while his inflection was the smallest part of what he was
saying. 'Aw kid, come on. Be square!' Oh Leslie!"

"Why Douglas!" the girl cried. "Tell me!"

"Of all the wooden-head slowness!" he exclaimed. "I've let him slip
again!"

"Let who 'slip again?'" questioned Leslie. "My little brother!"
answered he.

"Oh Douglas! You didn't really?" she protested.

"Yes I did," he said. "I heard a little lad saying the things that are
in the blood and bone of the men money can't buy and corruption can't
break. I heard him plead like a lawyer and argue his case straight. I
lent a hand when his eloquence failed, got him his deserts, then let
him go! I did have an impulse to keep him. I did call after him. But he
disappeared."

"Douglas, we can find him!" she comforted.

"I haven't found either of the others I realized I'd have been
interested in, after I let them slip," he answered, "while this boy was
both of them rolled into one, and ten more like them."

"Oh Douglas! I'm so sorry! But maybe some other man has already found
him," said Leslie.

"No. You can always pick the brothered boys," said Douglas. "The first
thing that happens to them is a clean-up and better clothing; then an
air of possessed importance. No man has attached this one."

"Douglas, describe him," she commanded. "I'll watch for him. How did he
look? What was the trouble?"

"One at a time," cautioned the man. "He was a little chap, a white,
clean, threadbare little chap, with such a big voice, so wonderfully
intoned, and such a bigger principle, for which he was fighting. One of
these overgrown newsboys the public won't stand for unless he is in the
way when they are making a car, had hired him to sell his papers while
he loafed. Mickey----"

"'Mickey?'" repeated Leslie questioningly.

"The big fellow called him 'Mickey'; no doubt a mother who adored him
named him Michael, and thought him 'like unto God' when she did it. The
big fellow had loafed all afternoon. When Mickey came back and turned
over the money, and waited to be paid off, his employer laughed at the
boy for not keeping it when he had it. Mickey begged him 'to be square'
and told him that 'was not business'--'_not business_,' mind you, but
the big fellow jeered at him and was starting away. Mickey and I
reached him at the same time; so I got in the gutter again. I don't see
how I can be so slow! I don't see how I did it!"

"I don't either," she said, with a twinkle that might have referred to
the first of the two exclamations. "It must be your Scotch habit of
going slowly and surely. But cheer up! We'll find him. I'll help you."

"Have you reflected on the fact that this city covers many square
miles, of which a fourth is outskirts, while from them three thousand
newsboys gathered at the last Salvation Army banquet for them?"

"That's where we can find him!" she cried. "Thanksgiving, or Christmas!
Of course we'll see him then."

"Mickey didn't have a Salvation Army face," he said. "I am sure he is a
free lance, and a rare one; besides, this is May. I want my little
brother to go on my vacation with me. I want him now."

"Would it help any if I'd be a sister to you?"

"Not a bit," said Douglas. "I don't in the very least wish to consider
you in the light of a sister; you have another place in my heart, very
different, yet all your own; but I do wish to make of Mickey the little
brother I never have had. Minturn was telling me what a rejuvenation
he's getting from the boy he picked up. Already he has him in his
office, and is planning school and partnership with a man he can train
as he chooses."

"But Minturn has sons of his own!" protested Leslie.

"Oh no! Not in the least!" exclaimed Douglas. "Minturn has sons of his
_wife's_. She persistently upsets and frustrates Minturn's every idea
for them, while he is helpless. You will remember she has millions; he
has what he earns. He can't separate his boys, splendid physical little
chaps, from their mother's money and influence, and educate them to be
a help to him. They are to be made into men of wealth and leisure.
Minturn will evolve his little brother into a man of brains and
efficiency."

"But Minturn is a power!" cried the girl.

"Not financially," explained Douglas. "Nothing but money counts with
his wife. In telling me of this boy, Minturn confessed that he was
forced, _forced_ mind you, to see his sons ruined, while he is building
a street gamin as he would them, if permitted."

"How sad, Douglas!" cried Leslie. "Your voice is bitter. Can't he do
something?"

"Not a blooming thing!" answered Douglas. "She has the money. She is
their mother. Her character is unimpeachable. If Minturn went to
extremes, the law would give them to her; she would turn them over to
ignorant servants who would corrupt them, and be well paid for doing
it. Why Minturn told me--but I can't repeat that. Anyway, he made me
eager to try my ideas on a lad who would be company for me, when I
can't be here and don't wish to be with other men."

"Are you still going to those Brotherhood meetings?"

"I am. And I always shall be. Nothing in life gives me such big returns
for the time invested. There is a world of talk breaking loose about
the present 'unrest' among women; I happen to know that the 'unrest' is
as deep with men. For each woman I personally know, bitten by 'unrest,'
I know two men in the same condition. As long as men and women are
forced to combine, to uphold society, it is my idea that it would be a
good thing if there were to be a Sisterhood organized; then the two
societies frankly brought together and allowed to clear up the
differences between them."

"But why not?" asked the girl eagerly.

"Because we are pursuing false ideals, we have a wrong conception of
what is _worth while in life_," answered the Scotsman. "Because the
sexes except in rare, very rare, instances, do not understand each
other, and every day are drifting farther apart, while most of the
married folk I know are farthest apart of all. Leslie, what is it in
marriage that constrains people? We can talk, argue and agree or
disagree on anything, why can't the Minturns?"

"From what you say, it would seem to me it's her idea of what is worth
while in life," said Leslie.

"Exactly!" cried Douglas. "But he can sway men! He can do powerful
work. He could induce her to marry him. Why can't he control his own
blood?"

"If she should lose her money and become dependent upon him for
support, he could!" said Leslie.

"He should do it anyway," insisted Douglas.

"Do you think you could?" she queried.

"I never thought myself in his place," said Douglas, "but I believe I
will, and if I see glimmerings, I'll suggest them to him."

"Good boy!" said the girl lightly. And then she added: "Do you mind if
I think myself in her place and see if I can suggest a possible point
at which she could be reached? I know her. I shouldn't consider her
happy. At least not with what I call joy."

"What do you call joy?" asked Douglas.

"Being satisfied with your environment."

Douglas glanced at her, then at her surroundings, and looking into her
eyes laughed quizzically.

"But if it were different, I am perfectly confident that I should work
out joy from life," insisted Leslie. "It owes me joy! I'll have it, if
I fight for it!"

"Leslie! Leslie! Be careful! You are challenging Providence. Stronger
men than I have wrought chaos for their children," said a warning
voice, as her father came behind her chair.

"Chaos or no, still I'd put up my fight for joy, Daddy," laughed the
girl. "Only see, Preciousest!"

"One minute!" said her father, shaking hands with Douglas. "Now what is
it, Leslie? Oh, I do see!"

"Take my chair and make friends," said the girl.

Mr. Winton seated himself, then began examining and turning the basket.
"Indians?" he queried.

"Yes," said Douglas. "A particularly greasy squaw. I wish I might
truthfully report an artist's Indian of the Minnehaha type, but alack,
it was the same one I've seen ever since I've been in the city, and
that you've seen for years before my arrival."

Mr. Winton still turned the basket.

"I've bought their stuff for years, because neither Leslie nor her
mother ever would tolerate fat carnations and overgrown roses so long
as I could find a scrap of arbutus, a violet or a wake-robin from the
woods. We've often motored up and penetrated the swamp I fancy these
came from, for some distance, but later in the season; it's so very
boggy now. Aren't these rather wonderful?" He turned to his daughter.

"Perfectly, Daddy," she said. "Perfectly!"

"But I don't mean for the Creator," explained Mr. Winton. "I am
accustomed to His miracles. Every day I see a number of them. I mean
for the squaw."

"I'd have to know the squaw and understand her viewpoint," said Leslie.

"She had it in her tightly clenched fist," laughed Douglas. "One, I'm
sure; anyway, not over two."

"That hasn't a thing to do with the _art_ with which she made the
basket and filled it with just three perfect plants," said Leslie.

"You think there is real art in her anatomy?" queried Mr. Winton.

"Bear witness, O you treasures of gold!" cried Leslie, waving toward
the basket.

"There was another," explained Douglas as he again described the osier
basket.

Mr. Winton nodded. He looked at his daughter.

"I like to think, young woman, that you were born with and I have
cultivated what might be called artistic taste in you," he said.
"Granted the freedom of the tamarack swamp, could you have done better?"

"Not so well, Daddy! Not nearly so well. I never could have defaced
what you can see was a noble big tree by cutting that piece of bark,
while I might have worshipped until dragged away, but so far as art and
I are concerned, the slippers would still be under their tamarack."

"You are begging the question, Leslie," laughed her father. "I was not
discussing the preservation of the wild, I was inquiring into the state
of your artistic ability. If you had no hesitation about taking the
flowers, could you have gone to that swamp, collected the material and
fashioned and filled a more beautiful basket that this?"

"How can I tell, Daddy?" asked the girl. "There's only one way to
learn. I'll forget my scruples, you get me a pair of rubber boots, then
we'll drive to the tamarack swamp and experiment."

"We'll do it!" cried Mr. Winton. "The very first half day I can spare,
we'll do it. And you Douglas, you will want to come with us, of course."

"Why, 'of course,'" laughed Leslie.

"Because he started the expedition with his golden slippers. When it
come to putting my girl, and incidentally my whole family, in
competition with an Indian squaw on a question of art, naturally, her
father and one of her best friends would want to be present."

"But maybe 'Minnie' went alone, and what chance would her work have
with you two for judges?" asked Leslie.

"We needn't be the judges," said Douglas Bruce quietly.

"We can put this basket in the basement in a cool, damp place, where it
will keep perfectly for a week. When you make your basket we can find
the squaw and bring her down with us. Lowry could display the results
side by side. He could call up whomever you consider the most artistic
man and woman in the city and get their decision. You'd be willing to
abide by that, wouldn't you?"

"Surely, but it wouldn't be fair to the squaw," explained Leslie. "I'd
have had the benefit of her art to begin on."

"It would," said Mr. Winton. "Does not every artist living, painter,
sculptor, writer, what you will, have the benefit of all art that has
gone before?"

"You agree?" Leslie turned to Douglas.

"Your father's argument is a truism."

"But I will know that I am on trial. She didn't. Is it fair to her?"
persisted Leslie.

"For begging the question, commend me to a woman," said Mr. Winton.
"The point we began at, was not what you could do in a contest with
her. She went to the swamp and brought from it some flower baskets. It
is perfectly fair to her to suppose that they are her best art. Now
what we are proposing to test is whether the finest product of our
civilization, as embodied in you, can go to the same swamp, and from
the same location surpass her work. Do I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly clear, Daddy, and it would be fair," conceded Leslie. "But
it is an offence punishable with a heavy fine to peel a birch tree;
while I wouldn't do it, if it were not."

"Got her to respect the law anyway," said Mr. Winton to Douglas. "The
proposition, Leslie, was not that you do the same thing, but that from
the same source you outdo her. You needn't use birch bark if it
involves your law-abiding soul."

"Then it's all settled. You must hurry and take me before the lovely
plants have flowered," said Leslie.

"I'll go day after to-morrow," promised Mr. Winton.

"In order to make our plan work, it is necessary that I keep these
orchids until that time," said Leslie.

"You have a better chance than the lady who drew the osier basket has
of keeping hers," said Mr. Winton. "If I remember I have seen the
slippers in common earth quite a distance from the lake, while the
moccasins demand bog moss, water and swamp mists and dampness."

"I have seen slippers in the woods myself," said Leslie. "I think the
conservatory will do, so they shall go there right now. I have to be
fair to 'Minnie.'"

"Let me carry them for you," offered Douglas, arising.

"'Scuse us. Back in a second, Daddy," said Leslie. "I am interested,
excited and eager to make the test, yet in a sense I do not like it."

"But why?" asked Douglas.

"Can't you see?" countered Leslie.

"No," said Douglas.

"It's shifting my sense of possession," explained the girl. "The
slippers are no longer my beautiful gift from you. They are perishable
things that belong to an Indian squaw. In justice to her, I have to
keep them in perfect condition so that my work may not surpass hers
with the unspeakable art of flower freshness; while instead of thinking
them the loveliest thing in the world, I will now lie awake half the
night, no doubt, studying what I can possibly find that is more
beautiful."

Douglas Bruce opened his slow lips, taking a step in her direction.

"Dinner is served," announced her father. He looked inquiringly toward
his daughter. She turned to Douglas.

"Unless you have a previous engagement, you will dine with us, won't
you?" she asked.

"I should be delighted," he said heartily.

When the meal was over and they had returned to the veranda, Leslie
listened quietly while the men talked, most of the time, but when she
did speak, what she said proved that she always had listened to and
taken part in the discussions of men, until she understood and could
speak of business or politics intelligently.

"Have you ever considered an official position, Douglas?" inquired Mr.
Winton. "I have an office within my gift, or so nearly so that I can
control it, and it seems to me that you would be a good man. Surely we
could work together in harmony."

"It never has appealed to me that I wanted work of that nature,"
answered Douglas. "It's unusually kind of you to think of me, and make
the offer, but I am satisfied with what I am doing, while there is a
steady increase in my business that gives me confidence."

"What's your objection to office?" asked Mr. Winton.

"That it takes your time from your work," answered Douglas. "That it
changes the nature of your work. That if you let the leaders of a party
secure you a nomination, and the party elect you, you are bound to
their principles, at least there is a tacit understanding that you are,
and if you should happen to be afflicted with principles of your own,
then you have got to sacrifice them."

"'Afflict' is a good word in this instance," said Mr. Winton. "It is
painful to a man of experience to see you young fellows of such great
promise come up and 'kick' yourself half to death 'against the pricks'
of established business, parties, and customs, but half of you do it.
In the end all of you come limping in, poor, disheartened, defeated,
and then swing to the other extreme, by being so willing for a change
you'll take almost anything, and so the dirty jobs naturally fall to
you."

"I grant much of that," Douglas said, in his deliberate way, "but
happily I have sufficient annual income from my father's estate to
enable me to live until I become acquainted in a strange city, and have
time to establish the kind of business I should care to handle. I am
thinking of practising corporation law; I specialized in that, so I may
have the pleasure before so very long of going after some of the men
who do what you so aptly term the 'dirty' jobs."

"A repetition of the customary chorus," said Mr. Winton, "differing
only in that it is a little more emphatic than usual. I predict that
you will become an office-holder, having party affiliations, inside ten
years."

"Possibly," said Douglas. "But I'll promise you this: it will be a new
office no man ever before has held, in the gift of a party not now in
existence."

"Oh you dreamers!" cried Mr. Winton. "What a wonderful thing it is to
be young and setting out to reform the world, especially on a permanent
income. That's where you surpass most reformers."

"But I said nothing about reform," corrected Douglas. "I said I was
thinking of corporation law."

"I'm accustomed to it; while you wouldn't scare Leslie if you said
'reform,'" remarked Mr. Winton. "She's a reformer herself, you know."

"But only sweat-shops, child labour, civic improvement, preservation of
the wild, and things like that!" cried Leslie so quickly and eagerly,
that both men laughed.

"God be praised!" exclaimed her father.

"God be _fervently_ praised!" echoed her lover.

Before she retired Leslie visited the slippers.

"I'd like to know," she said softly, as she touched a bronze striped
calyx, "I'd like to know how I am to penetrate your location, and find
and fashion anything to outdo you and the squaw, you wood creatures
you!" Then she bent above the flowers and whispered: "Tuck this in the
toe of your slipper! Three times to-night it was in his eyes, and on
his tongue, but his slowness let the moment pass. I can 'bide a wee'
for my Scotsman, I can bide forever, if I must; for it's he only, and
no other."

The moccasins soon had been ground to pulp and carried away on a
non-skid tire while at three o'clock in the morning a cross,
dishevelled society woman, in passing from her dressing room to her
bed, stumbled over the osier basket, kicking it from her way.



CHAPTER III


_S.O.S._


Mickey, his responsibility weighing upon him, slept lightly and
awakened early, his first thought of Peaches. He slipped into his
clothing and advancing peered at her through the grayness. His heart
beat wildly.

"Aw you poor kid! You poor little kid!" he whispered to himself as he
had fallen into the habit of doing for company. "The scaring, the
jolting, the scouring, and everything were too much for you. You've
gone sure! You're just like them at the morgue. Aw Peaches! I didn't
mean to hurt you, Peaches! I was _trying_ to be good to you. Honest I
was, Peaches! Aw----!"

As his fright increased Mickey raised his voice until his last wail
reached the consciousness of the sleeping child. She stirred slightly,
her head moving on the pillow. Mickey almost fell, so great was his
relief. He stepped closer, gazing in awe. The sheared hair had dried in
the night, tumbling into a hundred golden ringlets. The tiny clean face
was white, so white that the blue of the closed eyes showed darkly
through the lids, the blue veins streaked the temples and the little
claws lying relaxed on the sheet. Mickey slowly broke up inside. A big,
hard lump grew in his throat. He shut his lips tight and bored the
tears from his eyes with his wiry fists. He began to mutter his
thoughts to regain self-control.

"Gee kid, but you had me scared to the limit!" he said. "I thought you
were gone, sure. Honest I did! Ain't I glad though! But you're the
whitest thing! You're like----I'll tell you what you're like. You're
like the lily flowers in the store windows at Easter. You're white like
them, and your hair is the little bit of gold decorating them. If I'd
known it was like that I wouldn't a-cut it if I'd spent a month
untangling it. Honest I wouldn't, kid! I'm awful sorry! Gee, but it
would a-been pretty spread over mother's pillow."

Mickey gazed, worshipped and rejoiced as he bent lower from time to
time to watch the fluttering breath.

