"Won't you lay me down?" she asked presently. "My poor back's so tired."

"You must eat some broth first."

She did not want it, and the effort she made to please Dil was heroic.

She often asked to be laid down now. When the babies cried, it seemed as if knives were being thrust into her head. She had so many queer fancies, but she tried not to tell the bad ones to Dil. One moment she seemed out of doors, with the cold rasping her skin everywhere, going down her back like a stream of ice-water. Then she was scorched with heat, her skin crisping up and cracking. When she was pillowed up, it seemed as if she would fall to pieces; when she was laid down, the poor bones ached.

And in that land of "pure delight" there was no pain, no sickness, no chilling winds! And perhaps the babies didn't cry,-maybe there were no babies. They mightn't be big enough to go, and they would be scared at the giants.

Monday night began badly. A neighbor came in and made a complaint about Owen, and threatened to have him arrested. He had broken a pane of gla.s.s and kicked her dog. Mrs. Quinn was tired with a big wash; and this made her furious, though she went at the woman in no gentle terms.

Owen had not been so much to blame. The miserable little cur had snapped at him, and he had kicked it away. Then, as it ran yelping along, it was too good a mark for a boy to miss. He shied a piece of oyster sh.e.l.l; but, as bad luck would have it, he missed the dog, and the missile bounded down to a bas.e.m.e.nt window.

"I'll put that lad in the 'form school this blissid week! A pore woman can't take care o' sich a lot o' brats, an' they fuller 'n an egg of diviltry. I'll jist see-"

She began to hunt around for the end of a stout trunk-strap. Dil trembled in every limb. If Owny would only stay away! But he didn't. He came up the stairs whistling gayly; for he had earned a quarter, and he was saving money to have a regular Christmas blow-out.

His mother fell on him. There was a tremendous battle. Owen kicked and scratched and swore, and his mother's language was not over choice. He managed to wriggle away, and reached the door, crying out, as he sprang down the stairs, that he'd "niver darken the dure agin, if he lived a hundred years;" and added to it an imprecation that made Dil turn faint and cold.

Bess went into a hysteric.

"Drat the young un! Shet yer head, er you'll get some, ye bag o' bones!

Ye shud a ben in yer grave long ago. Take her in t'other room, Dil. I can't bide the sight uv her!"

Dil uttered not a word, though the room spun round. She poured her mother a cup of tea, and had a dish of nicely browned sausage, and some baked potatoes. Mrs. Quinn ate, and threatened dire things about Owny.

Then she put on her shawl, throwing it over her head, which meant an hour or two or three at Mrs. MacBride's, though she started to look for Owen.

Dil brought the wagon back, and nursed and soothed Bess.

"I wouldn't ever come back, if I was Owny," she said in her spasmodic tone, for the nervous fright was still strong upon her. "An' if I had two good legs, we'd run away too. Dil, I think she'd jes' be glad to have me die."

Dilsey Quinn shuddered. Just a few months longer-

Mrs. Murphy came in to borrow a "bit o' tay," and to learn what the rumpus was about. Dan told the story, putting Owny in the best light, and declaring valiantly that "Owny wasn't no chump."

"Misses Murphy," said Dil, as soon as she could get a chance, "what is it 'bout Christmas? an' what makes Christ be born ivery year?"

"Shure, dear, I do be havin' so many worries that I disremember. What wid th' babby bein' sick, an' pore ol' Mis' Bolan not sittin' up a minnit, an' bein' queer like in her mind, an' me hardly airnin' enough to keep body an' sowl togither, I hardly mind 'bout the blissed day. But I do be thinkin' he isn't born reely, for ye see the blissid Virgin's his mother, an' she's in hivin wid th' saints. I do be a bad hand at tellin' things straight; but I niver had any larnin', fer I wint in a mill whin I was turned o' six years. An' whin ye can't rade, it's hard gettin' to know much. But I'll ast the praist. Ah, dear," with a furtive glance at Dil, "If ye'd only let me ast him to come-"

"Oh, no, no!" protested Dil. "Mother'd kill us; an' she don't b'leve in priests an' such. You know how she went on 'bout the man who came an'

sang."

"Ah, yis, dear; it wouldn't do." And she shook her head, her eyes still fixed sorrowfully on Bess. "But I have me beads, an' I go to confission wanst a month, an' that'll be Friday now, an' I'll ast Father Maginn an'

tell ye all. Oh, you poor childer! An' it'll be a sad Christmas fer many a wan, I'm thinkin'. There's poor Mis' Bolan-"

Mrs. Murphy paused. Was Dil so blind? She could not suggest Mrs. Bolan's death when the great shadow seemed so near them.

