"I'll not be home airly the night, for I promised cook to stay a bit an'

gev her a hand wid th' fancy fixin's. Foine doin's they're to be havin'.

An' if that thafe of the world Owny comes in, ye be soft spoken jist as if nothin' had happened. I'll settle wid him. I'll gev him some Christmas!"

With that she was off. Then Dan came for his breakfast.

"I do miss Owny so," he half whimpered. "Ther' ain't a boy in the street who could think up such roarin' fun."

"Whisht!" Dil said softly. "Bess is asleep, an' I won't have her worrited. She had a bad time yist'day with the babies. I do hope there won't be no such crowd to-day. Seven babies an' that was thirty-five cents. Mother might be given Bess an' me some Christmas."

Dan laughed at that.

Dil sighed. She drank a little coffee, but she could not eat. Two sleepy babies came. She washed the dishes, and spread up her mother's bed, putting the babies in there. It was dark, with no ventilation but the door, and kept warm easily.

Another and another baby, one crying for its mother. When Dil had hushed it she took a vague glance at Bess, whose fair head lay there so restful. The frost was melting off the window-panes, and she put out the lamp. With a baby in her arms she sat down and rocked.

A curious sense of something, not quite anxiety, came over her presently. She went to Bess and raised the blanket, peering at the small white face that seemed almost to light the obscurity of the room. The eyes were half-closed. The lips were parted with a smile, and the little white teeth just showed. One hand seemed to hold up the chin.

Dil stooped and kissed her. O G.o.d! what was it? What was it? For Bess was marble cold.

"O Bess, Bess!" she cried in mortal terror. "Wake up, my darlin'! Wake up an' get warm."

As she seized the hand, a startling change came over the child. The chin dropped. The pretty smile was gone. The eyes looked out with awesome fixedness. Her heart stood still as if she were frozen.

Then, moved by horror, she flew up-stairs, her breath almost strangling her.

"O Misses Murphy!" she shrieked, "there's somethin' strange come over Bess. She's never been like this-an' cold-"

"Yis, dear. I'll jist look at poor Mis' Bolan. She do be goin' very fast. All night she was that res'les' talkin' of the beautiful hymn the man sung, an' beggin' him to sing it agen; an' then hearin' angels an'

talkin' 'bout green fields an' flowers, an' where there do be no night.

They do be mostly so at the last, rememberin' beautiful things."

An awful terror clutched Dil at the heart, as she recalled Bess's talk of the wild roses. So cruel a fear smote her that her very tongue seemed paralyzed.

"You don't mean"-she cried wildly.

Mrs. Murphy's thoughts were running on Mrs. Bolan.

"She'll not last the day through. Pore dear, there's not much pleasure to the'r ould lives. But she did be so longin' to have that man come agen-"

She had taken Dil's hand, and they were going down-stairs. A baby had rolled off the lounge and b.u.mped his head, and was screaming. But Dil hardly heard him. They went through to the tiny room.

"Ah, pore dear! Pore lamb! She's gone, an' she's outen all her mis'ry.

She'll niver suffer any more. An' she's safe-"

Mrs. Murphy paused, not quite sure she could give that comfort. There was purgatory, and the poor thing had never been christened. She was extremely ignorant of her own church doctrine; but she felt the bitter injustice of condemning this poor soul to everlasting torment for her mother's neglect.

"No, Misses Murphy," cried Dil in the accent of utter disbelief, "she can't be-Oh, hurry an' do somethin' for her. She's jes fainted! Le's get her warm agen. Bring her out to the fire, an' I'll run for the 'Spensary doctor. Oh, no, she isn't-she wouldn't-'cause we was goin' to heaven together in the spring, an' she couldn't leave me without a word-don't you see?"

Oh, the wild, imploring eyes that pierced Mrs. Murphy through! the heart-breaking eyes that entreated vainly, refusing the one unalterable fiat!

