Besides the book, there had been an irreparable loss to her, that Bess had not yet realized. She had tucked her precious picture inside the cover of the book. For now she felt it must be kept out of her mother's sight, as she could not explain how she came by it, and escape with her life. That, too, had perished in the flames, the next precious thing to Bess.

The poor children unlocked arms presently, and Dil crept into bed sad and forlorn. She heard Owen stealing in, but her mother never stirred.

Mrs. Quinn sat taking her cup of coffee the next morning when Owen made his appearance. She tried to recall what had happened last night, and whether she had thrashed him or not.

"A purty time of night it was for ye to come home," she began.

"Oh, come off!" said Owen. "What yer givin' us? I was home an' abed afore ye kem in, an' ye was full of the shindy at Mis' MacBride's. Don't ye remimber how ye wint on?"

Owen dodged the cuff. His mother was so nonplussed that for once she was helplessly silent. But as she went out of the door she turned and said,-

"I'll see yer in to-night, young feller."

Dil's face was in such a maze of surprise that she looked at Owen without being able to utter a word for some moments, while he laughed heartily.

"How could ye, Owny?"

"How cud I?" Owen laughed again. "Well," with a swagger, "it's all in knowin' how to dale with the female sect. Was she thunderin' mad last night? Did she go fer me?"

"But about Mrs. MacBride? How could ye know what happened?"

"Why, ye see I was pa.s.sin' jes' after the shindy. That Mrs. Whalen who made the row whin she beat ye so, ye know, was harang'in'; an' then I heard there'd been a great row, an' mammy'd come home mad as a hornet.

So, sez I, I'll wait until she's asleep before I trust myself. An' its jes' havin' yer wits about ye. She was too drunk to remember what she did. Did she break yer head agen? If she did I'll go an' complain of her. Whin yer tired a-havin' her round, we'll git her sent up to th'

Island. An' now get me some grub."

"She only struck me wunst. But she burnt up something," and Dil began to sob. "But, Owny, ye were not in, an' it was a-a-"

"Git off de stump wid yer high notions! I'd save me head wid any kind o'

lie. You gals don't know nothin' but to run right agin de stun wall. Ye see, it's a bit o' circ.u.mwention, an' ye jes' use yer brains a bit to save yer skull er yer back. But dat old gin-mill ain't goin' to boss me much longer. Ye'll see, an' be moighty s'prised. An' here's a nickel, Dil."

Owen ate his breakfast, and then taking out a cigarette, lighted it, and swaggered off.

Dil woke Dan, and gave him his meal, as two babies were asleep and the other sat on the floor munching a crust.

Bess slept late. Poor Dil went about her work in a strange maze. Owny slipped out of a great many things, and told lies about them, and this morning he had been very "cute." Dil sighed. She could not have done it.

She would have blundered and betrayed herself. And yet she had told a lie about the book. It had not saved the book, but perhaps it had saved her and Bess from something more terrible.

It was a sad day for both of them. The babies were cross. One had a bad cold and a croupy sound in his voice. There was not even a glint of sunshine at noon now; the high houses kept it out of the court. But the day wore to an end. Mrs. Quinn did not go out at all in the evening.

Owen was very jaunty, and pretended to study.

Mrs. Quinn's reformation lasted two or three days. She had "taken her oath she would niver step fut inside o' Mrs. MacBride's dure;" but Mrs.

MacBride had no notion of losing so good a customer. To be sure, Mrs.

Quinn was getting rather quarrelsome and overbearing, but she was good company for the most part.

Winter had fairly set in with December. There was much talk of dull times, and the babies fell off after Monday and Tuesday. Owen and his mother seemed continually on the warpath. He was a big, stout boy of his age; and, when he thought it was safe, played hookey, put in coal, ran errands, sold papers, and did whatever his hands found to do with all his might, even to snivyin' on the corner grocer. Dan was pretty shrewd and sharp, though not so daring, but could swear and smoke cigar ends with the worst of them.

There was an occasional religious visitor in the court besides the sisters and the priests. But Dil never mentioned them to her mother now.

