Travis stepped back to Bess.

"I shall ask my friend to tell me all about you-she will write it. And I shall come back." He stooped and kissed Bess on the brow, for the last time. Heaven help her on her lonely journey. But the Saviour who blessed little children would be tender of her surely.

"We'll all go-won't we-to heaven? The singin' was so beautiful. An' the everlastin' spring."

"Good-by." He clasped Dil's hand. "Remember, wherever you are, I shall find you. Oh, do not be afraid, G.o.d will care for you."

"I don't seem to understand 'bout G.o.d," and there was a great, strange awe in Dil's eyes. "But you've been lovely. I can understand that."

One more glance at Bess, whose face was lighted with an exalted glow, as if she were poised, just ready for flight. Oh, what could comfort Dil when she was gone? And _he_ had so much! He was so rich in home and love.

A woman stood in the lower hallway, the half-despairing face he had noted. She clutched his arm.

"See here," she cried. "You said, 'deliver us from evil.' Is anybody-is G.o.d strong enough to do it? From horrible evil-when there seems no other way open-when you must see some one you love-die starvin'-an' no work to be had-O my G.o.d!"

The cry pierced him. Yes, there was a beneficent power in money. He gave thanks for it, as he crushed it in her hand. How did the poor souls live, herded in this narrow court? His father's stable was a palace to it in cleanliness.

He had reasoned about poverty being one of the judicious forces of the world. He had studied its picturesque aspects, its freedom from care and responsibility, its comfortable disregard of conventionals, its happy indifference to custom and opinion. Did these people look joyous and content? Why, their faces even now haunted him with the weight of hopeless sorrow. Oh, what could he do to ease the burthen of the world?

Dil picked up the baby after she had lighted the lamp. She was still in a maze, as if some vision had come and gone. Was he really here? Or had she been in a blissful dream?

"Come an' spell out what he's written-an'-an' his name, Dil!"

Bess was studying the fly-leaf. Yes, there it was, "John Travis."

"I wisht it wasn't John," said Bess, a little disappointed. "He ought to have a fine, grand name, he's so splendid. Rich people have nice ways, that poor people can't seem to get."

"No, they can't get 'em, they can't," Dil repeated, with a despairing sense of the gulf between. She had never thought much about rich people before.

"You'd better hide the book, an' the money, 'fore Owny comes in," said Bess fearfully. "I don't even dast to look at the pictures. But we'll have it a good many days when mammy's out, an' I must learn to read the hard words. O Dil! if I had two good legs, I would jump for joy."

Dil wanted to sit down and cry from some unknown excess of feeling-she never had time to cry from pure joy. But she heeded Bess's admonition, and hid their precious gifts. Then she stirred the fire and put on the potatoes. It was beginning to rain, and the boys came in noisily. The babies went home, and they had supper.

It was quite late when Mrs. Quinn returned home, and she threw a bundle on the lounge. The boys being in, and Bess out of the way, she had nothing to scold about. She had had her day's work praised, and a good supper in the bargain. Then cook had given her a "drap of the craythur"

to keep out the cold. And she could have two days' work every week "stiddy," so she resolved to throw over some poorer customer.

But when Mrs. Murphy came down with a few potatoes in her hand that she had borrowed, and full of her wonderful news, Dil's heart sank within her like lead.

"An' what do ye think?" the visitor began incautiously. "Poor old Mrs.

Bolan is half wild with all the singin' an' the beautiful prisint he gev her."

"What prisint?" asked Mrs. Quinn peremptorily.

"Why, it was a five-dollar bill. I thought first she'd faint clear away wid joy."

"What man?" eying them both suspiciously.

Dil's lips moved, but her throat was so dry she could not utter a sound.

"Wan of them Moody an' Sankey men that do be singin' around, an'

prayin'. An' ye niver heard sich an' iligant v'ice even at the free and easies! Why, Mrs. Quinn, it's my belafe, in spite of the praist, he cud draw a soul out o' purgatory just wid his singin'. Mrs. Bolan's that 'raptured she does nothin' but quaver about wid her shaky old v'ice. Ah, dear-ave ye cud hev heard him!"

"To the divil wid him! Comin' round to git money out'v poor folks. I knows 'em. Dil, did you give him a cint?"

"I didn't have any; but he didn't ast for none," and the poor child had hard work to steady her voice.