"You're so clean now you just smell good; but I got to go easy. The
dirt covered you so I didn't see how sick you were. You'll go out like
a candle, that's what you'll do. I mustn't let even the wind blow cold
on you. I couldn't stand it if I was to hurt you. I'd just go and lay
down before the cars or jump down an elevator hole. Gee, I'm glad I
found you! I wouldn't trade you for the smartest dog that's being rode
around in the parks. Nor for the parks! Nor the trees! Nor the birds!
Nor the buildings! Nor the swimming places! Nor the automobiles! Nor
nothing! Not nothing you could mention at all! Not eating! Nor seeing!
Nor having! Not no single thing--nothing at all--Lily!

"Lily!" he repeated. "Little snow white lily! Peaches is a good name
for you if you're referring to sweetness, but it doesn't fit for
colour. Least I never saw none white. Lily fits you better. If you'd
been a dog, I was going to name you Partner. But you're mine just as
much as if you was a dog, so I'll name you if I want to. Lily! That's
what God made you; that's what I'm going to call you."

The God thought, evoked by creation, remained in Mickey's heart. He
glanced at the sky clearing from the graying mists of morning, while
the rumble of the streets came up to him in a dull roar.

"O God, I guess I been forgetting my praying some, since mother went.
I'd nothing but myself and I ain't worth bothering You about. But O
God, if You are going to do any _big_ things to-day, why not do some
for Lily? Can't be many that needs it more. If You saw her yesterday,
You must see if You'll look down now, that she's better off, she's
worlds better off. Wonder if You sent me to get her, so she would be
better off. Gee, why didn't You send one of them millyingaires who
could a-dressed her up, fed her and took her to the country where the
sun would shine on her. Ain't never touched her, I bet a liberty-bird.
But if You did the sending, You sent just me, so she's _my_ job, an'
I'll do her! But I wish You'd help me, or send me help, O God. It's an
awful job to tackle all alone, for I'm going to be scared stiff if she
gets sick. I can tell by how I felt when I thought she was gone. So if
You sent me God, it's up to You to help me. Come on now! If You see the
sparrows when they fall, You jest good naturedly ought to see Lily
Peaches, 'cause she's always been down, and she can't ever get up,
unless we can help her. Help me all You can O God, and send me help to
help her all I can, 'cause she can use all the help she can get, and
then some! Amen!"

Mickey took one of Peaches' hands in his.

"I ain't the time now, but to-night I got to cut your nails and clean
them, then I guess you'll do to start on," he said as he squeezed the
hand. "Lily! Lily Peaches, wake up! It's morning now. I got to go out
with the papers to earn supper to-night. Wake up! I must wash you and
feed you 'fore I go."

Peaches opened her eyes, drawing back startled.

"Easy now!" cautioned Mickey. "Easy now! Don't be scared. Nobody can
'get' you here! What you want for breakfast, Flowersy-girl? Little Lily
white."

An adorable smile illumined the tiny face at the first kindly awakening
it ever had known.

"_You_ won't let them 'get' me, will you?" she triumphed.

"You know it!" he answered conclusively. "Now I'll wash your face, cook
your breakfast, and fix you at the window where maybe you can see birds
going across. Think of that, Lily! Birds!"

"My name's Peaches!" said the child.

"So 'tis!" said Mickey. "But since you arrived to such bettered
conditions, you got to be a lady of fashion. Now Peaches, every single
kid in the Park is named _two_ names, these days. Fellow can't have a
foot race for falling over Mary Elizabeths, and Louisa Ellens. I can't
do so much just to start on, 'cause I can't earn the boodle; fast as I
get it, you're going to line up; but nachally, just at starting you
must begin on the things that are not expensive. Now names don't cost
anything, so I can be giving you six if I like, and you are a lily, so
right now I'm naming you Lily, but two's the style; keep your Peaches,
if it suits you. Lily just flies out of my mouth when I look at you."

This was wonderful. No cursing! No beating! No wailing over a lame-back
brat to feed. Mickey _liked_ to give her breakfast! Mickey named her
for the wonderful flower like granny had picked up before a church one
day, a few weeks ago and in a rare sober moment had carried to her.
Mickey had made her feel clean, so rested, and so fresh she wanted to
roll over the bed. With child impulse she put up her arms. Mickey
stooped to them.

"You goin' to have two names too," she said. "You gotter be fash'nable.
I ist love you for everythin', washin', an' breakfast, an' the bed, an'
winder, an' off the floor; oh I just love you _sick_ for the winder,
an' off the floor. You going to be"--she paused in a deep study to
think of a word anywhere nearly adequate, then ended in a burst that
was her best emanation--"lovest! Mickey-lovest!"

She hugged him closely, then lifted her chin and pursed her lips.
Mickey pulled back, a dull colour in his face.

"Now nix on the mushing!" he said. "I'll stand for a hug once a day,
but nix on the smear!"

"You'd let a dog," she whimpered. "I ain't kissed nothin' since granny
sold the doll a lady gave me the time we went to the doctor's, an' took
the money to get drunk on, an' beat me more'n I needed for a change,
'cause I cried for it. I think you might!"

"Aw well, go on then, if you're going to bawl," said Mickey, "but put
it there!"

He stepped as far back as he could, leaned over, and swept the hair
from his forehead, which he brought in range of her lips. He had to
brace himself to keep from flinching at their cold touch and
straightened in relief.

"Now that's over!" he said briskly. "I'll wash you, and get your
breakfast."

"You do a lot of washin', don't you?" inquired Peaches.

"You want the sleep out of your eyes," coaxed Mickey.

He brought the basin and a cloth, washing the child's face and hands
gently as was in his power.

"Flowersy-girl," he said, "if you'd looked last night like you do this
morning, I'd never tackled getting you here in the world. I'd thought
you'd break sure."

"G'wan kid," she said. "I can stand a lot. I been knocked round somepin
awful. She dragged me by one hand or the hair when she was tight, and
threw me in a corner an' took the"--Peaches glanced over the bed,
refusing to call her former estate by the same name--"took the _place_
herself. You ain't hurting me. You can jerk me a lot."

"I guess you've been jerked enough, Lily Peaches," he said. "I guess
jerkin' ain't going to help your back any. I think we better be easy
with it 'til we lay up the money to Carrel it. He put different legs on
a dog, course he can put a new back on you."

"Dogs doesn't count only with rich folks 'at rides 'em, an' feeds 'em
cake; but where'll you find 'nother girl 'at ull spare her back for me,
Mickey-lovest?" asked Peaches.

"Gee, Lily!" he cried. "I didn't _think_ of that--I wish I hadn't
promised you. Course he could _change_ the backs, but where'd I get
one. I'll just have to let him take mine."

"I don't want no boy's back!" flashed Peaches. "I won't go out an' sell
papers, an' wash you, an' feed you, an' let you stay here in this nice
bed. I don't want no new back, grand like it is here. I won't have no
dog's back, even. I won't have no back!"

"Course I couldn't let you work and take care of me, Lily," he said.
"Course I couldn't! I was just thinking what I _could_ do. I'll write a
letter and ask the Carrel man if a dog's back would do. I could get one
your size at the pound, maybe."

Peaches arose at him with hands set like claws.

"You fool!" she shrieked. "You big damn fool! '_A dog's back!'_ I
won't! You try it an' I'll scratch your eyes out! You stop right now on
backs an' go hell-bent an' get my breakfast! I'm hungry! I like my
back! I will have it! You----"

Mickey snatched his pillow from the floor, using it to press the child
against hers. Then he slipped it down a trifle at one corner and spoke:

"Now you cut that out, Miss Chicken, right off!" he said sternly. "I
wouldn't take no tantrums from a dog, so I won't from you. You'll make
your back worse acting like that, than beating would make it, and
'sides, if you're going to live with me, you must be a lady. No lady
says such words as you used, and neither does no gentleman, 'cause I
don't myself. Now you'll either say, 'Mickey, please get me my
breakfast,' and I'll get you one with a big surprise, or you'll lay
here alone and hungry 'til I come back to-night. And it'll be a whole
day, see?"

"'F I wasn't a pore crippled kid, you wouldn't say that to me," she
wailed.

"And if you wasn't 'a poor crippled kid,' you wouldn't say swearin's to
me," said Mickey, "'cause you know I'd lick the stuffin' out of you,
and if you could see yourself, you'd know that you need stuffin' in,
more than you need it out. I'm 'mazed at you! Forget that you ever
heard such stuff, and be a nice lady, won't you? My time's getting
short and I got to go, or the other kids will sell to my paper men,
then we'll have no supper. Now you say, 'Mickey, please get my
breakfast,' like a lady, or you won't get a bite."

"'Mickey, please get my breakfast,'" she imitated.

Mickey advanced threateningly with the pillow.

"Won't do!" he said. "That ain't like no lady! That's like _me_. You'll
say it like _yourself_, or you won't get it."

She closed her lips, burying her face in her own pillow.

"All right," said Mickey. "Then I'll get my own. If you don't want any,
I'll have twice as much."

He laid the pillow on the foot of the bed, saying politely: "'Scuse me,
Lily, till I get _me_ a bottle of milk."

Soon he returned and with his first glimpse of the bed stood aghast. It
was empty. His eyes searched the room. His pallet on the floor outlined
a tiny form. A dismayed half smile flashed over his face. He took a
step toward her, and then turned, getting out a cloth he had not used
since being alone. Near the bed he set the table and laid a plate,
knife, fork and spoon. Because he was watching Peaches he soon
discovered she was peeking out at him, so he paid strict attention to
the burner he was lighting.

Then he sliced bread, put on a toaster, set the milk on the table,
broke an egg in a saucer, and turned the toast. Soon the odours filled
the room, also a pitiful sound. Mickey knew Peaches must have hurt
herself sliding from the bed, although her arms were strong for the
remainder of her body. She had no way to reach his pallet but to roll
across the floor. She might have bruised herself badly. He was amazed,
disgusted, yet compassionate. He went to her and turned back the
comfort.

"You must be speaking a little louder, Lily," he said gently. "I wasn't
quite hearing you."

Only muffled sobbing. Mickey dropped the cover.

"I want my breakfast," said a very small voice.

"You mean, 'Mickey, please _get_ my breakfast,' Flowersy-girl," he
corrected gently.

"Oh I hurt myself so!" Peaches wailed. "Oh Mickey, I fell an' broke my
back clear in two. 'Tain't like rollin' off my rags; oh Mickey, it's so
_far_ to the floor, from your bed! Oh Mickey, even another girl's back,
or yours, or a dog's, or anybody's wouldn't fix it now. It'll hurt for
days. Mickey, why did I ever? Oh what made me? Mickey-lovest, please,
please put me back on the nice fine bed, an' do please give me some of
that bread."

Mickey lifted her, crooning incoherent things. He wiped her face and
hands, combed her hair, and pushed the table against the bed. He broke
toast in a glass and poured milk over it. Then he cooked the egg and
gave her that, keeping only half the milk and one slice of bread. He
made a sandwich of more bread, and the cheese, put a banana with it,
set a cup of water in reach, and told her that was her lunch; to eat it
when the noon whistles blew. Then he laid all the picture books he had
on the back of the bed, put the money for his papers in his pocket, and
locking her in, ran down Sunrise Alley fast as he could.

He was one hour late. He had missed two regular customers. They must be
made up and more. Light, air, cleanliness, and kindness would increase
Peaches' appetite, which seemed big now for the size of her body.
Mickey's face was very sober when he allowed himself to think of his
undertaking. How would he make it? He had her now, he simply must
succeed. The day was half over before Mickey began to laugh for no
apparent reason. He had realized that she had not said what he had
required of her, after all.

"Gee, I'm up against it," said Mickey. "I didn't s'pose she'd act like
that! I thought she'd keep on being like when she woke up. I never
behaved like that."

Then in swift remorse: "But I had the finest mother a fellow ever had
to tell me, while she ain't had any one, and only got me now, so I'll
have to tell her; course I can't do everything at once. So far as that
goes, she didn't do any worse than the millyingaires' kids in the park
who roll themselves in the dirt, bump their own heads, and scream and
fight. I guess my kid's no worse than other people's. I can train her
like mother did me; then we'll be enough alike we can live together,
and even when she was the worst, I liked her. I liked her cartloads."

So Mickey shouldered the duties of paternity, and began thinking for
his child, his little, neglected, bad, sick child. His wits and feet
always had been nimble; that day he excelled himself. Anxiety as to how
much he must carry home at night to replace what he had spent in moving
Peaches to his room, three extra meals to provide before to-morrow
night, something to interest her through the long day: it was a
contract, surely! Mickey faced it gravely, but he did not flinch. He
did not know how it was to be done, but he did know it must be done.
"_Get_" her they should not. Whatever it had been his mother had feared
for him, nameless though the horror was, from _that_ he must save Lily.
Mickey had thought it must be careless nurses or lack of love.
Yesterday's papers had said there were some children at one of the
Homes, no one ever visited; they were sick for love; would not some
kind people come to see them? It must have been _that_ she feared. He
could not possibly know it was the stigma of having been a charity
child she had been combating with all her power.

They had not "got" him; they must not "get" his Lily; yet stirrings in
Mickey's brain told him he was not going to be sufficient, alone. There
were emergencies he did not know how to manage. He must have help.
Mickey revolved the problem in his worried head without reaching a
solution. His necessity drove him. He darted, dodged and took chances.
Far down the street he selected his victim and studied his method of
assault as he approached; for Mickey did victimize people that day. He
sold them papers when they did not want them. He bettered that and sold
them papers when they had them. He snatched up lost papers, smoothed
and sold them over. Every gay picture or broken toy dropped from an
automobile he caught up and pocketed for her.

A woman stumbled alighting from a passing car. Mickey dropped his
papers and sprang forward. Her weight bore him to the pavement, but he
kept her from falling, and even as he felt her on her feet, he snatched
under the wheels for her purse.

"Is that all your stuff, lady?" he asked.

"Thank you! I think so," she said. "Wait a minute!"

To lend help was an hourly occurrence with Mickey. _She_ had been most
particular to teach him that. He was gathering up and smoothing his
papers several of which were soiled. The woman opened the purse he had
rescued, taking therefrom a bill which she offered him.

"Thanks!" said Mickey. "My shoulder is worth considerable to me; but
nothing like that to you, lady!"

"Well!" she said. "Are you refusing the money?"

"Sure!" said Mickey. "I ain't a beggar! Just a balance on my shoulder
and picking up your purse ain't worth an endowment. I'll take five
cents each for three soiled papers, if you say so."

"You amazing boy!" said the woman. "Don't you understand that if you
hadn't offered your shoulder, I might now be lying senseless? You saved
me a hard fall, while my dress would have been ruined. You step over
here a minute. What's your name?"

"Michael O'Halloran," was the answer.

"Where do you live?"

"Sunrise Alley. It's miles on the cars, then some more walking,"
explained Mickey.

"Whom do you live with?"

"Myself," said Mickey.

"Alone?"

"All but Peaches," said Mickey. "Lily Peaches."

"Who is Lily Peaches?"

"She's about so long"--Mickey showed how long--"and about so wide"--he
showed how wide--"and white like Easter church flowers. Her back's bad.
I'm her governor; she's my child."

"If you won't take the money for yourself, then take it for her,"
offered the woman. "If you have a little sick girl to support, you
surely can use it."

"Umm!" said Mickey. "You kind of ball a fellow up and hang him on the
ropes. Honest you do, lady! I can take care of myself. I know I can,
'cause I've done it three years, but I don't know how I'm goin' to make
it with Lily, for she needs a lot. She may get sick any day, so I ain't
sure how I'm going to manage well with her."

"How long have you taken care of her?"

"Since last night," explained Mickey.

"Oh! How old is she?" Questions seemed endless.

"I don't know," answered Mickey. "Her granny died and left her lying on
rags in a garret. I found her screeching, so I took her to my castle
and washed her, and fed her. You should see her now."

"I believe I should!" said the woman. "Let's go at once. You know
Michael, you can't care for a _girl_. I'll put her in one of the
beautiful Children's Homes--"

"Now nix on the Children's Homes, fair lady!" he cried angrily. "I
guess you'll _find_ her, 'fore you take her! I found her first, and
she's _mine!_ I guess you'll _find_ her, 'fore you take her to a
Children's Home, where the doctors slice up the poor kids for practice
so they'll know how to get money for doing it to the rich ones. I've
_annexed_ Lily Peaches, and you don't '_get_' her! See?"

"I see," said the woman. "But you're mistaken----"

"'Scuse crossing your wire, but I don't think I _am_," said Mickey.
"The only way you can know, is to have been there yourself. I don't
think you got that kind of a start, or want it for kids of your own. My
mother killed herself to keep me out of it, and if it had been so
grand, she'd _wanted_ me there. Nix on the Orphings' Home talk. Lily
ain't going to be raised in droves, nor flocks, nor herds! See? Lily's
going to have a home of her own, and a man to take care of her by
herself."

Mickey backed away, swallowing a big lump in his throat, and blinking
down angry tears.

"'Smorning," he said, "I asked God to help me, and for a minute I was
so glad, 'cause I thought He'd helped by sending _you_, so you could
tell me how to do; but if God can't beat _you_, I can get along by
myself."

"You _can't_ take care of a girl by yourself," she insisted. "The _law_
won't allow you."

"Oh can't I?" scoffed Mickey. "Well you're mistaken, 'cause I am! And
getting along bully! You ought to seen her last night, and then this
morning. Next time I yell for help, I won't ask to have anybody sent,
I'll ask Him to help me save our souls, myself. Ever see that big,
white, wonderful Jesus at the Cathedral door, ma'am, holding the little
child in His arms so loving? I don't s'pose He stopped to ask whether
it was a girl, or a boy, 'fore He took it up; He just opened his arms
to the first _child_ that _needed_ Him. And if I remember right, He
didn't say: 'Suffer little children to be sent to Orphings' Homes.'
Mammy never read it to me _that_ way. It was suffer them to come to
'Me,' and be took up, and held tender. See? Nix on the Orphings' Home
people. They ain't in my class. Beaucheous lady, adoo! Farewell! I
depart!"

