"It just needs a stir in the kettle, Dil, for it's gone a bit sour; but it'll freshen up with salt an' some onion. How many babies?"

"Five," answered Dil.

Just then Mrs. Gillen came flying up the stairs. She was not much beyond twenty, and still comely with youth and health and hope.

"O me darlint!" s.n.a.t.c.hing up her baby with rapture, "did he want his own mammy, sure?" laughing gleefully between the kisses. "Has he fretted any, Dil?"

"He's been very good." Dil was too wise to tell bad tales.

"He always is, the darlint! An' I'm late. I was ironin' away for dear life, whin Mrs. Welford comes down wid a lasht summer's gown, an' sez she, 'Mrs. Gillen, you stop an' iron it, an' I'll give ye a quarther, for ye've had a big day's work,' sez she. So what cud I do, faix, when she shpoke so cliver loike, an' the money ready to hand?"

"They're not often so free wid their tin, though heaven knows they're free enough wid their work," commented Mrs. Quinn, with a touch of contempt.

"Mrs. Welford is a rale lady, ivery inch of her. Jamsie grumbles that I go to her, but a bit o' tin comes in moighty handy. An' many's the cast-offs I do be getten, an' it all helps. Here's five cints, and here's a nickel for yourself, Dil. Whatever in the world should we be doin' widout ye?"

"Thank you, ma'am," and Dil courtesied.

Mrs. Gillen bundled up her baby in her ap.r.o.n and wished them good-night, skipping home with a light heart to get her husband's supper, and hear him scold a little because she worked so late.

Mrs. Quinn held out her hand to her daughter.

"Gev me that nickel," she said.

The ready obedience was inspired more by the fear of a blow than love.

The potatoes were done, and they sat down to supper. Certainly the boys _were_ hungry.

"I'm goin' to step down to Mrs. MacBride's an' sit on the stoop for a bit of fresh air," she announced. "I've worked that hard to-day there's no life left in me. Don't ye dare to stir out, ye spalpeens, or I'll break ivery blessed bone in your body," and Mrs. Gillen shook her fist by way of a parting injunction.

II-SAt.u.r.dAY AFTERNOON

The boys waited until they were sure their mother was having her evening treat. Mrs. MacBride's was a very fascinating place, a sort of woman's club-house, with a sprinkling of men to make things merry. Decent, too, as drinking-places go. No dancing girls, but now and then a rather broad joke, and a song that would not appeal to a highly cultivated taste.

There was plenty of gossip, but the hours were not long.

Dil washed up the dishes, dumped the stove-grate, and took the ashes out to the box. Then she swept up the room and set the table, and her day's work was done.

Patsey Muldoon came in with his heartsome laugh.

"O Patsey, they're the loveliest things, all coming up so fresh an'

elegant, as if they grew in the water. Bess is wild about thim;" and Dil's tone was brimful of joy.

They went in and sat on the cot.

"They do seem alive," declared Bess, with her thin, quivering note of satisfaction. "I do be talkin' to thim all the time, as if they were folks."

Patsey laughed down into the large, eager, faded eyes.

"Sure, it's fine as a queen in her garden ye are! We'll say thanky to my lady for not kapin' them herself. An' I had a streak of luck this avenin', an' I bought the weeny thing two of the purtiest apples I could find. I was goin' to git a norange, but the cheek of 'em, wantin' five cents for wan!"

"I like the apples best, Patsey," replied the plaintive little voice.

"You're so good!"

"I had one mesilf, an' it's first-rate. Casey's goin' ter lick me-don't yer wish him luck?"

Patsey laughed again. He seemed much amused over the fact.

"No, I don't," said Dil stoutly. "Was it 'bout the flowers?" and Dil began to peel the soft harvest apple, looking up with eager interest.

"The cop gev him a clip, an' he was mad all through." Patsey nodded humorously.

"What would he have done with the roses?" Dil asked, with pity in her voice.

"Taken 'em to his best gal!" This seemed an immense joke to the boy.

"An' I'm your best girl, Patsey," said Bess, laying her little hand on his, so brown.

"That you jest are, an' don't yer forgit it," he replied heartily.

Dil fed her with slices of the apple. It was so refreshing to her parched mouth and throat. Patsey had so many amusing incidents to relate; but he always slipped away early, before the boys came home. He wanted no one telling tales.

Then Dil gave Bess her evening bath, and rubbed the shrunken legs that would never even hold up the wasted body. Ah, how softly Dil took them in her hands, how tender and loving were her ministrations. All her soul went out in this one pa.s.sionate affection.

"Your poor flannils is all in rags," she said pityingly. "Whatever we are to do unless some one gives mammy a lot of old stuff. O Bess! And there are such lovely ones in the stores, soft as a p.u.s.s.y cat."

"Mine are cool for summer." Bess gave a pitiful little laugh. Buying clothes for her was a sheer waste, in her mother's estimation.

Then Dil held the thin hands and fanned her while she crooned, in a sort of monotone, bits of beautiful sentences she had gathered in her infrequent inspection of windows where Christmas or Easter cards were displayed. She could not carry the simplest tune, to her pa.s.sionate regret, but she might have improvised chanting sentences and measures that would have delighted a composer. She had transformed Bess's pillowed couch into a bed, and these hot nights she fanned her until she drowsed away herself. She used to get so tired, poor hard-worked Dilsey.

But the pathetic minor key of her untrained and as yet unfound voice Bess thought the sweetest music in the world. She was not fond of the gay, blatant street songs; her nerves were too sensitive, her ear too finely attuned to unconscious harmonies.

The tired voice faltered, the weary head drooped, the soft voice ceased.

Bess roused her.

"Dil, dear, you must go to bed. I am all nice and cooled off now, and you are so tired. Kiss me once more."

Not once but many times. Then she dropped on her own little bed and was asleep in a moment. Did G.o.d, with all his millions to care for, care also for these heathens in a great enlightened city?

It was Bess who heard the boys scuffling in and just saving themselves when their mother's heavy tread sounded in the room. It was the poor child, racked by pain, whose nerves were rasped by the brawls and the crying babies, the oaths and foul language, and sometimes a fight that seemed in her very window.

Yet she lay there with her bowl of roses beside her, now and then touching them caressingly with her slight fingers, and inhaling the delicate fragrance. She was in a little realm of her own, unknowingly the bit of the kingdom of heaven within one.

But Bessy Quinn did not even know that she had a soul. There was a great hungry longing for some clean and quiet comfort, a mother she was not always afraid of, and Dil, who was never to tend babies any more. And if there could be flowers, and the "everlasting spring," and one could live out in the green fields.