It was semi-twilight. He picked his way up and knocked gently.

So gently, Dil was sure of a customer for her mother. The babies were asleep. Bess was fixed in her wagon. Dil had some patches of bright colors that she was going to sew together, and make a new carriage rug.

She opened the door just a little way. He pushed it wider, and glanced in.

"Oh, have you forgotten me?" he exclaimed. "Did you think I would not come?"

Dil stood in a strange, sweet, guilty abas.e.m.e.nt. She had disbelieved him. Bess gave a soft, thrilling cry of delight, and stretched out her hands.

"I knew you would come," and there was a tremulous exaltation in her weak voice.

"I've only been in town a few days. I have been staying with a cousin who met with a sad accident and is still ill. But I have run away for an hour or two; and I have brought Bess's picture."

He was taking a little survey of the room. The stove shone. The floor was clean. The white curtain made a light spot in the half gloom. The warmth felt grateful, coming out of the chilly air, though it was rather close. Dil did not look as well as on the summer day. Her eyes were heavy, with purple shadows underneath; the "bang" of the morning had left some traces. And Bess was wasted to a still frailer wraith, if such a thing was possible.

They both looked up eagerly, as he untied the package, and slipped out of an envelope a delicately tinted photograph.

"There, blue eyes, will it do for Dil?"

The child gave a rapturous cry. Dil stood helpless from astonishment.

"There ain't no words good enough," Dil said brokenly. "Leastways, I don't know any. O Bess, he's made you look jes' 's if you was well. O mister, will she look that way in heaven?" For Dil had a vague misgiving she could never look that way on earth.

"She will be more beautiful, because she will never be ill again."

"Dil's right-there ain't no words to praise it," Bess said simply. "If we was rich we'd give you hundreds and hundreds of dollars, wouldn't we, Dil?"

Dil nodded. Her eyes were full of tears. Something she had never known before struggled within her, and almost rent her soul.

"And here is your book. You can read, of course?"

"I can read some. Oh, how good you are to remember." She was deeply conscience stricken.

The tone moved him immeasurably. His eyelids quivered. There were thousands of poor children in the world, some much worse off than these.

He could not minister to all of them, but he did wish he could put these two in a different home.

"I must go away again with my cousin, and I am sorry. I meant to"-what _could_ he do, he wondered-"to see more of you this winter; but a friend of mine will visit you, and bring you a little gift now and then. You must have spent all your money long ago," flushing at the thought of the paltry sum.

"We stretched it a good deal," said Dil quaintly. "You see, I bought Bess some clo'es, there didn't seem much comin' in for her. An' the fruit was so lovely. She's been so meachin'."

"Well, I am going to be-did you ever read Cinderella?" he asked eagerly.

"I ain't had much time for readin', an' Bess couldn't go to school but such a little while."

"And no one has told you the story?"

There was a curious eagerness in the sort of blank surprise.

"Well, this little Cinderella did kitchen work; and sat in the chimney-corner when her work was done, while her sisters dressed themselves up fine and went to parties. One evening a curious old woman came, a fairy G.o.dmother, and touched her with a wand, a queer little stick she always carried, and turned her old rags into silks and satins, and made a chariot for her, and sent her to the ball at the king's palace."

"Oh," interposed Dil breathlessly, "she didn't have to come back to her rags, an' chimney, an' all, did she?"

"She did come back, because her fairy G.o.dmother told her to. But the king's son sent for her and married her."

"Oh, if she'd only come to us, Dil!" Bess had a quicker and more vivid imagination. She had not been so hard worked, nor had her head banged so many times. "We'd have the char-what did you call it? an' go to heaven.

Then you wouldn't have to wheel me, Dil, an' we'd get along so much faster." She laughed with a glad, happy softness, and her little face was alight with joy. "Say, mister, you must think I've got heaven on the brain. But if you'd had hurted legs so long, you'd want to get to the Lord Jesus an' have 'em made well. I keep thinkin' over what you told us 'bout your Lord Jesus, an' I know it's true because you've come back."

Such a little thing; such great faith! And he had been comparing claims, discrepancies, and wondering, questioning, afraid to believe a delusion.

Was he truly _his_ Lord Jesus? The simple belief of the children touched, melted him. It was like finding a rare and exquisite blossom in an arid desert. He wished he were not going away. He would like to care for little Bess until the time of her release came. Ah, would they be disillusioned when they came to know what the real pilgrimage was?

"There ain't no fairies truly," said Dil with pathetic gravity. "There ain't much of anything for poor people."

"I can't take you to a palace; but when I come back I mean you shall have a nice, comfortable home in a prettier place-"

"Mother wouldn't let Dil go on 'count of the babies. There ain't but two to-day, 'n' she was awful mad! 'N' I wouldn't go athout Dil. No one else 'd know how to take care of me."

"We will have that all right. And while I am gone you must have some money to buy medicines and the little luxuries your mother cannot afford."

"She don't buy nothin' ever. I ain't no good, 'cause I'll never walk, 'n' only Dil cares about me," Bess said, as if she had so long accepted the fact the sting was blunted.

"Yes, I care; and I will send a friend here to see you, a young lady, and you need not be afraid to tell her of whatever you want. And Dil may like to know-that I am going to put her in a picture, and the money will be truly her own."

He was not sure how much pride or personal delicacy people of this cla.s.s possessed.

"O Dil!" Bess was electrified with joy. "Oh, I hope you made Dil look-just as she'd look if we lived in one of them beautiful houses, 'n'

had a maid 'n' pretty clo'es, 'n' no babies to take care of. We never knowed any one like you afore. Patsey's awful good to us, but he ain't fine like an' soft spoken. Are you very rich, mister?"

He laughed.

"Only middling, but rich enough to make life a little pleasanter for you when I come back."

She seemed to be studying him.

"You look as if you lived in some of the fine, big houses. I'd like to go in wan. An' you know so much! You must have been to school a good deal. Oh, how soft your hands are!"

She laughed delightedly as she enclosed one in both of hers, and then pressed it to her cheek.

He stooped and kissed her. No one ever did that but Dil and Patsey.

"You'll surely come back in time to go to heaven, soon as it's pleasant weather," she said suddenly. "An' Dil couldn't be leaved behind. Mother threatens to put her in a shop, an' she does bang her head cruel. But I wouldn't want to be in a pallis an' have everything, if I couldn't have Dil. An' you'll get it all fixed so's we can go?"

Ah, ah! before that time Bess would have been folded in the everlasting arms. There was a lump in his throat, and he began to untie the string of the book to evade a more decisive answer.

It was an ill.u.s.trated edition, simplified for children's reading. He turned some of the leaves and found one picture-Christiana ascending the palace steps amid a host of angels.

From this squalid place and poverty, to that-how could he explain the steps between? When he came back Bess would be gone-

"Past night, past day,"