Mickey wheeled, vanishing. It was a wonderful exhibition of curves,
leaps, and darts. He paused for breath when he felt safe.

"So that's the dope!" he marvelled. "I can't take care of a girl? Going
to take her away from me? I'd like to know _why?_ Men all the time take
care of women. I see boys taking care of girls I know their mothers
left with them, every day--I'd like to know _why_. Mother said I was to
take care of _her_. She said that's what men were made _for_. 'Cause
_he didn't_ take care of her, was why she was glad my father was
_dead_. I guess I know what I'm doing! But I've learned something! Nix
on the easy talk after this; and telling anybody you meet all you know.
Shut mouth from now on. 'What's your name, little boy?' 'Andrew
Carnegie.' 'Where d'you live?' 'Castle on the Hudson!' A mouth just
tight shut about Lily, after this! And nix on the Swell Dames! Next one
can bust her crust for all I care! I won't touch her!"

On the instant, precisely that thing occurred, at Mickey's very feet.
With his lips not yet closed, he knelt to shove his papers under a
woman's head, then went racing up the stone steps she had rolled down,
his quick eye catching and avoiding the bit of fruit on which she had
slipped. He returned in a second with help. As the porter lifted the
inert body, Mickey slid his hands under her head, and advised: "Keep
her straight!" Into one of the big hospitals he helped carry a blue and
white clad nurse, on and on, up elevators and into a white porcelain
room where they laid her on a glass table. Mickey watched with
frightened eyes. Doctors and nurses came running. He stood waiting for
his papers. He was rather sick, yet he remembered he had five there he
must sell.

"Better clear out of here now!" suggested a surgeon.

"My papers!" said Mickey. "She fell right cross my feet. I slid them
under, to make her head more pillowlike on the stones. Maybe I can sell
some of them."

The surgeon motioned to a nurse at the door.

"Take this youngster to the office and pay him for the papers he has
spoiled," he ordered.

"Will she--is she going to----?" wavered Mickey.

"I'm not sure," said the surgeon. "From the bleeding probably
concussion; but she will live. Do you know how she came to fall?"

"There was a smear of something on the steps she didn't see," explained
Mickey.

"Thank you! Go with the nurse," said the surgeon. Then to an attendant:
"Take Miss Alden's number, and see to her case. She was going after
something."

Mickey turned back. "Paper, maybe," he suggested, pointing to her
closed hand. The surgeon opened it and found a nickel. He handed it to
Mickey. "If you have a clean one left, let this nurse take it to Miss
Alden's case, and say she has been assigned other duty. See to sending
a substitute at once."

Every paper proved to be marked.

"I can bring you a fresh one in a second, lady," offered Mickey. "I got
the money."

"All right," she said. "Wait with it in the office and then I'll pay
you."

"I'm sent for a paper. I'm to be let in as soon as I get it," announced
Mickey to the porter. "I ain't taking chances of being turned down," he
said to himself, as he stopped a second to clean the step.

He returned and was waiting when the nurse came. She was young and fair
faced; her hair was golden, and as she paid Mickey for his papers he
wondered how soon he could have Lily looking like her. He took one long
survey as he pocketed the money, thinking he would rush home at once;
but he wanted to fix in his mind how Lily must appear, to be right, for
he thought a nurse in the hospital would be right.

The nurse knew she was beautiful, and to her Mickey's long look was
tribute, male tribute; a small male indeed, but such a winning one; so
she took the occasion to be her loveliest, and smile her most
attractive smile. Mickey surrendered. He thought she was like an angel,
that made him think of Heaven, Heaven made him think of God, God made
him think of his call for help that morning, the call made him think of
the answer, the beautiful woman before him made him think that possibly
_she_ might be the answer instead of the other one. He rather doubted
it, but it might be a chance. Mickey was alert for chances for Peaches,
so he smiled again, then he asked: "Are you in such an awful hurry?"

"I think we owe you more than merely paying for your papers," she said.
"What is it?"

Again Mickey showed how long and how wide Lily was. "And with hair like
yours, and eyes and cheeks that would be, if she had her chance, and
nobody to give her that chance but just me," he said. "Me and Lily are
all each other's got," he explained hastily. "We're _home_ folks. We're
a family. We don't want no bunching in corps and squads. We're nix on
the Orphings' Home business; but you _must know_, ma'am--would you, oh
would you tell me just how I should be taking care of her? I'm doing
everything like my mother did to me; but I was well and strong. Maybe
Lily, being a girl, should have things different. A-body so beautiful
as you, would tell me, wouldn't you?"

Then a miracle happened. The nurse, so clean she smelled like a drug
store, so lovely she shone as a sunrise, laid an arm across Mickey's
shoulders. "You come with me," she said. She went to a little room, and
all alone she asked Mickey questions; with his eyes straight on hers,
he answered. She told him surely he could take care of Lily. She
explained how. She rang for a basket and packed it full of things he
must have, showing him how to use them. She told him to come each
Saturday at four o'clock, as she was going off duty, and tell her how
he was getting along. She gave him a thermometer, and told him how to
learn if the child had fever. She told him about food, and she put in
an ointment, instructing him to rub the little back with it, so the bed
would not be so tiresome. She showed him how to arrange the pillows;
when he left, the tears were rolling down Mickey's cheeks. Both of them
were so touched she laid her arm across his shoulder again and went as
far as the elevator, while a passport to her at any time was in his
pocket.

"I 'spect other folks tell you you are beautiful like flowers, or
music, or colours," said Mickey in farewell, "but you look like a
window in Heaven to me, and I can see right through you to God and all
the beautiful angels; but what gets me is why the other one had to bust
her crust, to make you come true!"

The nurse was laughing and wiping her eyes at the same time. Mickey
gripped the basket until his hands were stiff as he sped homeward at
least two hours early and happy about it. At the last grocery he
remembered every word and bought bread, milk, and fruit with care "for
a sick lady" he explained, so the grocer, who knew him, used care.
Triumphing Mickey climbed the stairs. He paused a second in deep
thought at the foot of the last flight, then ascended whistling to let
Peaches know that he was coming, then on his threshold recited:

"_One't a little kid named Lily,
  Was so sweet she'd knock you silly,
Yellow hair in millying curls,
  Beat a mile all other girls._"

She was on his bed; she was on his pillow; she had been lonely; both
arms were stretched toward him.

"Mickey, hurry!" she cried. "Mickey, lemme hold you 'til I'm sure!
Mickey, all day I didn't hardly durst breathe, fear the door'd open an'
they'd '_get_' me. Oh Mickey, you won't let them, will you?"

Mickey dropped his bundles and ran to the bed. This time he did not
shrink from her wavering clasp. It was delight to come home to
something alive, something that belonged to him, something to share
with, something to work and think for, something that depended upon him.

"Now nix on the scare talk," he comforted. "Forget it! I've lived here
three years alone, and not a single time has anybody come to 'get' me,
so they won't you. There's only one thing can happen us. If I get sick
or spend too much on eating, and don't pay the rent, the man that owns
this building will fire us out. If we, _if we_" Mickey repeated
impressively, "pay our rent regular, in advance, nobody will _ever_
come, not _ever_, so don't worry."

"Then what's all them bundles?" fretted Peaches. "You ortn't a-got so
much. You'll never get the _next_ rent paid! They'll 'get' me sure."

"Now throttle your engine," advised Mickey. "Stop your car! Smash down
on the brakes! They are things the city you reside in furnishes its
taxpayers, or something like that. I pay my rent, so this is my
_share_, and it's things for you: to make you comfortable. Which are
you worst--tiredest, or hungriest, or hottest?"

"I don't know," she said.

"Then I'll make a clean get-a-way," said Mickey. "Washing is cooling;
and it freshens you up a lot."

So Mickey brought his basin again, bathing the tired child gently as
any woman could have done it.

"See what I got!" he cried as he opened bundles and explained. "I'm
going to see if you have fever."

Peaches rebelled at the thermometer.

"Now come on in," urged Mickey. "Slide straight home to your base! If
I'm going to take care of you, I'm going to right. You can't lay here
eating wrong things if you have _fever_. No-sir-ee! You don't get to
see in any more of these bundles, nor any supper, nor talked to any
more, 'til you put this little glass thing under your tongue and hold
it there just this way"--Mickey showed how--"three minutes by the
clock, then I'll know what to do with you next. I'll sit beside you,
and hold your hands, and tell you about the pretty lady that sent it."

Mickey wiped the thermometer on the sheet, then presented it. Peaches
took one long look at him and opened her lips. Mickey inserted the
tube, set the clock in sight, and taking both her hands he held them
closely and talked as fast as he could to keep her from using them. He
had not half finished the day when the time was up. If he had done it
right, Peaches had very little, if any, fever.

"Now turn over so I can rub your back to make it all nice and rested,"
he said. "And then I'll get supper."

"I don't want my back rubbed," she protested. "My back's all right now."

"Nothing to do with going to have it rubbed," said Mickey. "It would be
a silly girl who would have a back that wouldn't walk, and then
wouldn't even try having it doctored, so that it would get better. Just
try Lily, and if it doesn't _help_, I won't do it any more."

Peaches took another long look at Mickey, questioning in nature, then
turned her back to him.

"Gosh, kid! Your back looks just like horses' going to the fertilizer
plant," he said.

"Ain't that swearin's?" asked Peaches promptly.

"First-cousin," answered Mickey. "'Scuse me Lily. If you could see your
back, you'd 'scuse worse than that."

"Feelin' ull do fer me," said Peaches. "I live wid it." "Honest kid,
I'm scared to touch you," he wavered.

"Aw g'wan!" said Peaches. "I ain't goin' screechin' even if you hurt
awful, an' you touch like a sparrer lookin' for crumbs. Mickey, can we
put out a few?"

"For the sparrows? Sure!" cried Mickey. "They're the ones that God sees
especial when they fall. Sure! Put out some in a minute. Still now!"

Mickey poured on ointment, then began softly rubbing it into the
dreadful back. His face was drawn with anxiety and filled with horror.
He was afraid, but the nurse said this he should do, while Mickey's
first lesson had been implicit obedience. So he rubbed gently as he was
fearful; when Peaches made no complaint, a little stronger, and a
little stronger, until he was tired. Then he covered her, telling her
to lie on it, and see how it felt. Peaches looked at him with wondering
eyes.

"Mickey," she said, "nothin" in all my life ever felt like that, an'
the nice cool washin' you do. Mickey-lovest, nex' time I act mean 'bout
what you want to do to me, slap me good, an' hold me, an' go on an'
_do_ it!"

"Now nix on the beating," said Mickey. "I never had any from my mother;
but the kids who lost sales to me took my nickels, and give me plenty.
You ought to know, Lily, that I'm trying hard as I can to make you feel
good; and to take care of you. What I want to do, I think will make you
_better_, so I'm just nachally going to _do_ it, 'cause you're mine,
and you got to do what I say. But I won't say anything that'll hurt you
and make you worse. If you must take time to think new things over, I
can wait; but I can't hit you Lily, you're too little, too sick, and I
like you too well. I wish you'd be a lady! I wish you wouldn't ever be
bad again!"

"Hoh I feel so good!" Peaches stretched like a kitten. "Mickey, bet I
can walk 'fore long if you do that often! Mickey, I just love you, an'
_love_ you. Mickey, say that at the door over again."

"What?" queried Mickey.

"'One't a little kid named Lily,'" prompted Peaches.

Mickey laughed and obeyed.

Neatly he put away all that had been supplied him; before lighting the
burner he gave Lily a drink of milk and tried arranging both pillows to
prop her up as he had been shown. When the water boiled he dropped in
two bouillon cubes the nurse had given him, and set out some crackers
he had bought. He put the milk in two cups, and when he cut the bread,
he carefully collected every crumb, putting it on the sill in the hope
that a bird might come. The thieving sparrows, used to watching windows
and stealing from stores set out to cool, were soon there. Peaches, to
whom anything with feathers was a bird, was filled with joy. The odour
of the broth was delicious. Mickey danced, turned handsprings, and made
the funniest remarks. Then he fixed the bowl on a paper, broke the
crackers in her broth, growing unspeakably happy at her delight as she
tasted it.

"Every Saturday you get a box of that from the Nurse Lady," he boasted.
"Pretty soon you'll be so fat I can't carry you and so well you can
have supper ready when I come, then we can----" Mickey stopped short.
He had started to say, "go to the parks," but if other ladies were like
the first one he had talked with, and if, as she said, the law would
not let him keep Peaches, he had better not try to take her where
people would see her.

"Can what?" asked Peaches.

"Have the most fun!" explained Mickey. "We can sit in the window to see
the sky and birds; you can have the shears and cut pictures from the
papers I'll bring you, while I'll read all my story books to you. I got
three that She gave me for Christmas presents, so I could learn to read
them----"

"Mickey could I ever learn to read them?"

"Sure!" cried Mickey. "Surest thing you know! You are awful smart,
Lily. You can learn in no time, and then you can read while I'm gone,
so it won't seem long. I'll teach you. Mother taught me. I can read the
papers I sell. Honest I can. I often pick up torn ones I can bring to
you. It's lots of fun to know what's going on. I sell many more by
being able to tell what's in them than kids who can't read. I look all
over the front page and make up a spiel on the cars. I always fold my
papers neat and keep them clean. To-day it was like this: 'Here's your
nice, clean, morning paper! Sterilized! Deodorized! Vulcanized!'"

"Mickey what does that mean?" asked Peaches.

"Now you see how it comes in!" said Mickey. "If you could read the
papers, you'd _know_. 'Sterilized,' is what they do to the milk in hot
weather to save the slum kids. That's us, Lily. 'Deodorized,' is taking
the bad smell out of things. 'Vulcanized,' is something they do to
stiffen things. I guess it's what your back needs."

"Is all them things done to the papers?" asked Peaches.

"Well, not _all_ of them," laughed Mickey, "but they are starting in on
_some_ of them, and all would be a good thing. The other kids who can't
read don't know those words, so I study them out and use them; it
catches the crowd for they laugh, and then pay me for making them. See?
This world down on the streets is in such a mix a laugh is the scarcest
thing there is; so they _pay_ for it. No grouchy,
sad-cat-working-on-your-sympathy kid sells many. I can beat one with a
laugh every inning."

"What's 'inning,' Mickey?" came the next question.

"Playin' a side at a ball game. Now Ty Cobb----"

"Go on with what you say about the papers," interrupted Peaches.

"All right!" said Mickey. "'Here's your nice, clean morning paper!
Sterilized! Deodorized! Vulcanized! I _like_ to sell them. You _like_
to buy them! _Sometimes_ I sell them! Sometimes I _don't!_ Latest war
news! Japan takes England! England takes France! France takes Germany!
Germany takes Belgium! Belgium takes the cake! Here's your paper! Nice
clean paper! Rush this way! Change your change for a paper! Yes, I
_like_ to sell them----' and on and on that way all day, 'til they're
gone and every one I pick up and smooth out is gone, and if they're
torn and dirty, I carry them back on the cars and sell them for pennies
to the poor folks walking home."

"Mickey, will we be slum kids always?" she asked.

"Not on your tin type!" cried Mickey.

"If this is slum kids, I like it!" protested Peaches.

"Well, Sunrise Alley ain't so slummy as where you was, Lily," explained
the boy.

"This is grand," said Peaches "Fine an' grand! No lady needn't have
better!"

"She wouldn't say so," said Mickey. "But Lily, you got something most
of the millyingaire ladies hasn't."

"What Mickey?" she asked interestedly.

"One man all to yourself, who will do what you want, if you ask pretty,
and he ain't going to drag you 'round and make you do things you don't
like to, and hit you, and swear at you, and get drunk. Gee, I bet the
worst you ever had didn't hurt more than I've seen some of the swell
dames hurt sometimes. It'd make you sick Lily."

"I guess 'at it would," said the girl, "'cause granny told me the same
thing. Lots of times she said 'at she couldn't see so much in bein'
rich if you had to be treated like she saw rich ladies. She said all
they got out of it was nice dresses an' struttin' when their men wasn't
'round; nelse the money was theirn, an' nen they made the men pay. She
said it was 'bout half and half."

"So 'tis!" cried Mickey. "Tell you Lily, don't let's ever _be_ rich!
Let's just have enough."

"Mickey, what is 'enough?'" asked Peaches.

"Why plenty, but not too much!" explained Mickey judicially. "Not
enough to fight over! Just enough to be comfortable."

"Mickey, I'm comf'rable as nangel now."

"Gee, I'm glad, Lily," said Mickey in deep satisfaction. "Maybe He
heard my S.O.S. after all, and you just being _comfortable_ is the
answer."



CHAPTER IV


"_Bearer of Morning_"


"Douglas," called Leslie over the telephone, "I have developed nerves."

"Why?" inquired he.

"Dad has just come in with a pair of waist-high boots, and a scalping
knife, I think," answered Leslie. "Are you going to bring a blanket and
a war bonnet?"

"The blanket, I can; the bonnet, I might," said Douglas.

"How early will you be ready?" she asked.

"Whenever you say," he replied.

"Five?" she queried.

"Very well!" he answered. "And Leslie, I would suggest a sweater, short
stout skirts, and heavy gloves. Do you know if you are susceptible to
poison vines?"

"I have handled anything wild as I pleased all my life," she said. "I
am sure there is no danger from that source; but Douglas, did you ever
hear of, or see, a massasauga?"