"An' ye'r mistaken, Mrs. Quinn, if ye think the likes of sich a gentleman would be beggin' of the poor," returned Mrs. Murphy indignantly. "An' he a-gevin a poor ould craythur five dollars! An' they do be goin' around a-missionin' with their prayers and hymns."

"I know 'em. An' the praists an' the sisters beggin' the last cint, an'

promisin' to pray ye outen purgatory! Mrs. Murphy," with withering contempt, "them men cuddent pray ye outen a sewer ditch if ye fell in!

An' I won't have them comin' here-ye hear that, Dilsey Quinn! If I catch a Moody an' Sankey man here, I'll break ivery bone in his body, an'

yours too; ye hear that now!"

Mrs. Quinn was evidently "spilin' for a fight." Mrs. Murphy went off in high dudgeon without another word.

But she stopped to pour out her grievance to Mrs. Garrick on her floor.

"Shure, I pity them childers, for their mother do be the worst haythen an' infidel, not belayvin' a word about her own sowl, an' spindin' her money for gin as she do. She was a foine-lukin' woman, an' now her eyes is all swelled up, an' her nose the color of an ould toper. An' that poor little Bess dyin' afore her very eyes widout a bit of a ma.s.s, or even christenin' I belayve. I'm not that bigoted, Mrs. Garrick, though the praists do say there bees but the wan way. I'm willin' that people shall try their own ways, so long as they save their sowls; but pore, helpless bits of childer that can't know! An' what are their mothers put in the wurruld for but to tache them? But when ye don't belayve ye have a sowl of yer own it's awful! There's them b'ys runnin' wild-an' a moighty good thing it'll be whin they're in the 'form-school, kapin' out o' jail, an' wuss!"

Dil sat in awful fear when the door had closed behind their neighbor.

She took up Owen's trousers-the rent was sufficient to send any boy early to bed.

That recalled her mother. She threw the bundle towards Dil.

"There's some clo'es ye kin be fixin' up for Dan, whin ye've so much time as to be spindin' it on Moody and Sankey men, drat 'em! foolin'

'round an' wastin' valyble time. Next I'll hear that ye've ast in the organ man an' the monkey, and I'll come home to find ye givin' a pairty.

An' ye'll hev yer head broke for it, that ye will!"

So long as it was not broken now, Dil gave secret thanks. Did G.o.d help any? Then, why didn't he help other times when things were very bad? She examined the suit, and found it a nice one, rather large for Dan, who was not growing like a weed, although he ran the streets.

Her mother began to snore. She would be good for some hours' sound sleep. So Dil stole into the little room, and began to prepare Bess for bed, though she trembled with a half fear.

"O Dil, I didn't hardly dast to breathe! An' if she'd known _he_ come in here an' sung, she'd murdered us! An' it made me feel glad like that he was goin' away, for mammy might happen to be home when he come-though don't you b'lieve he'd take us away right then? An'-an' wasn't it lucky you didn't have to tell about the-"

Bess held the bill up in her hand.

"Le's put it in the book, an' hide the book in the bottom of the wagon.

An', Dil, I can't help feeling light like, as if I was goin' to float.

Think of that splendid place, an' no night, an' no winter, an' all beautiful things. Oh, I wisht he'd gev us the words too; I'm most sure I could sing 'em. An' the best of all is that mammy won't be there, cause, you see, 'twouldn't please her any, and I'd be awful feared. She'd ruther stay here an' drink gin."

They had not gone far enough in the Christian life, poor ignorant little souls, to have much missionary spirit. But they kissed, and kissed softly, in the half-dark, and cried a little-tender tears touched with a sadness that was as sweet as joy.

Dil stepped about cautiously, emptied the grate, and did up her night-work. There seemed a certainty about heaven that she had not experienced before, a confidence in John Travis that gave her a stubborn faith. He would surely return in the spring. They would go out some day and never, never come back to Barker's Court.

She fell asleep in her visionary journey when she was up beyond Central Park. She was always so tired, and this night quite exhausted. But Bess kept floating on a sea of delicious sound; and if ever one had visions of the promised land, it was Bessy Quinn.

There were seven babies in the next morning, it being a sharp, clear day. Mrs. Quinn had gone off about her business with no row. When Bess had been dressed and had her breakfast, they drew out the precious book.

"I'll jes' cover it with a bit of old calico an' no one will mistrust, for you can jes' slip it down in the carriage. An' we'll get out that old speller of Owny's, so mother can see that around if we do be taken by s'prise."