"Come an' have yer eye tied up with cold water. I did a bit of work this afternoon, an' got some goodies, an' you shall have some. Oh, it's pritty bad, Dan. Take my penny an' go buy an oyster,-that'll help get the black out."

Dan was mightily tempted to spend the penny otherwise, but the thought of the goodies restrained him. Dil took Bess and the "treasures"

up-stairs, and laid her gently on the old lounge. She had everything put away when Dan returned, so she washed his face and bound up his eye.

He ceased sniffling, and cried, "O golly!" at the sight of two luscious bananas. "Dil, ye wor in luck! I didn't even see a chance to snivy on an apple. Store folks is mighty s'picious, watchin' out."

"O Dan! It's wicked to steal!"

"None o' yer gals' gaff!" said Dan with his mouth full. "Snivyin'

somethin' ter eat ain't no stealin'. An' I'm hungry as an elefunt."

Dil fixed him some supper, and he devoured it with the apparent capacity of the elephant. Then, as he was very tired and used up, he tumbled on his straw pallet in his mother's room, and in five minutes was asleep.

Now the young conspirators had to consider about a hiding-place for their unaccustomed treasures.

"I'll tell you," and Bess laughed shrewdly, "we'll make a bank under the cushion of the wagon." At the risk of smothering Dan, they had shut his door. "Mother wouldn't dast to tumble me out, and no one _knows_. An'

we'll call it somethin' else. We'll never say m--"

"Yes." Dil put it in the paper bag, and then she made the night bed on top of it. What a fortune it was! They glanced furtively at each other, as if questioning their right to it.

"Mammy seldom _does_ look round," said Dil; "an' I'll clear the room up on Fridays, I sometimes do. An' I'll tell her I made the dress, if she spies it out. No, that would be a lie, an' tellin' lies roughs you up inside, though sometimes it's better than bein' banged. Bess, dear, I wish it was all true 'bout heaven."

"It is true, I feel it all over me."

Poor Dil sighed softly. She wasn't so sure.

Then she bathed Bess, and threw away the ragged garments. Bess was tired, but bright and happy. They stowed away their purchases, and were all settled when Owen came in. No one would have guessed the rare holiday.

Barker's Court was beginning its weekly orgy-singing, swearing, dancing, fighting, and fortunate if there was not an arrest or two. But Dil was so tired that she slept through it all, forgetting about the money, and not even haunted by dreams.

It was past midnight when Mrs. Quinn returned, to find everything still within. She tumbled across her bed, and slept the sleep of a drunken woman until Sunday noon.

Dil looked after the breakfast. Dan's eye was much improved. Out of an old bundle she found a jacket a size or two beyond him, but the children of the slums are not critical. The boys went out to roam the streets.

Patsey sidled in with a knowing wink towards Mrs. Quinn's chamber door.

It was nearly always safe on Sunday morning. He had a handful of flowers.

They gave him his "hankercher." But somehow they couldn't tell him of their adventure.

"But yous oughtn't 'er spend yer tin on me," he said with awkward gratefulness. "Yous don't have much look fer sc.r.a.pin' it up."

"But you're alwers so good to us," returned Bess, in her sweet, plaintive tone.

"An' when yous want a nickel or two, let me know," he said with manly tenderness.

Dil made her mother a cup of strong coffee, and brushed out her long black hair, still handsome enough for a woman of fashion to envy. She had made a big Irish stew for dinner, and when the house was cleared up, she had leave to take Bess out. But they did not go to the square to-day. They rambled up and down some of the nicer streets, where the houses were closed and the people away, and speculated about the journey to heaven in the spring. Alas! There were hundreds more who did not even know there was a heaven, or for what the church bells rang, or why Sunday came.

The week was melting hot. One of the babies had a very sick day, and died that night. Several others in the court died, but the summer was always hard on babies. Mrs. Quinn had a day off, and went up to Glen Island. Children and babies were taken away for a day or a week; but Dil was too busy, and it would have been no pleasure for Bess to go without her. But some way they were overlooked.

The heat kept up well in September. People came home from the country, and Mrs. Quinn's business was brisk enough. The boys were sent to school; but Owen often played "hookey," and was getting quite unmanageable, in fact, a neighborhood terror.

It seemed strange indeed that Bess could live under such circ.u.mstances.

But Dil's love and care were marvellous. She kept the child exquisitely clean; she even indulged in a bottle of refreshing cologne, and some luxuries, for which they blessed John Travis. Three times they had been over to the square. They counted up the weeks; they believed with all possible faith at first, then Dil weakened unconsciously. She used to get so tired herself in these days. Her mother was very captious, and the babies fell off. Some days Dil put in two nickels out of her precious fund. Bess insisted upon it.