"You are perfectly safe on that score," he said. "I am going along
especially to take care of you."

"All right, then I won't be afraid of snakes," she said.

"I have waders, too," he said, "and I'm going into the swamp with you.
Wherever you wish to go, I will precede you and test the footing."

"Very well! I have lingered on the borders long enough. To-morrow will
be my initiation. By night I'll have learned the state of my artistic
ability with natural resources, and I'll know whether the heart of the
swamp is the loveliest sight I ever have seen, and I will have proved
how I 'line up' with a squaw-woman."

"Leslie, I'm now reading a most interesting human document," said
Douglas, "and in it I have reached the place where Indians in the heart
of terrific winter killed and heaped up a pile of deer in early day in
Minnesota, then went to camp rejoicing, while their squaws were left to
walk twenty-eight miles and each carry back on her shoulder a deer
frozen stiff. Leslie, you don't line up! You are not expected to."

"Do you believe that, Douglas?" asked the girl.

"It's history dear, not fiction," he answered.

"Douglas!" she warned.

"Leslie, I beg your pardon! That was a slip!" cried he.

"Oh!" she breathed.

"Leslie, will you do something for me?" he questioned.

"What?" she retorted.

"Listen with one ear, stop the other, and tell me what you hear," he
ordered.

"Yes," she said.

"Did you hear, Leslie?" he asked anxiously.

"I heard something, I don't know what," she answered.

"Can you describe it, Leslie?"

"Just a rushing, beating sound! What is it Douglas?"

"My heart, Leslie, sending to you each throbbing stroke of my manhood
pouring out its love for you."

"Oh-h-h!" cried the astonished girl.

"Will you listen again, Leslie?" begged the man.

"No!" she said.

"You don't want to hear what my heart has to say to you?" he asked.

"Not over a wire! Not so far away!" she panted.

"Then I'll shorten the distance. I'm coming, Leslie!"

"What shall I do?" she gasped. She stared around her, trying to decide
whether she should follow her impulse to hide, when her father entered
the room.

"Daddy," she cried, "if you want to be nice to me, go away a little
while. Go somewhere a few minutes and stay until I call you."

"Leslie, what's the matter?" he asked.

"I've been talking to Douglas, and Daddy, he's coming like a charging
Highland trooper. Daddy, I heard him drop the receiver and start.
Please, please go away a minute. Even the dearest father in the world
can't do anything now! We must settle this ourselves."

"I'm not to be allowed a word?" he protested.

"Daddy, you've had two years! If you know anything to say against
Douglas and haven't said it in all that time, why should you begin now?
You couldn't help knowing! Daddy, do go! There he is! I hear him!"

Mr. Winton took his daughter in his arms, kissed her tenderly, and left
the room. A second later Douglas Bruce entered. Rushing to Leslie he
caught her to his breast roughly, while with a strong hand he pressed
her ear against his heart.

"Now you listen, my girl!" he cried. "You listen at close range."

Leslie remained quiet a long second. Then she lifted her face,
adorable, misty eyed and tenderly smiling.

"Douglas, I never listened to a heart before! How do I know what it is
saying? I can't tell whether it is talking about me or protesting
against the way you've been rushing around!" "No levity, my lady," he
said grimly. "This is serious business. You listen while I interpret. I
love you, Leslie! Every beat, every stroke, love for you. I claim you!
My mate! My wife! I want you!"

He held her from him, looking into her eyes.

"Now Leslie, the answer!" he cried. "May I listen to it or will you
tell me? _Is_ there any answer? What is _your_ heart saying? May I hear
or will you tell me?"

"I want to tell you!" said the girl. "I love you, Douglas! Every beat,
every stroke, love for you."

Early the next morning they inspected their equipment carefully, then
drove north to the tamarack swamp, where they arranged that Leslie and
Douglas were to hunt material, while Mr. Winton and the driver went to
the nearest Indian settlement to find the squaw who had made the other
basket, and bring her to the swamp.

If you have experienced the same emotions you will know how Douglas and
Leslie felt when hand in hand they entered the swamp on a perfect
morning in late May. If you have not, mere words are inadequate.

Through fern and brake head high, through sumac, willow, elder,
buttonbush, gold-yellow and blood-red osiers, past northern holly, over
spongy moss carpet of palest silvery green up-piled for ages, over
red-veined pitcher plants spilling their fullness, among scraggy,
odorous tamaracks, beneath which cranberries and rosemary were
blooming; through ethereal pale mists of dawn, in their ears lark songs
of morning from the fields, hermit thrushes in the swamp, bell birds
tolling molten notes, in a minor strain a swelling chorus of sparrows,
titmice, warblers, vireos, went two strong, healthy young people newly
promised for "better or worse." They could only look, stammer, flush,
and utter broken exclamations, all about "better." They could not
remotely conceive that life might serve them the cruel trick of "worse."

Leslie sank to her knees. Douglas lifted her up, set her on the firmest
location he could see, adoring her with his eyes and reverent touch.
Since that first rough grasp as he drew her to him, Leslie had felt
positively fragile in his hands. She smiled at him her most beautiful
smile when wide-eyed with emotion.

"Douglas, why just now, when you've waited two years?" she asked.

"Wanted a degree of success to offer," he answered.

Leslie disdained the need for success.

"Wanted you to have time to know me as completely as possible."

Leslie intimated that she could learn faster.

"Wanted to have the acknowledged right to put my body between yours and
any danger this swamp might have to offer to-day."

"Exactly what I thought!" cried she.

"Wise girl," commented the man.

"Douglas, I must hurry!" said Leslie. "It may take a long time to find
the flowers I want, while I've no idea what I shall do for a basket. I
saw osiers yellow and red in quantities, but where are the orchids?"

"We must make our way farther in and search," he said.

"Douglas, listen!" breathed Leslie.

"I hear exquisite music," he answered.

"But don't you recognize it?" she cried.

"It does seem familiar, but I am not sufficiently schooled in music----"

The girl began softly to whistle.

"By Jove!" cried the man. "What is that Leslie?"

"Di Provenza, from Traviata," she answered. "But I must stop listening
for birds Douglas, when I can scarcely watch for flowers or vines. I
have to keep all the time looking to make sure that you are really my
man."

"And I, that you are my woman. Leslie, that expression and this
location, the fact that you are in competition with a squaw and the
Indian talk we have indulged in lately, all conspire to remind me that
a few days ago, while I was still a 'searcher' myself, I read a poem
called 'Song of the Search' that was the biggest thing of its kind that
I have yet found in our language. It was so great that I reread it
until I am sure I can do it justice. Listen my 'Bearer of Morning,' my
'Bringer of Song----'"

Douglas stood straight as the tamaracks, his feet sinking in "the
little moss," while from his heart he quoted Constance Skinner's
wonderful poem:

"_I descend through the forest alone. Rose-flushed are the willows,
stark and a-quiver, In the warm sudden grasp of Spring; Like a woman
when her lover has suddenly, swiftly taken her. I hear the secret
rustle of little leaves, Waiting to be born. The air is a wind of love
From the wings of eagles mating---- O eagles, my sky is dark with your
wings! The hills and the waters pity me, The pine-trees reproach me.
The little moss whispers under my feet, "Son of Earth, Brother, Why
comest thou hither alone?" Oh, the wolf has his mate on the
mountain---- Where art thou, Spring-daughter? I tremble with love as
reeds by the river, I burn as the dusk in the red-tented west, I call
thee aloud as the deer calls the doe, I await thee as hills wait the
morning, I desire thee as eagles the storm; I yearn to thy breast as
night to the sea, I claim thee as the silence claims the stars. O
Earth, Earth, great Earth, Mate of God and mother of me, Say, where is
she, the Bearer of Morning, My Bringer of Song? Love in me waits to be
born, Where is She, the Woman?_

"'Where is she, the Woman?' The answer is 'Here!' 'Bearer of Morning,'
'Bringer of Song,' I adore you!"

"Oh Douglas, how beautiful!" cried Leslie. "My Man, can we think of
anything save ourselves to-day? Can we make that basket?"

"It would be a bad start to give up our first undertaking together," he
said.

"Of course!" she cried. "We must! We simply must find things. Father
may call any minute. Let go my hand and follow behind me. Keep close,
Douglas!"

"I should go before to clear the way," he suggested.

"No, I may miss rare flowers if you do," she objected.

"Go slowly, so I can watch before and overhead."

"Yes!" she answered. "There! There, Douglas!"

"Ah! There they are!" he exulted.

"But I can't take them!" she protested.

"Only a few, Leslie. Look before you! See how many there are!" he said.

"Douglas, could there be more wonderful flowers than the moccasins and
slippers?" she asked.

"Scarcely more wonderful; there might be more delicate and lovely!"

"Farther! Let us go farther!" she urged.

Her cry closed the man's arms around her.

Then there was a long silence during which they stood on the edge of a
small open space breathlessly worshipping, but it was the Almighty they
were now adoring. Here the moss lay in a flat carpet, tinted deeper
green. Water willow rolled its ragged reddish-tan hoops, with swelling
bloom and leaf buds. Overflowing pitcher plants grew in irregular beds,
on slender stems, lifting high their flat buds. But scattered in groups
here and there, sometimes with massed similar colours, sometimes in
clumps and variegated patches, stood the rare, early fringed orchis,
some almost white, others pale lavender and again the deeper colour of
the moccasins; while everywhere on stems, some a foot high, nodded the
exquisite lavender and white showy orchis.

"Count!" he commanded.

Leslie pointed a slender finger indicating each as she spoke: "One,
two, three--thirty-two, under the sweep of your arms, Douglas! And
more! More by the hundred! Surely if we are careful not to kill them,
the Lord won't mind if we take out a few for people to see, will He?"

"He must have made them to be seen!" said Douglas.

"And worshipped!" cried the girl.

"Douglas, why didn't the squaw----?" asked Leslie.

"Maybe she didn't come this far," he said. "Perhaps she knows by
experience that these are too fragile to remove. You may not be able to
handle them, Leslie."

"I'm going to try," she said. "But first I must make my basket. We'll
go back to the osiers to weave it and then come here to fill it. Oh
Douglas! Did you ever see such flower perfection in all your life?"

"Only in books! In my home country applied botany is a part of every
man's education. I never have seen ragged or fringed orchids growing
before. I have read of many fruitless searches for the white ones."

"So have I. They seem to be the rarest. Douglas, look there!"

"There" was a group of purple-lavender, white-lipped bloom, made by
years of spreading from one root, until above the rank moss and beneath
the dark tamarack branch the picture appeared inconceivably delicate.

"Yes! The most exquisite flowers I ever have seen!"

"And there, Douglas!" She pointed to another group. "Just the shade of
the lavender on the toe of the moccasin--and in a great ragged mass!
Would any one believe it?"

"Not without seeing it," he said emphatically.

"And there, Douglas! Exactly the colour of the moccasins--see that
cluster! There are no words, Douglas!"

"Shall you go farther?" he asked.

"No," she answered. "I'm going back to weave my basket. There is
nothing to surpass the orchids in rarity and wondrous beauty."

"Good!" he cried. "I'll go ahead and you follow."

So they returned to the osiers. Leslie pondered deeply a few seconds,
then resolutely putting Douglas aside, she began cutting armloads of
pale yellow osiers. Finding a suitable place to work, she swiftly and
deftly selected perfect, straight evenly coloured ones, cutting them
the same length, then binding the tip ends firmly with raffia she had
brought to substitute for grass. Then with fine slips she began
weaving, gradually spreading the twigs while inwardly giving thanks for
the lessons she had taken in basketry. At last she held up a big,
pointed, yellow basket.

"Ready!" she said.

"Beautiful!" cried Douglas.

Leslie carefully lined the basket with moss in which the flowers grew,
working the heads between the open spaces she had left. She bent three
twigs, dividing her basket top in exact thirds. One of these she filled
with the whitest, one with stronger, and one with the deepest lavender,
placing the tallest plants in the centre so that the outside ones would
show completely. Then she lifted by the root exquisite showy orchis,
lavender-hooded, white-lipped, the tiniest plants she could select and
set them around the edge. She bedded the moss-wrapped roots in the
basket and began bordering the rim and entwining the handle with a
delicate vine. She looked up at Douglas, her face thrilled with
triumph, flushed with exertion, her eyes humid with feeling, while he
gazed at her stirred to the depth of his heart with sympathy and the
wonder of possession.

"'Bearer of Morning,' you win!" he cried triumphantly. "There is no use
going farther. Let me carry that to your father, and he too will say
so."

"I have a reason for working out our plan," she said.

"Yes? May I know?" he asked.

"Surely!" she answered. "You remember what you told me about the
Minturns. I can't live in a city and not have my feelings harrowed
every day, and while I'd like to change everything wrong, I know I
can't all of it, so what I can't cope with must be put aside; but this
refuses, it is insistent. When you really think of it, that is so
_dreadful_, Douglas. If they once felt what we do now, could it _all_
go? There must be something left! You mention him oftener than any
other one man, so you must admire him deeply; I know her as well as any
woman I meet in society, better than most; I had thought of asking them
to be the judges. She is interested in music and art; it would please
her and be perfectly natural for me to ask her; you are on intimate
terms with him from your offices being opposite; there could be no
suspicion of any ulterior motive in having them. I don't know that it
would accomplish anything, but it would let them know, to begin with,
that we consider them friends; so it would be natural for them to come
with us; if we can't manage more than that to-day, it will give us
ground to try again."

"Splendid!" he said. "A splendid plan! It would let them see that at
least our part of the world thinks of them together, and expects them
to be friends. Splendid!"

"I have finished," said Leslie.

"I quite agree," answered Douglas. "No one could do better. That is the
ultimate beauty of the swamp made manifest. There is the horn! Your
father is waiting."

A surprise was also waiting. Mr. Winton had not only found the squaw
who brought the first basket, but he had made her understand so
thoroughly what was wanted that she had come with him, while at his
suggestion she had replaced the moccasin basket as exactly as she could
and also made an effort at decoration. She was smiling woodenly when
Leslie and Douglas approached, but as Leslie's father glimpsed and
cried out over her basket, the squaw frowned, drawing back.

"Where you find 'em?" she demanded.

"In the swamp!" Leslie nodded backward.

The squaw grunted disapprovingly. "Lowry no buy 'em! Sell slipper! Sell
moccasin! No sell weed!"

Leslie looked with shining eyes at her father.

"That lies with Lowry," he said. "I'll drive you there and bring you
back, and you'll have the ride and the money for your basket. That's
all that concerns you. We won't come here to make any more."

The squaw smiled again, so they started to the city. They drove
straight to the Winton residence for the slippers. While Mr. Winton and
the squaw went to take the baskets to Lowry's and leave Douglas at his
office, Leslie in his car went to Mrs. Minturn's.

"Don't think I'm crazy," laughed Leslie, as Mrs. Minturn came down to
meet her. "I want to use your exquisite taste and art instinct a few
minutes. Please do come with me. We've a question up. You know the
wonderful stuff the Indians bring down from the swamps to sell on the
streets and to the florists?"

"Indeed yes! I often buy of them in the spring. I love the wild white
violets especially. What is it you want?"

"Why you see," said Leslie, looking eagerly at Mrs. Minturn, "you see
there are three flower baskets at Lowry's. Douglas Bruce is going to
buy me the one I want most for a present, to celebrate a very important
occasion, and I can't tell which is most artistic. I want you to
decide. Your judgment is so unfailing. Will you come? Only a little
spin!"

"Leslie, you aren't by any chance asking me to select your betrothal
gift, are you?"

Leslie's face was rose-flushed smiling wonderment. She had hastily
slipped off her swamp costume. Joy that seemed as if it must be
imperishable shone on her brightly illumined face. With tightly closed,
smile-curved lips she vigorously nodded. The elder woman bent to kiss
her.

"Of course I'll come!" she laughed. "I feel thrilled, and flattered.
And I congratulate you sincerely. Bruce is a fine man. He'll make a big
fortune soon."

"Oh I hope not!" said Leslie.

"Are you crazy?" demanded Mrs. Minturn. "You said you didn't want me to
think you so!"

"You see," said Leslie, "Mr. Bruce has a living income; so have I, from
my mother. Fortunes seem to me to work more trouble than they do good.
I believe poor folks are happiest, they get most out of life, and after
all what gives deep, heart-felt joy, is the thing to live for, isn't
it? But we must hurry. Mr. Lowry didn't promise to hold the flowers
long."

"I'll be ready in a minute, but I see where Douglas Bruce is giving you
wrong ideas," said Mrs. Minturn. "He needs a good talking to. Money is
the only thing worth while, and the comfort and the pleasure it brings.
Without it you are crippled, handicapped, a slave crawling while others
step over you. I'll convince _him!_ Back in a minute."

When Mrs. Minturn returned she was in a delightful mood, her face
eager, her dress beautiful. Leslie wondered if this woman ever had
known a care, then remembered that not long before she had lost a
little daughter. Leslie explained as they went swiftly through the
streets.

"You won't mind waiting only a second until I run up to Mr. Bruce's
offices?" she asked.

He was ready, so together they stopped at Mr. Minturn's door. Douglas
whispered: "Watch the office boy. He is Minturn's Little Brother I told
you about."

Leslie nodded and entered gaily.

"Please ask Mr. Minturn if he will see Miss Winton and Mr. Douglas
Bruce a minute?" she said.

An alert, bright-faced lad bowed politely, laid aside a book and
entered the inner office.

"Now let me!" said Leslie. "Good May, Mr. Minturn!" she cried.
"Positively enchanting! Take that forbidding look off your face. Come
for a few minutes Maying! It will do you much good, and me more. All my
friends are pleasuring me to-day. So I want as good a friend of Mr.
Bruce as you, to be in something we have planned. You just must!"