"Dear," she added, with sympathetic softness, "if ye should be wantin'

any one suddint like, run up fer me."

"Yer very kind, Misses Murphy. I sometimes wisht there would be nights a whole week long, I'm so tired."

Owen did not come home that night nor the next. Dil devoutly hoped he would not come at all. She had a secret feeling that he would go to Patsey, and she comforted Bess with it. The house was so much quieter, and Dan was better alone.

Even in Barker's Court there were people who believed in Christmas, though some of them had ideas quite as vague as Dilsey Quinn's. But there was a stir in the very air, and penny trumpets began to abound.

Still, there were many who had no time for Christmas antic.i.p.ations, who were driven to do their six days' work in five, who st.i.tched from morning to midnight, who did not even have time to gossip with a neighbor.

Poor Bess! she could not eat, and she was so restless. The pears and the oranges were gone, and, saddest of all, their bank was empty. If Patsey would only come!

Dil took Bess up and laid her down, gave her sips of water, caressed her tenderly, bathed her head with cologne, and even that was running low.

The babies were left on the floor to cry, if Dil caught the faintest sound that was like desire. Bess often just held up her spindling arms and, drawing Dil down, kissed her with eager fervor.

She was so glad to have night come and see the last baby taken away.

Mrs. Quinn was working at a grand house where they were to have a Christmas feast. She was to go again to-morrow; and, as it was late, she did not go out, but just tumbled into bed, with not an anxiety on her mind.

Dil sat and crooned to her little sister, who seemed a part of her very life. When Mrs. Quinn snored, it was safe to indulge in a little freedom. And though Dil was so worn and weary, she ministered as only love can. Everybody had been so used to Bess's weakness, and they thought that the end would be a great relief. But Dil never dreamed of the end they saw so plainly.

It was past midnight when Dil laid her down for the last time.

"O Dil, I feel so nice an' easy all of a suddent," she cried, with an eager joyousness that thrilled the heavy heart. "Nothin' pains me. I'm quite sure I'll be better to-morrow. An' when Patsey comes, we'll just ast him to help us get that nice medicine. He's so good to us, Dil; 'n'

if he had lots of money he'd give us anything."

"He just would," said Dil. "An' if Owny's gone to him, he'll be all right."

The thought comforted her immeasurably.

"O Dil, dear," murmured the plaintive voice, "do you remember the big bowl of wild roses, an' how sweet they were, an' how pritty, with their soft pink leaves an' baby buds? I can almost smell them. It's so sweet all around. Dil, _are_ there any wild roses?"

"No, dear," said the gentle, tired voice.

"Well-then I'm dreamin'; an' they're so lovely. Just like _he_ told us, you know; 'bout that place where they growed. Oh, you dear, sweet, lovely Dil! I want to see the picture he put you in. You were pritty, I know; folks always are pritty in pictures. An' we'll ast him to let us be taken over agen, for when we get on the way to heaven we'll both be so full of joy. An' he'll help us clear to the pallis."

She stopped to breathe. It came so quick and short now, hardly going below her chest.

"Sit here an' hold my two hands. Dil, dear, I'm as much trouble as the babies; but I most know I'll be better to-morrow. And when I go fast asleep, you run right to bed, an' it'll be all right. I feel so light an' lovely, 'most 's if I was a wild rose-a soft, pink, satiny wild rose."

There was a little pleasant gurgle that did duty for a laugh. Dil kissed her and crooned sleepily. As she held the hands, the fever seemed to go out of them. The little golden head had such a restful poise. The breath came slowly, easily.

Dil kissed her with the long, yearning, pa.s.sionate kisses that take one's whole soul, that leave some souls bankrupt indeed. All her own being was in a strange quiver. Oh, did it mean that Bess would be better to-morrow? She believed it in some strange, undefined way, and was at peace.

Perhaps she drowsed. She started, feeling stiff and chilly. Bess slept tranquilly. There was no pain to make her moan unconsciously. Why, it was almost a foretaste of that blessed land.

Dil wrapped herself in an old shawl and dropped down on her little cot.

In all the glad wide world there was no one to come in and comfort her, and so G.o.d sent his angel-kindly sleep. The night breath that he breathed over her had the fragrance of wild roses.

The alarm clock roused her. It was dark now when her day began. Bess was quiet; and she drew the blanket more closely around her, for the morning felt bitterly cold. She stirred the fire, made her mother's coffee, and broiled a bit of steak. The windows were all ice, which seldom happened.

"It's enough to kill one to go out in the cold," declared Mrs. Quinn.