Dilsey Quinn ran out of an errand now and then. She was too busy ever to loiter, and every moment away from Bess was torture. So, although they lived in a crowd, they might as well have been on a desert island, as far as companionship went.

And now they saw less of Patsey, to their sorrow. He had saved up a little money, and borrowed some from a good friend, and bought a chair, and set himself up in business. Not a mere common little "kit," mind you. But it was way down town, and he had new lodgings to be "handy."

The last of September the weather, that had been lovely, changed. There was a long, cold storm, and bl.u.s.tering winds that would have done credit to March. The "flannils," that had been such a luxury, were too thin, and Dil spent almost her last penny for some others. No one had ever found out.

How often they looked wistfully at each other, and asked a wordless question. But John Travis had not found them, had not come. Six weeks since that blissful Sat.u.r.day!

It had been a very hard day for Dil; and heaven seemed far off, as it does to many of us in times of trouble. The morning was lowering and chilly. Dil had overslept, and her mother's morning cup of coffee was not to her taste. She had given her a box on the ear, I was about to say; but her mother's hand covered the whole side of her head, and filled it with a rush as of many waters, blinding her eyes so that all looked dark about her. Then Mrs. Kenny's little Mamie cried for her mother, and would not be pacified. Mrs. Kenny was a young and deserted wife who worked in a coat-shop, and Mamie was a Sat.u.r.day boarder as well. Dil made the boys' breakfast with the baby in her arms, and managed to get Bess's bread and milk, but had hardly a moment to devote to her. Only one more baby came in.

Mrs. Quinn suddenly reappeared. Mrs. Watson had been called away by the illness of her mother, and the washing was to go over to the next week.

"An' she'll want two days' work done in one, an' no more pay. An' they don't mind about _your_ lost day! How's a woman to live with a great raft of young ones to support, I'd like to know? An' it's hard times we hear about a'ready. Goodness knows what I'll do. An' you lazy trollop!

you haven't your dishes washed yet! An' only two babies! Yer' not worth yer salt!"

"Mamie has cried all the time-"

"Shet yer head! Not a word of impidence out of you, or I'll crack yer skull! An' I know-yer've been foolin' over that wretched little brat in there! I'm a fool fer not sindin' her up to th' Island hospital. Fine work they'd have with her! She'd get nussed."

Dil uttered a cry of terror.

Her mother caught her by the shoulder, and banged her head sharp against the wall, until no telescope was needed for her to see stars, even in the day time. They swirled around like b.a.l.l.s of fire, and Dil staggered to a chair, looking so ghastly that her mother was startled.

Both babies set up a howl.

"Drat the brats!" she cried, shaking her fist at them. "If there can't be more than two, you'll march off to a shop, Dilsey Quinn; an' if you don't earn your bread, you won't get it, that's all! As fer you, ye little weasened-face, broken-backed thing, c.u.mberin' the ground-"

Bess seemed to shrink into nothing. Mrs. Quinn had taken her gla.s.s of gin too early in the day. What would have happened next-but a rap on the door averted it.

"O Mrs. Quinn!" cried Mrs. Malone, "I saw ye comin' back, an' have ye no work the day?"

"My folks went off. If I'd known last night"-Mrs. Quinn picked up one baby to hush it.

"Well, now, Ann come in a moment ago to hunt up a la'ndress. The big folks where she lives have been lift in the lurch with ivry blissid thing sprinkled down. An' can ye go an' iron fer 'em? It's a foine place. Two days in a week, an' good pay. But the la'ndress has grown that sa.s.sy they had a reg'lar shindy this mornin'. If ye'll jist go for wanst, they'll all be moighty glad, for it's a fine ironer ye are, Mrs.

Quinn."

"I'll go back wid Ann." Mrs. Quinn dropped the baby, and resumed her hood and shawl.

Bess shivered, and stretched out her arms to Dil as soon as the door closed.

"Oh, what should we have done if she had stayed at home! She looked at me so dreadful. And she would have shaked the very life out of me if she had taken hold of me. O Dil, don't let her send me away!"

"If she should-if she did-I'd-I'd kill her!" and a fierce, desperate look came in the brown eyes. "O Bess dear, don't cry so, don't cry."

"O Dil," sobbed the child, "then you'd be jugged like daddy, but you wouldn't kill her-you couldn't, she's so much bigger an' stronger."