"Has something delightful happened?" asked Mr. Minturn, retaining the
hand Leslie offered him as he turned to Douglas Bruce.

"You must ask Miss Winton," he said.

Mr. Minturn's eyes questioned her sparkling face, while again with
closed lips she nodded. "My most earnest congratulations to each of
you. May life grant you even more than you hope for, and from your
faces, that is no small wish to make for you. Surely I'll come! What is
it you have planned?"

"Something lovely!" said Leslie. "At Lowry's are three flower baskets
that are rather bewildering. I am to have one for my betrothal gift,
but I can't decide. I appealed to Mrs. Minturn to help me, and she
agreed; she is waiting below. Mr. Bruce named you for him; so you two
and Mr. Lowry are to choose the most artistic basket for me, then if I
don't agree, I needn't take it, but I want to see what you think.
You'll come of course?"

Mr. Minturn's face darkened at the mention of his wife, while he
hesitated and looked penetratingly at Leslie. She was guileless,
charming, and eager.

"Very well," Mr. Minturn said gravely. "I'm surprised, but also
pleased. Beautiful young ladies have not appealed to me so often of
late that I can afford to miss the chance of humouring the most
charming of her sex."

"How lovely!" laughed Leslie. "Douglas, did you ever know Mr. Minturn
could flatter like that? It's most enjoyable! I shall insist on more of
it, at every opportunity! Really, Mr. Minturn, society has missed you
of late, and it is our loss. We need men who are worth while."

"Now it is you who flatter," smiled Mr. Minturn.

"See my captive!" cried Leslie, as she emerged from the building and
crossed the walk to the car. "Mr. Bruce and Mr. Minturn are great
friends, so as we passed his door we brought him along by force."

"It certainly would require that to bring him anywhere in my company,"
said Mrs. Minturn coldly.

The shock of the cruelty of the remark closed Douglas' lips, but it was
Leslie's day to bubble, so she resolutely set herself to heal and cover
the hurt.

"I think business is a perfect bugbear," she said as she entered the
car. "I'm going to have a pre-nuptial agreement as to just how far work
may trespass on Douglas' time, and how much belongs to me. I think it
can be arranged. Daddy and I always have had lovely times together, and
I would call him successful. Wouldn't you?"

"A fine business man!" said Mr. Minturn heartily.

"You could have had much greater advantages if he had made more money,"
said Mrs. Minturn.

"The advantage of more money--yes," retorted Leslie quickly, "but would
the money have been of more advantage to me than the benefits of his
society and his personal hand in my rearing? I think not! I prefer my
Daddy!"

"When you take your place in society, as the mistress of a home, you
will find that millions will not be too much," said Mrs. Minturn.

"If I had millions, I'd give most of them away, and just go on living
about as I do now with Daddy," said Leslie.

"Leslie, where did you get bitten with this awful, common--what kind of
an idea shall I call it? You haven't imbibed socialistic tendencies
have you?"

"Haven't a smattering of what they mean!" laughed Leslie. "The 'istics'
scare me completely. Just _social_ ideas are all I have; thinking home
better than any other place on earth, the way you can afford to have
it. Merely being human, kind and interested in what my men are doing
and enjoying, and helping any one who crosses my path and seems to need
me. Oh, I get such joy, such delicious _joy_ from life."

"If I were undertaking wild-eyed reform, I'd sell my car and walk, and
do settlement work," said Mrs. Minturn scornfully.

Then Leslie surprised all of them. She leaned forward, looked beamingly
into the elder woman's face and cried enthusiastically: "I am positive
you'd be stronger, and much happier if you would! You know there is no
greater fun than going to the end of the car line and then walking
miles into the country, especially now in bloom-time. You see sights no
painter ever transferred even a good imitation of to canvas; you hear
music--I wish every music lover with your trained ear could have spent
an hour in that swamp this morning. You'd soon know where Verdi and
Strauss found some of their loveliest themes, and where Beethoven got
the bird notes for the brook scene of the Pastoral Symphony. Think how
interested you'd be in a yellow and black bird singing the Spinning
Song from Martha, while you couldn't accuse the bird of having stolen
it from Flotow, could you? Surely the bird holds right of priority!"

"If you weren't a little fool and talking purposely to irritate me,
you'd almost cause me to ask if you seriously mean that?" said Mrs.
Minturn.

"Why," laughed Leslie, determined not to become provoked on this her
great day, "that is a matter you can test for yourself. If you haven't
a score of Martha, get one and I'll take you where you can hear a bird
sing that strain, then you may judge for yourself."

"I don't believe it!" said Mrs. Minturn tersely, "but if it were true,
that would be the _most wonderful experience_ I ever had in my life."

"And it would cost you only ten cents," scored Leslie. "You needn't
ride beyond the end of the car line for that, while a woman who can
dance all night surely could _walk_ far enough, to reach any old
orchard. That's what I am trying to _tell_ you. Money in large
quantities isn't necessary to provide the _most interesting_ things in
the world, while millions don't bring happiness. I can find more in
what you would class almost poverty."

"Why don't you try it?" suggested Mrs. Minturn.

"But I _have!_" said Leslie. "And I enjoy it! I could go with a man I
love as I do Daddy, and make a home, and get joy I never have found in
society, from just what we two could do with our own hands in the
woods. I don't like a city. If Daddy's business didn't keep him here, I
would be in the country this minute. Look at us poor souls trying to
find pleasure in a basket from the swamp, when we might have the whole
swamp. I'd be happy to live at its door. Now try a basket full of it.
There are three. You are to examine each of them carefully, then write
on a slip of paper which you think the _most artistic_. You are not to
say things that will influence each other's decisions, or Mr. Lowry's.
I want a straight opinion from each of you."

They entered the florist's, and on a glass table faced the orchids, the
slippers, the fringed basket, and the moccasins. Mr. Winton and the
squaw were waiting, while the florist was smiling in gratification, but
the Minturns went to the flowers without a word. They simply stood and
looked. Each of the baskets was in perfect condition. The flowers were
as fresh as at home in the swamp. Each was a thing of wondrous beauty.
Each deserved the mute tribute it was exacting. Mrs. Minturn studied
them with gradually darkening face. Mrs. Minturn repeatedly opened her
lips as if she would speak, but did not. She stepped closer and gently
turned the flowers and lightly touched the petals.

"Beautiful!" she said at last. "Beautiful!"

Another long silence.

Then: "_Honestly Leslie, did you hear a bird sing that strain from
Martha?_"

"Yes!" said Leslie, "I did. And if you will go with me to the swamp
where those flowers came from, you shall hear one sing a strain that
will instantly remind you of the opening chorus, while another renders
Di Provenza Il Mar from Traviata."

The lady turned again to the flowers. She was thinking something deep
and absorbing, but no one could have guessed exactly what it might be.
Finally: "I have decided," she said. "Shall we number these one, two,
and three, and so indicate them?"

"Yes," said Leslie a little breathlessly.

"Put your initials to the slips and I'll read them," offered Douglas.
Then he smilingly read aloud: "Mr. Lowry, one. Mrs. Minturn, two. Mr.
Minturn, three!"

"I cast the deciding vote," cried Leslie. "One!"

The squaw seemed to think of a war-whoop, but decided against it.

"Now be good enough to state your reasons," said Mr. Winton. "_Why_ do
you prefer the slipper basket, Mr. Lowry?"

"It satisfies my sense of the artistic."

"Why the fringed basket, Mrs. Minturn?"

"Because it contains daintier, more wonderful flowers than the others,
and is by far the most pleasing production."

"Now Minturn, your turn. Why do you like the moccasin basket?"

"It makes the deepest appeal to me," he answered.

"But why?" persisted Mr. Winton.

"If you will have it--the moccasins are the colour I once loved on the
face of my little daughter."

"Now Leslie!" said Mr. Winton hurriedly as he noted Mrs. Minturn's
displeased look.

"Must I tell?" she asked.

"Yes," said her father.

"Douglas selected it for me, so I like it best."

"But Leslie!" cried Douglas, "there were only two baskets when I
favoured that. Had the fringed orchids been here then, I most certainly
should have chosen them. I think yours far the most exquisite! I claim
it now. Will you give it to me?"

"Surely! I'd love to," laughed the girl.

"You have done your most exquisite work on the fringed basket," said
Mrs. Minturn to the squaw.

"No make!" said she promptly, pointing to Leslie.

"Leslie Winton, did you go to the swamp to make that basket?" demanded
Mrs. Minturn.

"Yes," answered Leslie.

"Did you make all of them?"

"Only that one," replied Leslie.

"Why?" marvelled the lady.

"To see if I could go to the tamarack swamp and bring from it with the
same tools and material, a more artistic production than an Indian
woman."

"Well, you have!" conceded Mrs. Minturn.

"The majority is against me," said Leslie.

"Majorities mean masses, and masses are notoriously insane!" said Mrs.
Minturn.

"But this is a small, select majority," said Leslie.

"Craziest of all," said Mrs. Minturn decidedly. "If you have finished
with us, I want to thank you for the pleasure of seeing these, and
Leslie, some day I really think I shall try that bird music. The idea
interests me more than anything that I have ever heard of. If it were
true, it would indeed be wonderful, it would be a new experience!"

"If you want to hear for yourself, make it soon, because now is nesting
time; not again until next spring will the music be so entrancing. I
can go any day."

"I'll look over my engagements and call you. If one ever had a minute
to spare!"

"Another of the joys of wealth!" said Leslie. "Only the poor can afford
to 'loaf and invite their souls.' The flowers you will see will delight
your eyes, quite as much as the music your ears."

"I doubt your logic, but I'll try the birds. Are you coming Mr.
Minturn?"

"Not unless you especially wish me. Are these for sale?" he asked,
picking up the moccasins.

"Only those," replied the florist.

"Send your bill," he said, turning with the basket.

"How shining a thing is consistency!" sneered his wife. "You condemn
the riches you never have been able to amass, but at the same time
spend like a millionaire."

"I never said I was not able to gain millions," replied Mr. Minturn
coldly. "I have had frequent opportunities! I merely refused them,
because I did not consider them legitimate. As for my method in buying
flowers, in this one instance, price does not matter. You can guess
what I shall do with them."

"I couldn't possibly!" answered Mrs. Minturn. "The only sure venture I
could make is that they will not by any chance come to me."

"No. These go to baby Elizabeth," he said. "Do you want to come with me
to take them to her?"

With an audible sneer she passed him. He stepped aside, gravely raising
his hat, while the others said good-bye to him and followed.

"Positively insufferable!" cried Mrs. Minturn. "Every one of my friends
say they do not know how I endure his insults and I certainly will not
many more. I don't, I really don't know what he expects."

Mr. Winton and Douglas Bruce were confused, while Leslie was
frightened, but she tried turning the distressing occurrence off with
excuses.

"Of course he intended no insult!" she soothed. "He must have adored
his little daughter and the flowers reminded him. I am so much obliged
for your opinion and I shall be glad to take you to the swamp any time.
Your little sons--would they like to go? It is a most interesting and
instructive place for children."

"For Heaven's sake don't mention children!" cried Mrs. Minturn. "They
are a bother and a curse!"

"Oh Mrs. Minturn!" exclaimed Leslie.

"Of course I don't mean _quite_ that; but I do very near! Mine are
perfect little devils; all the trouble James and I ever had came
through them. His idea of a mother is a combined doctor, wet-nurse and
nursery maid, while I must say, I far from agree with him. What are
servants for if not to take the trouble of children off your hands?"

Leslie was glad to reach the rich woman's door and deposit her there.

As the car sped away the girl turned a despairing face toward Douglas:
"For the love of Moike!" she cried. "Isn't that shocking? Poor Mr.
Minturn!"

"I don't pity him half so much as I do her," he answered. "What must a
woman have suffered or been through, to warp, twist, and harden her
like that?"

"Society life," answered Leslie, "as it is lived by people of wealth
who are aping royalty and the titled classes."

"A branch of them--possibly," conceded Douglas. "I know some titled and
wealthy people who would be dumbfounded over that woman's ideas."

"So do I," said Leslie. "Of course there are exceptions. Sometimes the
exception becomes bigger than the rule, but not in our richest society.
Douglas, let's keep close together! Oh don't let's ever drift into such
a state as that. I should have asked them to lunch, but I couldn't. If
that is the way she is talking before her friends, surely she won't
have many, soon."

"Then her need for a real woman like you will be all the greater,"
answered Douglas. "I suppose you should have asked her; but I'm
delighted that you didn't! To-day began so nearly perfect, I want to
end it with only you and your father. Will he resent me, Leslie?"

"It all depends on us. If we are selfish and leave him alone he will
feel it. If we can make him realize gain instead of loss he will be
happier than he is now."

"I wish I hadn't felt obliged to reject his offer the other night. I'm
very sorry about it."

"I'm not," said Leslie. "You have a right to live your life in your own
way. I have seen enough of running for office, elections and
appointments that I hate it. You do the work you educated yourself for
and I'll help you."

"Then my success is assured," laughed Douglas. "Leslie, may I leave my
basket here? Will you care for it like yours, and may I come to see it
often?"

"No. You may come to see me and look at the basket incidentally," she
answered.

"Do you think Mrs. Minturn will go to the swamp to listen to those
birds?" he asked.

"Eventually she will," answered the girl. "I may have to begin by
taking her to an orchard to hear a bird of gold sing a golden song
about 'sewing, and mending, and baby tending,' to start on; but when
she hears that, she will be eager for more."

"How interesting!" cried Douglas. "'Bearer of Morning,' sing that song
to me now."

Leslie whistled the air, beating time with her hand, then sang the
words:

"_I can wash, sir, I can spin, sir, I can sew and mend, and babies
tend._"

"Oh you 'Bringer of Song!'" exulted Douglas. "I'd rather hear you sing
that than any bird, but from what she said, Nellie Minturn won't care
particularly for it!"

"She may not approve of, or practise, the sentiment," said Leslie, "but
she'll love the music and possibly the musician."



CHAPTER V


_Little Brother_


"Now what am I going to do yet to make the day shorter, Lily?" asked
Mickey.

"I guess I got everything," she answered. "There's my lunch. Here's my
pictures to cut. Here's my lesson to learn. There's my sky and bird
crumbs. Mickey, sometimes they hop right in on the sheet. Yest'day one
tried to get my lunch. Ain't they sassy?"

"Yes," said Mickey. "They fight worse than rich folks. I don't know why
the Almighty pays attention if they fall."

"Mebby nobody else cares," said Peaches, "and He feels obliged to
'cause He made 'em."

"Gee! You say the funniest things, kid," laughed Mickey as he digested
the idea. "Wonder if He cares for us 'cause He made us."

"Mebby he didn't make us," suggested Peaches.

"Well we got one consoling thing," said Mickey. "If He made any of
them, He made us, and if He didn't make us, He didn't none of them,
'cause everybody comes in and goes out the same way; She said so."

"Then of course it's so," agreed Peaches. "That gives us as good a
chance as anybody."

"Course it does if we got sense to take it," said Mickey. "We got to
wake up and make something of ourselves. Let me see if you know your
lesson for to-day yet. There is the picture of the animal--there is the
word that spells its name. Now what is it?"

"Milk!" answered Peaches, her eyes mischievous.

Mickey held over the book chuckling.

"All right! There is the word for that, too. For being so smart, Miss
Chicken, you can learn it 'fore you get any more to drink. If I have
good luck to-day, I'm going to blow in about six o'clock with a slate
and pencil for you; and then you can print the words you learn, and
make pictures. That'll help make the day go a lot faster."

"Oh it goes fast enough now," said Peaches. "I love days with you and
the window and the birds. I wish they'd sing more though."

"When your back gets well, I'll take you to the country where they sing
all the time," promised Mickey, "where there are grass, and trees, and
flowers, and water to wade in and----"

"Mickey, stop and go on!" cried Peaches. "Sooner you start, the sooner
I'll get my next verse. I want just norful good one to-night."

She held up her arms. Mickey submitted to a hug and a little cold dab
on his forehead, counted his money, locked the door and ran. On the car
he sat in deep thought, then suddenly sniggered aloud. He had achieved
the next installment of the doggerel to which every night Peaches
insisted on having a new verse added as he entered. He secured his
papers, and glimpsing the headlines started on his beat crying them
lustily.

Mickey knew that washing, better air, enough food, and oil rubbing were
improving Peaches. What he did not know was that adding the interest of
her presence to his life, even though it made his work heavier, was
showing on him. He actually seemed bigger, stronger, and his face
brighter and fuller. He swung down the street thrusting his papers
right and left, crossed and went up the other side, watching closely
for a customer. It was ten o'clock and opportunities with the men were
almost over. Mickey turned to scan the street for anything even
suggesting a sale. He saw none and started with his old cry, watching
as he went: "I _like_ to sell papers! _Sometimes_ I sell them!
Sometimes I _don't_----!"

Then he saw her. She was so fresh and joyous. She walked briskly. Even
his beloved nurse was not so wonderful. Straight toward her went Mickey.

"I _like_ to sell papers! _Sometimes_ I sell them! Sometimes I _don't!_
Morning paper, lady! Sterilized! Deodorized! Vulcanized! Nice _clean_
paper!"

The girl's eyes betokened interest; her smiling lips encouraged Mickey.
He laid his chin over her arm, leaned his head against it and fell in
step with her.

"_Sometimes_ I sell them! Sometimes I _don't!_ If I _sell_ them, I'm
happy! If I don't, I'm _hungry!_ If you _buy_ them, you're happy!
Pa--per?--lady."

"Not to-day, thank you," she said. "I'm shopping, so I don't wish to
carry it."