Besides, she did not want to leave Bess for even an hour or two at the Mission School; she hated to spend a moment away from her. Since the loss of the book and the picture they clung closer to each other. There was only one antic.i.p.ation now, waiting for spring and John Travis.

And as other things failed, their faith seemed to centre about this.

They lived on the hope of heaven with the fervor of saints who had known and loved the Lord, and were counting all the appointed days, as if the glories had already been revealed, and they were walking by faith.

VIII-BESS

Everybody began to talk about Christmas. Last year Dil had wheeled Bess around to see the shop windows.

"If it would come reel nice and warm, an' there wasn't any babies! But it's awful cold when you just have a winder open to sweep, an' I couldn't stan' bein' out in it."

"No, you couldn't," and Dil sighed.

Bess was ethereal now. Her large, bright eyes, her golden hair, and the pink that came in her cheeks every afternoon, gave a suggestion of the picture. Then she was so curiously, so nervously alive, that, afraid as Dil was of every change, she blindly hoped some of these things were indications of recovery.

But Dil's poor head ached a good deal now, and she had restless nights when it seemed as if she would burn up. As she listened to Bess's beautiful thoughts and strange visions, she felt discouraged with her own stupidness. She was so physically worn out that her brain was inert.

"I wisht I knew what Christmas was all about," sighed Bess. "An' Santa Claus! Mammy says there ain't no such thing, an' he couldn't come down a chimbly. But he gives a norful lot of things to some folks. An', Dil, we used to hang up our stockings. What's it for, anyway?"

Dil gave a long sigh, and the wrinkles of perplexity deepened and strayed over her short nose.

"Johnny Dike's goin' to see the cradle in the manger on Christmas Eve.

An' he's goin' to take a present, some money he's been savin' up. What makes Christ get born agen? 'Tain't the Lord Jesus, though; for he's a big man now, if he can carry children in his arms."

"We might ast Johnny or Misses Murphy," suggested Dil.

"They're Catholics. An' there's such curis things, with people tellin'

you diff'rent. I don't see how he can be born every Christmas. I b'lieve I like Santa Claus best. You don't have to give him nothin' when you ain't got even a penny. O Dil," pausing to rest a moment, "don't you wisht _he_ was here! He'd know all about it. Rich folks have chances, an' get to know everything. He's a long way off. When mammy was clever t'other night, I ast her 'bout comin' crost the oshin, 'Lantic Oshin, 'tis; an' she said you sailed an' sailed two whole weeks. An' if he don't start 'till April, there'll be two weeks more. I keep countin'

thim up."

Dil had been warming some broth.

"I wisht you'd take a little of this," she said. "The 'Spensary doctor said you must have it. An' you ain't eat nothin' but the pear an' the piece of norange."

"They was so good and juicy. My throat's hot, an' kinder dry an' sore.

Things don't taste good."

"I wisht I could get some more of that nice medicine. The 'Spensary stuff ain't no good. I might ast Patsey to lend me some money; but how'd I ever get any to pay him back?"

They looked at each other in wonderment. Then the child's feverish eyes sparkled.

"O Dil, I know _he'd_ help us pay it back, for mammy was so cross to the lady he sent that she won't come no more. An' 'twouldn't been no use to give mammy the money. O Dil, we've had ten whole dollars. Wasn't it lovely? An' I wisht the time would spin round an' round, faster'n ever.

I get so tired waitin'. Seems sometimes 's if I jes' couldn't draw another breath."

"Oh, you must! you must!" cried Dil in affright. "For when people stop breathin', they die."

"An' I wanter live, so's we can get started for heaven. I'll be better when it's all nice an' warm out o' doors, an' sunshiny. I'd jes' like to live in sunshine. You see, when the babies cry, it makes me feel all roughened up like. An' I'm that feared o' mammy when she an' Owny hev scrimmiges. There's a lump comes in my throat 'n' chokes me. But I'm gonter live. Don't you know how las' winter I was so poor an' measlin'?

An' I crawled out in the spring. Owny was readin' in his lesson 'bout some things doin' that way;" and Bess gave a pitiful ghost of a laugh.