"Ah, dear, they'sen don't hev any ch'ice. O Dil, Dilly Quinn!" and she clasped the child to her heart. "You mustn't take on so, dear! Shure, G.o.d knows best. Mebbe he's better'n folks an' the things they say. She won't suffer any more, pore dear. I've seen it for weeks, an' knowed what must come."

Dil gave a few long, dry, terrible sobs; then she lay helpless in Mrs.

Murphy's arms. The kind soul placed her on the cot, sprinkled water on her face, chafed her hands; but Dil lay as one dead.

Then she ran down-stairs.

"O Mrs. Minch! have ye iver a bit of camphire? I used the last o' mine this mornin' for the pore old craythur. Bessy Quinn's gone at last, an'

is cold, an' Dil's that overcome she's gone in an norful faint. Come up a bit, do. An' that haythen woman'll not care more'n if it was a kitten.

She do be the hardest!"

Mrs. Minch laid down her work, looked up the "camphire," and plied her caller with inquiries.

All their efforts were unavailing, though Dil opened her eyes once, and at intervals a shudder ran through her frame.

"Yes, the poor dear's dead and cold, and it's G.o.d's mercy, Mrs. Murphy.

How she's lived so long's a mystery; but Dil's been more watchful than most any mother. She was the sweetest and patientest, and loved her beyond all things. Mrs. Quinn hasn't any human feeling in her, and there's plenty like her, more's the shame. When you bring helpless little ones in the world, it's not their fault. And when they are bruised and banged and made helpless, as that poor little one, a mother's heart should have pitied her."

"Oh, dear, it's the rum that takes out all the nateral feelin'. An' one 'ud think she'd had enough of it in her husband, not to be goin' the same way. An' pore Dil carin' for them babies an' doin' a woman's work, a-stuntin' her an' makin' her old afore her time. An', if ye'll stay, I'll go fer th' 'Spensary doctor. Sorra a Christmas it'll be in the court. Mr. Sheehan is dyin', an' Mrs. Neefus's baby went yes'tday, an'

the ould woman-but they do be dyin' all the time, some wan."

Mrs. Minch bent over Dil with pitying eyes. She had seen better times, and lived in a nicer neighborhood than Barker's Court. But poverty had driven her down step by step. She had her old deaf father to care for, and a son growing up; and the three rooms, such as they were, proved cheaper than anything she had seen, though she was on the lookout all the time. She had not made much intimacy with her neighbors, except that through her pity for Mrs. Bolan she had come to know good-hearted Mrs.

Murphy quite well, and she had been interested in Dilsey and Bess. But most of the people in the court were afraid of Mrs. Quinn's tongue.

"The poor thing!" she sighed. "She is a little old woman already. She has never had leave to grow as children should. Oh, why are they brought into the world to suffer?"

She had once thought herself full of trust and love to G.o.d, but so many questions had come to the surface with her years of hard experience. Why this little Bess should have suffered four years-but both parents had given her a good const.i.tution, that in some positions in life might have made her a useful factor instead of mere waste material.

Then she took up one of the crying babies. Another was clamoring loudly, "Bed, bed," and opening wide his mouth to show her how empty it was.

"Oh, how ever did she look after them all?" she cried in despair as Mrs.

Murphy entered.

"She had a rare way with childers, that she had." Mrs. Murphy cut a chunk from the loaf of bread and gave the hungry baby. "An' the docthor will be in as soon as he kin, but there's a sight o' folks waitin'. I have heerd say a grane Christmas made fat graveyards, but this is cold enough to be black. An' how's the poor gurl?"

"She seems-asleep somehow, and you can notice her breathin'."

"I'll look after Mrs. Bolan, an' kem down agen," said Mrs. Murphy, disappearing.

IX-DILSEY

Mrs. Bolan was faintly breathing, as she had been since midnight, but so cold that she might easily be thought dead. Mrs. Murphy's baby was asleep.

The babies were crowing and talking in their fashion, unmindful of sorrow.