Mickey saw Peaches' slate vanishing. It was a beautiful slate, small so
it would not tire her bits of hands, and its frame was covered with
red. His face sobered, his voice changed, taking on unexpected
modulations.

"Aw lady! I thought _you'd_ buy my paper! Far down the street I saw you
_coming_. Lady, I like your gentle _voice_. I like your pleasant
_smile!_ You don't want a nice _sterilized_ paper?--lady."

The lady stopped short; she lifted Mickey's chin in a firm grip,
looking intently into his face.

"Just by the merest chance, could your name be Mickey?" she asked.

"Sure, lady! Mickey! Michael O'Halloran!"

Her smile became even more attractive.

"I really don't want to be bothered with a paper," she said; "but I do
wish a note delivered. If you'll carry it, I'll pay you the price of
half a dozen papers."

"Gets the slate!" cried Mickey, bouncing like a rubber boy. "Sure I
will! Is it ready, lady?"

"One minute!" she said. She stepped to the inside of the walk, opened
her purse, wrote a line on a card, slipped it in an envelope, addressed
it and handed it to Mickey.

"You can read that?" she asked.

"I've read worse writing than that," he assured her. "You ought to see
the hieroglyphics some of the dimun-studded dames put up!"

Mickey took a last glimpse at the laughing face, then wheeling ran.
Presently he went into a big building, studied the address board, then
entered the elevator and following a corridor reached the number.

He paused a second, glancing around, when he saw the name on the
opposite door. A flash passed over his face. "Ugh!" he muttered.
"'Member now--been to this place before! Glad she ain't sending a
letter to _that_ man." He stepped inside the open door before him,
crossed the room and laid the note near a man who was bending over some
papers on a desk. The man reached a groping hand, tore open the
envelope, taking therefrom a card on which was pencilled: "Could this
by any chance be your Little Brother?"

He turned hastily, glancing at Mickey, then in a continuous movement
arose with outstretched hand.

"Why Little Brother," he cried, "I'm so glad to see you!"

Mickey's smile slowly vanished as he whipped his hands behind him,
stepping back.

"Nothin' doing, Boss," he said. "You're off your trolley. I've no
brother. My mother had only me."

"Don't you remember me, Mickey?" inquired Douglas Bruce.

"Sure!" said Mickey. "You made Jimmy pay up!"

"Has he bothered you again?" asked the lawyer.

"Nope!" answered Mickey.

"Sit down, Mickey, I want to talk with you."

"I'm much obliged for helping me out," said Mickey, "but I guess you
got other business, and I know I have."

"What is your business?" was the next question.

"Selling papers. What's yours?" was the answer.

"Trying to be a corporation lawyer," explained Douglas. "I've been here
only two years, and it is slow getting a start. I often have more time
to spare than I wish I had, while I'm lonesome no end."

"Is your mother dead?" asked Mickey solicitously.

"Yes," answered Douglas.

"So's mine!" he commented. "You _do_ get lonesome! Course she was a
good one?"

"The very finest, Mickey," said Douglas. "And yours?"

"Same here, Mister," said Mickey with conviction.

"Well since we are both motherless and lonesome, suppose we be
brothers!" suggested Douglas.

"Aw-w-w!" Mickey shook his head.

"No?" questioned Douglas.

"What's the use?" cried Mickey.

"You could help me with my work and share my play, while possibly I
could be of benefit to you."

"I just wondered if you wasn't getting to that," commented Mickey.

"Getting to what?" inquired Douglas.

"Going to do me good!" explained Mickey. "The swell stiffs are always
going to do us fellows good. Mostly they do! They do us good and brown!
They pick us up a while and make lap dogs of us, then when we've lost
our appetites for our jobs and got to having a hankerin' for the fetch
and carry business away they go and forget us, so we're a lot worse off
than we were before. Some of the fellows come out of it knowing more
ways to be mean than they ever learned on the street," explained
Mickey. "If it's that Big Brother bee you got in your bonnet, pull its
stinger and let it die an unnatural death! Nope! None! Good-bye!"

"Mickey, wait!" cried Douglas.

"Me business calls, an' I must go--'way to my ranch in Idaho!" gaily
sang Mickey.

"I'd like to shake you!" said Douglas Bruce.

"Well, go on," said Mickey. "I'm here and you're big enough."

"If I thought it would jolt out your fool notions and shake some sense
in, I would," said Douglas indignantly.

"Now look here, Kitchener," said Mickey. "Did I say one word that ain't
so, and that you don't know is so?"

"What you said is not even half a truth, young man! I do know cases
where idle rich men have tried the Little Brother plan as a fad, and
made a failure of it. But for a few like that, I know dozens of
sincere, educated men who are honestly giving a boy they fancy, a
chance. I can take you into the office of one of the most influential
men in this city, right across the hall there, and show you a boy he
liked who has in a short time become his friend, an invaluable helper,
and hourly companion, and out of it that boy will get a fine education,
good business training, and a start in life that will give him a better
chance to begin on than the man who is helping him had."

Mickey laughed boisterously, then sobered suddenly.

"'Scuse me, Brother," he said politely, "but that's most _too funny_
for any use. Once I took a whirl with that gentleman myself. Whether he
does or not, I know the place where he ought to get off. See? Answer me
this: why would he be spending money and taking all that time for a
'newsy' when he hardly knows his own kids if he sees them, and they're
the wickedest little rippers in the park. Just _why_ now?"

Douglas Bruce closed the door; then he came back and placing a chair
for Mickey, he took one opposite.

"Sit down Mickey," he said patiently. "There's a reason for my being
particularly interested in James Minturn, and the reason hinges on the
fact you mention: that he can't control his own sons, yet can make a
boy he takes comfort in, of a street gamin."

Mickey's eyes narrowed while he sat very straight in the chair he had
accepted.

"If he's made so much of him, it sort of proves that he _wasn't_ a
gamin. Some of the boys are a long shot closer gentlemen than the guys
who are experimenting with them; 'cause they were born rich and can
afford it. If your friend's going to train his pick-up to be what _he_
is, then that boy would stand a better chance on his own side the curb.
See? I've been right up against that gentleman with the documents, so I
know him. Also her! Gee! 'Tear up de choild and gimme de papers' was
meant for a joke; but I saw that lady and gentleman do it. See? And she
was the prettiest little pink and yellow thing. Lord! I can see her
gasping and blinking now! Makes me sick! If the boy across the hall had
seen what I did, he'd run a mile and never stop. Gee!"

Douglas Bruce stared aghast. At last he said slowly: "Mickey, you are
getting mighty close the very thing I wish to know. If I tell you what
I know of James Minturn, will you tell me what you know and think?"

"Sure!" said Mickey readily. "I got no reasons for loving him. I
wouldn't convoy a millying to the mint for that gentleman!"

"Mickey, shall I go first, or will you?"

"I will," replied Mickey instantly, "'cause when I finish you'll save
your breath. See?"

"I see," said Douglas Bruce. "Proceed."

"Well, 'twas over two years ago," said Mickey, leaning forward to look
Bruce in the eyes. "I hadn't been up against the game so awful long
alone. 'Twas summer and my papers were all gone, and I was tired, so I
went over in the park and sat on a seat, just watching folks. Pretty
soon 'long comes walking a nice lady with a sweet voice and kind eyes.
She sat down close me and says: 'It's a nice day.' We got chummy-like,
when right up at the fountain before us stops as swell an automobile as
there is. One of the brown French-governess-ladies with the hatchet
face got out, and unloaded three kids: two boys and a girl. She told
the kids if they didn't sit on the benches she socked them on hard, and
keep their clothes clean so she wouldn't have to wash and dress them
again that day, she'd knock the livers out of them, and walked off with
the entrance policeman. Soon as she and Bobbie got interested, the kids
began sliding off the bench and running around the fountain. The girl
was only 'bout two or three, a fat toddly thing, trying to do what her
brothers did, and taking it like the gamest kid you ever saw when they
pushed her off the seat, and tripped her, and 'bused her like a dog.

"Me and the woman were getting madder every minute. 'Go tell your
nurse,' says she. But the baby thing just glanced where nurse was and
kind of shivered and laughed, and ran on round the fountain, when the
big boy stuck his foot out so she fell. Nursie saw and started for her,
but she scrambled up and went kiting for the bench, and climbed on it,
so nurse told her she'd cut the blood out of her if she did that again,
then went back to her policeman. Soon as she was gone those little
devils began coaxing their sister to get down and run again. At last
she began to smile the cunningest and slipped to the walk, then a
little farther, and a little farther, all the time laughing and
watching the nurse. The big boy, he said: 'You ain't nothing but a
_girl!_ You can't step on the edge like I can and then step back!' She
says: 'C'n too!' She did to show him, and just as she did she saw that
he was going to push her, then she tried to get back, but he did push,
and over she went! Not real in, but her arms in, and her dress front
some wet.

"She screamed while the little devil that pushed her grabbed her,
pretending to be _pulling her out_. Honest he did! Up came nurse just
frothing, and in language we couldn't understand she ripped and raved.
She dragged little pink back, grabbed her by the hair and cracked her
head two or three times against the _stone!_ The lady screamed, and so
did I, and we both ran at her. The boys just shouted and laughed and
the smallest one he up and kicked her while she was down. The policeman
walked over laughing too, but he told nurse that was _too rough_. Then
my lady pitched in, so he told her to tend to her business, that those
kids were too tough to live, and deserved all they got. The nurse
laughed at her, and went back to the grass with the policeman. The baby
lay there on the stones, and never made a sound. She just kind of
gasped, and blinked, and lay there, till my lady went almost wild. She
went to her and stooped to lift her up when she got awful sick. The
policeman said something to the nurse, so she came and dragged the kid
away and said, 'The little pig has gone and eaten too much again, and
now I'll have to take her home and wash and dress her all over,' then
she gave her an awful shake. The policeman said she'd better cut that
out, because it _might_ have been the bumping, and she said 'good for
her if 'twas.' The driver pulled up just then and he asked 'if the brat
had been stuffin' too much again?' She said, 'yes,' and the littlest
boy he said, 'she pounded her head on the stone, good,' and the nurse
hit him 'cross the mouth till she knocked him against the car, and she
said, 'Want to try _that_ again? Open your head to say _that_ again,
and I'll smash you too. _Eating too much made her sick_.' She looked at
the big boy fierce like so he laughed and said, 'Course eating too much
made her sick!' She nodded at him and said, 'Course! You get two dishes
of ice and two pieces of cake for remembering!' then she loaded them in
and they drove away.

"My lady was as white as marble and she said, 'Is there any way to find
out who they are?' I said, 'Sure! Half a dozen!' 'Boy,' she said, 'get
their residence for me and I'll give you a dollar.' Ought to seen me
fly. Car was chuffing away, waiting to get the traffic cop's sign when
to cut in on the avenue. I just took a dodge and hung on to the extra
tire under the top where nobody saw me, and when they stopped, I got
the house number they went in. Little pink was lying all white and
limber yet, and nurse looked worried as she carried her up. She said
something fierce to the boys, the big one rang and they went inside. I
saw a footman take the girl. I heard nurse begin that 'eat too much'
story, then I cut back to the park. The lady said, 'Get it?' I said,
'Sure! Dead easy.' She said, 'Can you take me?' I said, 'Glad to!'

"She said, 'That was the dreadfullest sight I ever saw. That child's
mother is going to know right now what kind of a nurse she is paying to
take care of her children. You come show me,' she said, so we went.

"'Will you come in with me?' she asked and I said, 'Yes!'

"Well, we rang and she asked pleasant to see the lady of the house on a
little matter of important business, so pretty soon here comes one of
the dimun-studded, fashion-paper ladies, all smiling sweet as honey,
and asked what the business was. My nice lady she said her name was
Mrs. John Wilson and her husband was a banker in Plymouth, Illinois,
and she was in the city shopping and went to the park to rest and was
talking to me, when an automobile let out a nurse, and two boys and a
lovely little pink girl, and she give the number and asked, 'was the
car and the children hers?' The dimun-lady slowly sort of began to
freeze over, and when the nice lady got that far, she said: 'I have an
engagement. Kindly state in a _few_ words what you want.'

"My lady sort of stiffened up and then she said: 'I saw, this boy here
saw, and the park policeman nearest the entrance fountain saw your
nurse take your little girl by the hair, and strike her head against
the fountain curb three times, because her brother pushed her in. She
lay insensible until the car came, and she has just been carried into
your house in that condition.'

"I could see the footman peeking and at that he cut up the stairs. The
dimun-lady stiffened up and she said: 'So you are one of those
meddling, interfering country jays that come here and try to make us
lose our good servants, so you can hire them later. I've seen that done
before. Lucette is invaluable,' said she, 'and perfectly reliable.
Takes all the care of those dreadful little imps from me. Now you get
out of here.' And she reached for the button. My lady just sat still
and smiled.

"'Do you really think I'd take the trouble to come here in this way if
I couldn't _prove_ I had seen the thing happen?' she asked.

"'God only knows what you country women would do!' the woman answered.

"'We would stand between our children and beastly cruelty,' my lady
said. 'Your child's _condition_ is all the proof my words need. You go
examine her head, and feel the welt on it; see hew ill she is and you
will thank me. Your nurse is _not_ reliable! Keep her and your children
will be ruined, if not killed.'

"'Raving!' sneered the dimun-lady. 'But I know your kind so I'll go, as
it's the only way to get rid of you.'

"Now what do you think happened next? Well sir, 'bout three minutes in
walked the footman and salutes, sneering like a cat, and he said:
'Madam's compliments. She finds her little daughter in perfect
condition, sweetly sleeping, and her sons having dinner. She asks you
to see how quickly you can leave her residence.'

"The woman looked at me so I said: 'It's all over but burying the kid
if it dies; come on, lady, they'd be _glad_ to plant it, and get it out
of the way.' So I started and she followed, and just as he let me out
the door I handed him this: 'I saw you listen and cut to tell, and I
bet you helped put the kid to sleep! But you better look out! She gave
it to that baby too rough for any use!'

"He started for me, but I flew. When we got on the street, the lady was
all used up so she couldn't say anything. She had me call a taxi to
take her to her hotel. I set down her name she gave me, and her house
and street number. I cut to a Newsies' directory and got the name of
the owner of the palace-place and it was Mrs. James Minturn. Next
morning coming down on the cars I was hunting headliners to make up a
new call, like I always do, and there I saw in big type, 'Mr. and Mrs.
James Minturn prostrate over the sudden death of their lovely little
daughter from poisoning, from an ice she ate.' I read it every word.
Even what the doctors said, and how investigation of the source of the
ice came from was to be made. What do you think of it?"

"I have no doubt but it's every word horrible truth," answered Douglas.

"_Sure!_" said Mickey. "I just hiked to the park and walked up to the
cop and showed him the paper, and he looked awful glum. I can point him
out to you, and give you the lady's address, and there were plenty more
who saw parts of it could be found if anybody was on the _kid's_ side.
Sure it's the truth!

"Well I kept a-thinking it over. One day about three weeks later, blest
if the same car didn't stop at the same fountain, and the same nurse
got out with the boys and she set them on the same bench and told them
the same thing, and then she went into another palaver with the same
p'liceman. I looked on pretty much interested, and before long the boys
got to running again and one tripped the other, and she saw and come
running, and fetched him a crack like to split his head, and pushed him
down still and white, so I said to myself: 'All right for you. Lady
tried a lady and got nothing. Here's where a gentleman tries a
gentleman, and sees what he gets.'

"I marched into the door just across the hall from you here, and faced
Mr. James Minturn, and gave him names, and dates, and addresses, even
the copper's name I'd got; and I told him all I've told you, and
considerable more. He wasn't so fiery as the lady, so I told him the
whole thing, but he never opened his trap. He just sat still and stony,
listened till I quit, and finally he heaved a big breath and looked at
me sort of dazed like and he said: 'What do you want, boy?'

"That made me red hot so I said: 'I want you to know that I saw the
same woman bust one of your _boys_ a good crack, over the head, a few
minutes ago.'

"That made him jump, but he didn't say or do anything, so I got up and
went--and--the same woman was in the park with the same boys yesterday,
and they're the biggest little devils there. What's the answer?"

"A heartbroken man," said Douglas Bruce. "Now let me tell you, Mickey."

Then he told Mickey all he knew of James Minturn.

"All the same, he ought to be able to do something for his own kids,
'stead of boys who don't need it _half_ so bad," commented Mickey. "Why
honest, I don't know one street kid so low that he'd kick a little
girl--after she'd been beat up scandalous, for his meanness to start
on. Honest, I don't! I don't care what he is doing for the boy he has
got, that boy doesn't need help half so much as his _own_; I can prove
it to you, if you'll come with me to the park 'most any morning."

"All right, I'll come," said Douglas promptly.

"Well I couldn't say that they would be there this minute," said
Mickey, "but I can call you up the first time I see they are."

"All right, I'll come, if it's possible. I'd like to see for myself. So
this gives you a settled prejudice against the Big Brother movement,
Mickey?"

"In my brogans, what would it give you?"

"A hard jolt!" said Douglas emphatically.

"Then what's the answer?"

"That it is more unfair than I thought you could be, to deprive me of
my Little Brother, because you deem the man across the hall unfit to
have one. Do I look as if you couldn't trust me, Mickey?"

"No, you don't! But neither does Mr. James Minturn. He _looks_ as if a
fellow could get a grip on him and pull safe across Belgium hanging on.
But you know I said the _same woman_----"

"I know Mickey; but that only proves that there are times when even the
strongest man can't help himself."

"Then like Ulhan I'd trot 1:54-1/2 to the judge of the Juvenile Court,"
said Mickey, "and I'd yell long and loud, and I'd put up the _proof_.
That would get the lady down to brass tacks. See?"

"But with Mrs. Minturn's position and the stain such a proceeding would
put on the boys----"

"Cut out the boys," advised Mickey. "They're gold plated, staining
wouldn't stick to them."

"So you are going to refuse education, employment and a respectable
position because you disapprove of one man among millions?" demanded
Douglas.

"That lets me out," said Mickey. "_She_ educated me a lot! No day is
long enough for the work I do right now; you can take my word for it
that I'm respectable, same as I'm taking yours that you are."

"All right!" said Douglas. "We will let it go then. Maybe you are
right. At least you are not worth the bother it requires to wake you
up. Will you take an answer to the note you brought me?"

"Now the returns are coming in," said Mickey. "Sure I will; but she is
in the big stores shopping."

"I'll find out," said Douglas.

He picked up the telephone and called the Winton residence; on learning
Leslie was still away, he left a request that she call him when she
returned.

"I would spend the time talking with you," he said to Mickey, "if I
could accomplish anything; as I can't, I'll go on with my work. You
busy yourself with anything around the rooms that interests you."

Mickey grinned half abashed. He took a long survey of the room they
were in, arose and standing in the door leading to the next he studied
that. To him "busy" meant work. Presently he went into the hall and
returned with a hand broom and dust pan he had secured from the
janitor. He carefully went over the floor, removing anything he could
see that he thought should not be there, and then began on the room
adjoining. Next he appeared with a cloth and dusted the furniture and
window seats. Once he met Douglas' eye and smiled. "Your janitor didn't
have much of a mother," he commented. "I could beat him to his base a
rod."

"Job is yours any time you want it."

"Morning papers," carrolled Mickey. "Sterilized, deodorized,
vulcanized. I _like_ to sell them----"

Defeated again Bruce turned to his work and Mickey to his. He
straightened every rug, pulled a curtain, set a blind at an angle that
gave the worker more light and better air. He was investigating the
glass when the telephone rang.

"Hello, Leslie! It certainly was! How did you do it? Not so hilarious
as you might suppose. Leslie, I want to say something, not for the
wire. Will you hold the line a second until I start Mickey with it? All
right!

"She is there now, Mickey. Can you find your way?"

"Sure!" laughed Mickey. "If you put the address on. She started me from
the street."

"The address is plain. For straightening my rooms and carrying the
note, will that be about right?"

"A lady-bird! Gee!" cried Mickey. "I didn't s'pose you was a plute! And
I don't s'pose so yet. You want a Little Brother bad if you're willing
to _buy_ one. This number ain't far out, and I wouldn't have sold more
than three papers this time of day--twenty-five is about right."

"But you forget cleaning my rooms," said Douglas.

Mickey grinned, his face flushed.

"Me to you!" he said. "Nothing! Just a little matter of keeping in
practice. Good-bye and be good to yourself!"

Douglas turned to the telephone.

"Leslie!" he said, "I'm sending Mickey back to you with a note, not
because I had anything to say I couldn't say now, but because I can't
manage him. I pretended I didn't care, and let him go. Can't you help
me? See if you can't interest him in something that at least will bring
him back, or show us where to find him. Certainly! Thank you very much!"

When Mickey delivered the letter the lovely young woman just happened
to be in the hall. She told him to come in until she read it, to learn
what Mr. Bruce wanted. Mickey followed into a big room, looked around,
then a speculative, appreciative gleam crossed his face. He realized
the difference between a home and a show room. He did not know what he
was seeing or why it affected him as it did. Really the thought that
was in his mind was that this woman was far more attractive, but had
less money to spend on her home, than many others. He missed the
glitter, but enjoyed the comfort, for he leaned back against the chair
offered him, thinking what a cool, restful place it was. The girl
seemed in no hurry to open the letter.

"Have trouble finding Mr. Bruce?" she asked.

"Easy! I'd been to the same building before."

"And I suppose you'll be there many times again," she suggested.

"I'm going back right now, if you want to send an answer to that
letter," he said.

"And if it requires none?" she questioned.

"Then I'm going to try to sell the rest of these papers, get a slate
for Lily and go home."

"Is Lily your little sister?" she asked.

Mickey straightened, firmly closing his lips. He had done it again.

"Just a little girl I know," he said cautiously.

"A little bit of a girl?" she asked.

"'Bout the littlest girl you ever saw," said Mickey, unconsciously
interested in the subject.

"And you are going to take her a slate to draw pictures on? How fine! I
wish you'd carry her a package for me, too. I was arranging my dresser
this morning and I put the ribbons I don't want into a box for some
child. Maybe Lily would like them for her doll."

"Lily hasn't any doll," he said. "She had one, but her granny sold it
and got drunk on the money."

Mickey stopped suddenly. In a minute more he would have another
Orphans' Home argument on his hands.

"Scandalous!" cried Leslie. "In my room there is a doll just begging to
go to some little girl. If you took it to Lily, would her granny sell
it again?"

"Not this morning," said Mickey. "You see Miss, a few days ago she lost
her breath. Permanent! No! If Lily had a doll, nobody would take it
from her now."

"I'll bring it at once," she offered "and the ribbons."

"Never mind," said Mickey. "I can get her a doll."

"But you haven't seen this one!" cried Leslie. "You save your money for
oranges."

Without waiting for a reply she left the room, presently returning with
a box and a doll that seemed to Mickey quite as large as Peaches. It
had a beautiful face, hair, real hair that could be combed, and real
clothes that could be taken off. Leslie had dressed it for a birthday
gift for the little daughter of one of her friends; but by making haste
she could prepare another. Mickey gazed in bewilderment. He had seen
dolls, even larger and more wonderful than that, in the shop windows,
but connecting such a creation with his room and Peaches required
mental adjustments.

"I guess you better not," he said with conviction.

"But why not?" asked Leslie in amazement.

"Well for 'bout fifty reasons," replied Mickey. "You see Lily is a poor
kid, and her back is bad. That doll is so big she couldn't dress it
without getting all tired out; and what's the use showing her such
dresses, when she can't have any herself. She's got the best she ever
had, and the best she can have right now; so that ain't the kind of a
doll for Lily--it's too big--and too--too gladsome!"

"I see," laughed Leslie. "Well Mickey, you show me what would be the
right size of a doll for Lily. I'll get another, and dress it as you
say. How would that do?"

"You needn't!" said Mickey. "Lily is happy now."

"But wouldn't she _like_ a doll?" persisted Leslie. "I never knew a
girl who didn't love a doll. Wouldn't she _like_ a doll?"

"'Most to death I 'spect," said Mickey. "I know she said she cried for
the one her granny sold, 'til she beat her. Yes I guess she'd _like_ a
doll; but I can get her one."

"But you can't make white nighties for Lily to put on it to take to bed
with her, and cunning little dresses for morning, and a street dress
for afternoon, and a party dress for evening," tempted the girl.

"Lily has been on the street twice, and she never heard of a party.
Just nighties and the morning dress would do, and there's no use for me
to be sticking. If you like to give away dolls, Lily might as well have
one, for she'd just--I don't know what she would do about it," conceded
Mickey.

"All right," said Leslie. "I'll dress it this afternoon, and tomorrow
you can come for it in the evening before you go home. If I am not
here, the package will be ready. Take the ribbons now. She'd like them
for her hair."

"Her hair's too short for a ribbon," said Mickey.

"Then a headband! This way!" said Leslie.

She opened a box and displayed a wonderment of ribbon bands, and bits
of gay colour.

"Gee!" gasped Mickey. "I couldn't pick up that much brightness for her
in a year!"

"You save what you find for her?" asked Leslie.

"Sure!" said Mickey. "You see Miss, things are pretty plain where she
is, so all the brightness I can take her ain't going to hurt her eyes.
Thank you heaps. Is there going to be any answer to the letter?"

"Why I haven't read it yet!" cried the girl.

"No! A-body can see that some one else is rustling for your grub!"
commented Mickey.

"That's so too," laughed Leslie. "Darling old Daddy!"

"Just about right is he?" queried Mickey, interestedly.

"Just exactly right!" said Leslie.

"Gur-ur-and!" said Mickey. "Some of them ain't so well fixed! And he
that wrote the note, I guess he's about as fine as you make them, too!"

"He's the finest man I ever have known, Mickey!" said the girl
earnestly.

"Barring Daddy?" suggested Mickey.

"Not barring anybody!" cried she. "Daddy is lovely, but he's Daddy! Mr.
Bruce is different!"

"No letter?" questioned Mickey, rising.

"None!" said the girl. "Come to-morrow night. You are sure Lily is so
very little, Mickey?"

"You wouldn't call me big, would you?" he asked. "Well! I can lift her
with one hand! Such a large doll as that would be tiring and confusing.
Please make Lily's _more like she's used to_. See?"

"Mickey, I do see!" said Leslie. "I beg your pardon. Lily's doll shall
not tire her or make her discontented with what she has. Thank you for
a good idea."

Mickey returned to the street shortly after noon, with more in his
pocket than he usually earned in a day, where by expert work he soon
disposed of his last paper. He bought the slate, then hurried home
carrying it and the box. At the grocery he carefully selected food
again. Then he threw open his door and achieved this:

"_Once a little kid named Peaches, Swelled my heart until it eatches.
If you think I'd trade her for a dog, Your think-tank has slipped a
cog!_"


Peaches laughed, stretching her hands as usual. Mickey stooped for her
caress, scattering the ribbons over her as he arose. She gasped in
delighted amazement.

"Oh! Mickey! Where did you ever? Mickey, where did you get them?
Mickey, you didn't st----?"

"You just better choke on that, Miss!" yelled Mickey. "No I didn't
st----! And I don't st----! And nothing I ever bring you will be
st----! And you needn't ever put no more st's---- at me. See?"

"Mickey, I didn't _mean_ that! Course I know you _wouldn't!_ Course I
know you _couldn't!_ Mickey, that's the best poetry piece yet! Did you
bring the slate?"

"Sure!" said Mickey, somewhat mollified, but still injured. "I must
have dropped it with the banquet!"

Peaches pushed away the billow of colour, taking the slate. Her fingers
picking at the string reminded Mickey of sparrow feet; but he watched
until she untied and removed the paper which he folded to lay away. She
picked up the pencil, meditating.

"Mickey!" she said. "Make my hand do a word!"

"Sure!" said Mickey. "What do you want to write first, Flowersy-girl?"

Peaches looked at him reproachfully.

"Course there wouldn't be but _one_ I'd want to do first of all," she
said. "Hold my hand tight, and big and plain up at the top make it
write, 'Mickey-lovest.'"

"Sure," said the boy in a hushed voice. He gripped the hand, bending
above her, but suddenly collapsed, buried his face in her hair and
sobbed until he shook.

Peaches crouched down, lying rigidly. She was badly frightened. At last
she could endure it no longer.

"Mickey!" she gasped. "Mickey, what did I do? Mickey, don't write it if
you don't _want_ to!"

Mickey arose, wiping his face on the sheet.

"You just bet I want to write that, Lily!" he said. "I never wanted to
do anything _more_ in all my life!"

"Then why----?" she began.

"Never you mind 'why' Miss!" said Mickey.

Grasping her hand, he traced the words. Peaches looked at them a long
time, then carefully laid the slate aside. She began fingering the
ribbons.

"Let me wash you," said Mickey, "and rub your back to rest you from all
this day, then I'll comb your hair and you pick the prettiest one. I'll
put it on the way she showed me, so you'll be a fash'nable lady."

"Who showed you Mickey, and gave you such pretties?"

"A girl I carried a letter to. After you're bathed and have had supper
I'll tell you."

Then Mickey began work. He sponged Peaches, rubbed her back, laid her
on his pallet, putting fresh sheets on her bed and carefully preparing
her supper. After she had eaten he again ran the comb through her
ringlets, telling her to select the ribbon he should use.

"No you!" said Peaches.

Mickey squinted, so exacting was the work of deciding. Red he discarded
with one sweep against her white cheeks; green went with it; blue
almost made him shudder, but a soft warm pink pleased him, so Mickey
folded it into the bands in which it had been creased before, binding
it around Peaches' head as Leslie had shown him, then with awkward
fingers did his best on a big bow. He crossed the room and picked up a
mirror which he held before her reciting: "Once a little kid named
Peaches, swelled my heart----"

Peaches took the mirror, studying the face intently. She glanced over
her shoulder so Mickey piled the pillows higher. Then she looked at
him. Mickey scrutinized her closely.

"You're clean kid, clean as a plate!" he assured her. "Honest you are!
You needn't worry about that. I'll always keep you washed clean. _She_
was more particular about that than anything else. Don't you fret about
my having a dirty girl around! You're clean, all right!"

Peaches sighed as she returned the mirror. Mickey replaced it, laid the
slate and ribbons in reach, washed the dishes, then the sheets he had
removed, and their soiled clothing. Peaches lay folding and unfolding
the ribbons; asking questions while Mickey worked, or with the pencil
tracing her best imitations of the name on the slate. By the time he
had finished everything to be done and drawn a chair beside the bed, to
see if she had learned her lesson for the day, it was cool evening. She
knew all the words he had given her, so he proceeded to write them on
the slate. Then told her about the big man named Douglas Bruce and the
lovely girl named Leslie Winton, also every word he could remember
about the house she lived in; then he added: "Lily, do you like to be
surprised better or do you like to think things over?"

"I don't know," said Peaches.

"Well, before long, I'll know," said Mickey. "What I was thinking was
this: you are going to have something. I just wondered whether you'd
rather know it was coming, or have me walk in with it and surprise you."

"Mickey, you just walk in," she decided.

"All right!" said Mickey.

"Mickey, write on the other side of my slate what you said at the door
to-night," she coaxed. "Get a little book an' write 'em all down.
Mickey, I want to learn all of them, when I c'n read. Lemme tell you.
You make all you c'n think of. Nen make more. An' make 'em, an' make
'em! An' when you get big as you're goin' to be, make books of 'em, an'
be a poet-man 'stead of sellin' papers."

"Sure!" said Mickey. "I'd just as lief be a poet-man as not! I'd write
a big one all about a little yellow-haired girl named Lily Peaches, and
I'd put it on the front page of the _Herald!_ Honest I would! I'd like
to!"

"Gee!" said Peaches. "You go on an' grow hel--wope! I mean hurry! Hurry
an' grow up!"



CHAPTER VI


_The Song of a Bird_


"Leslie," said the voice of Mrs. James Minturn over the telephone, "is
there any particular time of the day when that bird of yours sings
better than at another?"

"Morning, Mrs. Minturn; five, the latest. At that time one hears the
full chorus, and sees the perfect beauty. Really, I wouldn't ask you,
if I were not sure, positively sure, that you'd find the trip worth
while."

"I'll be ready in the morning, but that's an unearthly hour!" came the
protest.

"It is almost unearthly sights and sounds to which you are going,"
answered Leslie. "And be sure you wear suitable clothing."

"What do you call suitable clothing?"

"High heavy shoes," said Leslie, "short stout skirts."

"As if I had such things!" laughed Mrs. Minturn.

"Let me send you something of mine," offered Leslie. "I've enough for
two."

"You're not figuring on really going in one of those awful places, are
you?" questioned Mrs. Minturn.

"Surely!" cried Leslie. "The birds won't sing to an automobile. And you
wouldn't miss seeing such flowers on their stems as you saw at Lowry's
for any money. It will be something to tell your friends about."

"Send what I should have. I'd ride a llama through a sea of champagne
for a new experience."

Mrs. Minturn turned from the telephone with a contemptuous sneer on her
face; but Leslie's gay laugh persisted in her ears. Restlessly she
moved through her rooms thinking what she might do to divert herself,
and shrinking from all the tiresome things she had been doing for years
until there was not a drop of the fresh juice of life to be extracted
from them.

"I'm going to take a bath, go to bed early and see if I can sleep," she
muttered. "I don't know what it is that James is contemplating, but his
face haunts me. Really, if he doesn't be more civil, and stop his
morose glowering when I do see him, I'll put him or myself where we
won't come in contact. He makes it plain every day that he blames me
about Elizabeth. Why should he? He couldn't possibly know of the call
of that wild-eyed reformer. So unfortunate that she should come just at
that time too! Of course hundreds of children die from spoiled milk
every summer, the rich as well as the poor. I'll never get over
regretting that I didn't finish what I started to do; but I'd scarcely
touched her in her life. She always was so pink and warm, and that
awful whiteness chilled me to the soul. I wish I had driven, forced
myself! Then I could defy James with more spirit. That's what I
lack--_spirit!_ Maybe this trip to the swamp will steady my nerves!
Something must be done soon, and I believe, actually I believe he is
thinking of doing it! Pooh! What _could_ he do? There isn't an
irregularity in my life he can lay his fingers on!"

She rang for her maid and cancelling two engagements for the evening,
went to bed, but not to sleep. When she was called early in the
morning, she gladly arose, and was dressed in Leslie Winton's short
skirts, a waist of khaki, and high shoes near enough her size to be
comfortable. Her bath had refreshed her, a cup of hot coffee stimulated
her, and despite the lack of sleep she felt better than she had that
spring as she went down to the car. On the threshold she met her
husband. Evidently he had been out all night on strenuous business. His
face was haggard, his eyes bloodshot, while in both hands he gripped a
small, square paper-wrapped package. They looked at each other a second
that seemed long to both, then the woman laughed.

"Evidently an accounting is expected," she said. "Leslie Winton at the
door and the roll of music I carry should be sufficient to prove why I
am going out at this hour. You heard us make the arrangement. Thank
Heaven I've no interest in knowing where you have been, or what your
precious package contains."

His expression and condition frightened her.

"For the weight of a straw overbalance," he said, "only for a hint that
you have a soul, I'd freeze it for all time with the contents of this
package."

"A threat? You to me?" she cried in amazement.

"Verily, Madam," he said. "I wish you all the joy of the birds and
flowers this morning."

"You've gone mad!" she cried.

"Contrarily, I have come to my senses after years of insanity," he
said. "I will see you when you return."

She stood bewildered, watching him go down the hall and enter his
library. That and his sleeping room were the only places in the house
sacred to him. No one entered, no one, not even the incorrigible
children, touched anything there. She slowly went to the car, trying to
rally to Leslie's greeting, struggling to fix her mind on anything
pointed out to her as something she might enjoy.

At last she said: "I don't know what is the matter with me Leslie.
James is planning something, I haven't an idea what; but his grim,
reproachful face is slowly driving me wild. I'm getting so I can't
sleep. You saw him come home as I left. He talked positively crazy, as
if he had the crack of doom in his hands and were prepared to crack it.
He said he 'would see me when I came back.' Indeed he will--to his
sorrow! He will be as he used to be, or we will separate. The idea,
with scarcely a cent to his name, of him undertaking to dictate to me,
_to me!_ Do you blame me Leslie? You heard him the other day! You know
how he insulted me!"

Leslie leaned forward, laying a firm hand in a grip on Mrs. Minturn's
arm.

"Since you ask me," she said, "I will answer. If you find life with Mr.
Minturn insufferable, an agony to both of you, I _would_ separate, and
_speedily_. If it has come to the place where you can't see each other
or speak without falling into unpleasantness, then I'd keep apart."

"That is exactly the case!" cried Mrs. Minturn. "Oh Leslie, I am so
glad you agree with me!"

"But I haven't finished," said Leslie, "you interrupted me in the
middle. If you are absolutely sure you can't go on peaceably, I would
stop; but if I once had loved a man enough to give my life and my
happiness into his keeping, to make him the father of my children, I
would not separate from him, until I had exhausted every resource, to
see if I couldn't in some possible way end with credit."

"If you had been through what I have," said Mrs. Minturn, "you wouldn't
endure it any longer."

"Perhaps," said Leslie. "But you see dear Mrs. Minturn, I am
handicapped by not knowing _what_ you have been through. To your world
you appear to be a woman of great wealth, who does exactly as she
pleases and pays her own bills. You seem to have unlimited money,
power, position, leisure for anything you fancy. I'll wager you don't
know the names of half the servants in your house; a skillful
housekeeper takes the responsibility off your hands. You never are seen
in public with your children; competent nurses care for them. You don't
appear with your husband any more; yet he is a man of fine brain,
unimpeachable character, who handles big affairs for other men, and
father says he believes his bank account would surprise you. He has
been in business for years; surely all he makes doesn't go to other
men."

"You know I never thought of that!" cried Mrs. Minturn. "He had nothing
to begin on and I've always kept our establishment; he's never paid for
more than his clothing. Do you suppose that he has made money?"

"I know that he has!" said Leslie. "Not so fast as he might! Not so
much as he could, for he is incorruptible; but money, yes! He is a
powerful man, not only in the city, but all over the state. Some of
these days you're going to wake up to find him a Senator, or Governor.
You seem to be the only person who doesn't know it, or who doesn't care
if you do. But when it comes about, as it will, you'll be so proud of
him! Dear Mrs. Minturn, please, please go slowly! Don't, oh don't let
anything happen that will make a big regret for both."

"Leslie, where did you get all this?" asked Mrs. Minturn in tones of
mingled interest and surprise.

"From my father!" answered Leslie. "And from Douglas Bruce. Douglas'
office is across the hall from Mr. Minturn's; they meet daily, and from
the first they have been friends. Mr. Minturn took Douglas to his
clubs, introduced him and helped him into business, so often they work
together. Why only yesterday Douglas came to me filled with delight.
Mr. Minturn secured an appointment for him to make an investigation for
the city which will be a great help to Douglas. It will bring him in
contact with prominent men, give him big work and a sample of how
mercenary I am--it will bring him big pay and he knows how to use the
money in a big way. Douglas knows Mr. Minturn so well, and respects him
so highly, yet no one can know him as you do----"

"That is quite true! I live with him! I know the real man!" cried Mrs.
Minturn.

"How mean of you!" laughed Leslie, "to distort my reasoning like that!
I don't ask you to think up all the little things that have massed into
one big grievance against him; I mean stop that for to-day, out here in
the country where everything is so lovely, and go back where I am."

"He surely has an advocate! Leslie, when did you start making an
especial study of Mr. Minturn?"

"When Douglas Bruce began speaking to me so frequently of him!"
answered Leslie. "Then I commenced to watch him and to listen to what
people were saying about him, and to ask Daddy."

"It's very funny that every one seems so well informed and so
enthusiastic just at the time when I feel that life is unendurable with
him," said Mrs. Minturn. "I can't understand it!"

"Mrs. Minturn, try, oh do try to get my viewpoint before you do
anything irreparable," begged Leslie. "Away up here in the woods let's
think it out! Let's discuss James Minturn in every phase of his nature
and see if the big manly part doesn't far outweigh the little
irritations. Let's see if you can't possibly go to the meeting he wants
when we return with a balance struck in his favour. A divorced woman is
always--well, it's disagreeable. Alone you'd feel stranded. Attempt
marrying again, where would you find a man with half the points that
count for good, to replace him? In after years when your children
realize the man he is, how are you going to explain to them why you
couldn't live with him?"

"From your rush of words, it is evident you have your arguments at
hand," said Mrs. Minturn. "You've been thinking more about my affairs
than I ever did. You bring up points I never have thought of; you make
me see things that would not have occurred to me; yet as you put them,
they have awful force. You haven't exactly said it, but what you mean
is that you believe _me_ in the wrong; so do all my friends. All of you
sympathize with Mr. Minturn! All of you think him a big man worthy of
every consideration and me deserving none."

"You're putting that too strong," retorted Leslie. "You are right about
Mr. Minturn; but I won't admit that I find you 'worthy of no
consideration at all,' or I wouldn't be imploring you to give yourself
a chance at happiness."

"'Give myself a chance at happiness!'"

"Dear Mrs. Minturn, yes!" said Leslie. "All your life, so far, you have
lived absolutely for yourself; for your personal pleasure. Has
happiness resulted?"

"Happiness?" cried Mrs. Minturn in amazement. "You little fool! With my
husband practically a madman, my children incorrigible, my nerves on
edge until I can't sleep, because one thought comes over and over."

"Well you achieved it in society!" said Leslie. "It's the result of
doing exactly what you _wanted to!_ You can't say James Minturn was to
blame for what you had the money and the desire to do. You can't think
your babies would have preferred their mother to the nurses and
governesses they have had----"

"If you say another word about that I'll jump from the car and break my
neck," threatened Mrs. Minturn. "No one sympathizes with me!"

"That is untrue," said Leslie. "I care, or I wouldn't be doing what I
am now. And as for sympathy, I haven't a doubt but every woman of your
especial set will weep tears of condolence with you, if you'll tell
them what you have me. There is Mrs. Clinton and Mrs. Farley, and a
dozen women among your dearest friends who have divorced their
husbands, and are free lances or remarried; you can have friends enough
to suit you in any event."

"Fools! Shallow-pated fools!" cried Mrs. Minturn. "They never read
anything! Their idea of any art would convulse you! They don't know a
note of real music!"

"But they are your best friends," interposed Leslie. "What then is
their attraction?"

"I am sure I don't know!" said Mrs. Minturn. "I suppose it's unlimited
means to follow any fad or fancy, to live extravagantly as they choose,
to dress faultlessly as they have taste, freedom to go as they please!
Oh they do have a good time!"

"Are you sure that they didn't go through the same 'good time' you are
having right now, before they lost the men they loved and married, and
then became mothers who later deliberately orphaned their own children?"

"Leslie, for God's sake where did you learn it?" cried Mrs. Minturn.
"How can you hit like that? You make me feel like a--like a----! Oh
Lord!"

"Don't let's talk any more, Mrs. Minturn," suggested Leslie. "You know
what all refined, home-loving people think. You know society and what
it has to offer. You're making yourself unhappy, while I am helping
you, but if some one doesn't stop you, you may lose the love of a good
man, the respect of the people worth while, and later of your own
children! See, here is the swamp and this is as close as we can go with
the car."

"Is this where you found the flowers for your basket?"

"Yes," said Leslie.

"No snakes, no quicksands?"

"Snakes don't like this kind of moss," answered Leslie; "this is an old
lake bed grown up with tamaracks and the bog of a thousand years."

"Looks as if ten thousand might come closer!"

"Where you ever in such a place?" asked Leslie.

"Never!" said Mrs. Minturn.

"Well to do this to perfection," said Leslie, "we should go far enough
for you to see the home life of our rarest wild flowers and to get the
music full effect. We must look for a high place to spread this
waterproof sheet I have brought along, then nestle down and keep still.
The birds will see us going in, but if we make ourselves inconspicuous,
they will soon forget us. Have you the score?"

"Yes," answered Mrs. Minturn. "Go ahead!"

Leslie had not expected Mrs. Minturn's calm tones and placid acceptance
of the swamp. The girl sent one searching look the woman's way, then
came enlightenment. This was a stunt. Mrs. Minturn had been doing
stunts in the hope of new sensations all her life. What others could
do, she could, if she chose; in this instance she chose to penetrate a
tamarack swamp at six o'clock in the morning, to listen to the notes of
a bird.

"I'll select the highest places and go as nearly where we were as I
can," said Leslie. "If you step in my tracks you'll be all right."

"Why, you're not afraid, are you?" asked Mrs. Minturn.

"Not in the least," said Leslie. "Are you?"

"No!" said Mrs. Minturn. "One strikes almost everything motoring
through the country, in the mountains or at sea, and travelling. This
looks interesting. How deep could one sink anyway?"

"Deeply enough to satisfy you," laughed Leslie. "Come quietly now!"

Grasping the score she carried, Mrs. Minturn unconcernedly plunged
after Leslie. Purposely the girl went slowly, stooping beneath
branches, skirting too wet places, slipping over the high hummocks,
turning to indicate by gesture a moss bed, a flower, or glancing upward
to try to catch a glimpse of some entrancing musician.

Once Leslie turned to look back and saw Mrs. Minturn on her knees
separating the silvery green moss heads and thrusting her hand deeply
to learn the length of the roots. She noticed the lady's absorbed face,
and the wet patches spreading around her knees. Leslie fancied she
could see Mrs. Minturn entering the next gathering of her friends,
smiling faintly and crying: "Dear people, I've had a perfectly new
experience!" She could hear every tone of Mrs. Minturn's voice saying:
"Ferns as luxuriant as anything in Florida! Moss beds several feet
deep. A hundred birds singing, and all before sunrise, my dears!" When
Mrs. Minturn arose Leslie went forward slowly until she reached the
moccasin flowers, but remembering, she did not stop. The woman did. She
stooped and Leslie winced as she snapped one to examine it critically.
She held it up in the gray light, turning it.

"Did you ever see--little Elizabeth?" she asked.

"Yes," said Leslie.

"Do you think----?" She stopped abruptly.

"That one is too deep," said Leslie. "The colour he saw was on a
freshly opened one like that."

She pointed to a paler moccasin of exquisite pink with red lavender
veining. Mrs. Minturn assented.

"He can't forget anything," she said, "or let any one else. He always
will keep harping."

"We were peculiarly unfortunate that day," said Leslie. "He really had
no intention of saying anything, if he hadn't been forced."

"Oh he doesn't require forcing," said Mrs. Minturn. "He's always at the
overflow point about her."

"Perhaps he was very fond of her," suggested Leslie.

"He was perfectly foolish about her," said Mrs. Minturn impatiently. "I
lost a nurse or two through his interference. When I got such a
treasure as Lucette I just told her to take complete charge, make him
attend his own affairs, and not try being a nursery maid. It really
isn't done these days!"

Leslie closed her lips, moving forward until she reached the space
where the ragged boys and the fringed girls floated their white
banners, where lacy yellow and lavender blooms caressed each other,
there on the highest place she could select, across a moss-covered log,
she spread the waterproof sheet, and seating herself, motioned Mrs.
Minturn to do the same. She reached for the music and opening it ran
over the score. Her finger paused on the notes she had whistled, while
with eager face she sat waiting.

Mrs. Minturn dropped into an attitude of tense listening. The sun began
dissipating the gray mists and heightening the exquisite tints on all
sides. Every green imaginable was there from palest silver to the
deepest, darkest shades; all dew wet, rankly growing, gold tinted and
showing clearer each minute. Gradually Mrs. Minturn relaxed, made
herself comfortable as possible, then turned to the orchids of the open
space. The colour flushed and faded on her tired face, she nervously
rolled the moccasin stem in her fingers, or looked long at the delicate
flower. She was thinking so intently that Leslie saw she was neither
seeing the swamp, nor hearing the birds.

It was then that a little gray singer straying through the tamaracks
sent a wireless to his mate in the bushes of borderland, in which he
wished to convey to her all there was in his heart about the wonders of
spring, the joy of mating, the love of her, and their nest. He waited a
second, then tucking his tail, swelled his throat, and made sure he had
done his best.

At the first measure, Leslie thrust the sheet before Mrs. Minturn,
pointing to the place. Instantly the woman scanned the score, then
leaned forward listening. As the bird flew, Leslie faced Mrs. Minturn
with questioning eyes. She cried softly: "He did it! Perfectly! If I
hadn't heard I never would have believed."

"There is another that can do this from Verdi's _Traviata_." Leslie
whistled the notes. "We may hear him also."

Again they waited. Leslie realized that Mrs. Minturn was not listening,
and would have to be recalled if the bird sang. Leslie sat silent. The
same bird sang, and others, but to the girl had come the intuition that
Mrs. Minturn was having her hour in the garden, so wisely she remained
silent. After an interminable time she arose, making her way forward as
far as she could penetrate and still see the figure of the woman, then
hunting an old stump, climbed upon it and did some thinking herself.

At last she returned to the motionless figure. Mrs. Minturn was leaning
against the tamarack's scraggy trunk, her head resting on a branch,
lightly sleeping. A rivulet staining her cheeks from each eye showed
where slow tears had slipped from under her closed lids. Leslie's heart
ached with pity. She thought she never had seen any one seem so sad, so
alone, so punished for sins of inheritance and rearing. She sat beside
Mrs. Minturn, waiting until she awakened.

"Why I must have fallen asleep!" she cried.

"For a minute," said Leslie.

"But I feel as if I had rested soundly a whole night," said Mrs.
Minturn. "I'm so refreshed. And there goes that bird again. Verdi to
take his notes! Who ever would have thought of it? Leslie, did you
bring any lunch? I'm famished."

"We must go back to the car," said Leslie.

They spread the waterproof sheet on the ground where it would be
bordered with daintily traced partridge berry, and white-lined plantain
leaves, and sitting on it ate their lunch. Leslie did what she could to
interest Mrs. Minturn and cheer her, but at last that lady said: "Thank
you dear, you are very good to me; but you can't entertain me to-day.
Some other time we'll come back and bring the scores you suggest, and
see what we can really hear from these birds. But to-day, I've got the
battle of my life to fight. Something is coming; I should be in a
measure prepared, and as I don't know what to expect, it takes all the
brains I have to figure things out."

"You don't know, Mrs. Minturn?" asked Leslie.

"No," she said wearily. "I know James hates the life I lead; he thinks
my time wasted. I know he's a disappointed man, because he thought when
he married me he could cut me out of everything worth while in the
world, and set me to waiting on him, and nursing his children. Every
single thing I have done since, or wanted or had, has been a
disappointment to him. I know now he never would have married me, if he
hadn't figured he was going to make me over; shape me and my life to
suit his whims, and throw away my money to please his fancies. He's
been utterly discontented since Elizabeth was born. Why Leslie, we
haven't lived together since then. He said if I were going to persist
in bringing 'orphans' into the world, babies I wouldn't mother myself,
or wouldn't allow him to father, there would be no more children. I
laughed at him, because I didn't think he meant it; but he did, so that
ended even a semblance of content. Half the time I don't know where he
is, or what he is doing; he seldom knows where I am; if we appear
together it is accidental; I thought I had my mind made up to leave
him, and soon; but what you say, coupled with doubts I had myself, have
set me to thinking, till I don't know. I hate a scandal. You know how
careful I always have been. All my closest friends have jeered me for a
prude; there isn't a flaw he can find, there has been none!"

"Certainly not," said Leslie. "Every one knows that."

"Leslie, you don't know, do you?" asked Mrs. Minturn. "He didn't say
anything to Bruce, did he?"

"You want an honest answer?" questioned Leslie.

"Of course I do!" cried Mrs. Minturn.

"Douglas did tell me in connection with Mr. Minturn joining the
Brotherhood and taking a gamin from the streets into his office, that
he said he was scarcely allowed to see his own sons, not to exercise
the slightest control, so he was going to try his theories on a Little
Brother. But Douglas wouldn't mention it, only to me, and of course I
wouldn't repeat it to any one. Mr. Minturn seemed to feel that Douglas
thought it peculiar for a man having sons, to take so much pains with a
newsboy; they're great friends, so he said that much to Bruce."

"'He said that much----'" scoffed Mrs. Minturn.

"Well, even so, that is very little compared with what you've said
about him to me," retorted Leslie. "You shouldn't complain on that
score."

"I suppose, in your eyes, I shouldn't complain about anything," said
Mrs. Minturn.

"A world of things, Mrs. Minturn, but not the ones you do," said Leslie.

"Oh!" cried Mrs. Minturn.

"I think your grievance is that you were born in, and reared for,
society," said Leslie, "and in your extremity

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