"Nancy was right," that changed voice was saying. "I am dying. Father, you say you bring me forgiveness in his name, forgiveness for the great wrong I did him. In his name, I will accept the gift. Father, I will confess my sins to you and beg G.o.d's pardon for them."

Two hours later, when poor, tired Maggie, with aching arms and aching back, returned from her day's work, she was surprised at the gentleness with which he greeted her. Never had he been so kind before: she was more accustomed to harsh words and even curses than kindness from him.

She set about preparing their evening meal and he actually ate what she put before him without even once finding fault with the food or with her. She could not understand it and felt vaguely alarmed.

Again the door opened and a face peered in anxiously. It would look as if the owner of the face was fully prepared to slam the door and take to her heels at a second's notice. The man in the chair by the stove smiled faintly and called:

"Come in, Nancy; it's all right."

The little stooped figure sidled into the room but stood with her hand upon the door ready for flight at any moment. She could not trust her eyes and ears, she knew they must be deceiving her.

"Come in, Nancy," the man repeated. "Come in and sit down there in the chair you occupied this afternoon when you dared to tell me the truth that all others feared to tell. You're a brave little woman, Nancy, and, thanks to you, all is well with me at last. As he said, he brought me forgiveness for my sins and peace which surpa.s.seth all understanding.

Thanks to you, Nancy, thanks to you."

"Thanks to me is it, lad? Not a bit of it, not a bit of it. Thanks be to G.o.d!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Nancy fervently.

"Thanks be to G.o.d!" whispered Maggie, as a tear rolled down her worn and faded cheek and splashed into the pan of water in which she was washing the supper dishes. "Thanks be to G.o.d for bringin' him back even at the eleventh hour!"

THE STORY OF JULIE BENOIT.

Julie leaned against the door of the room from which she had just been summoned. Her black eyes flashed defiance into the eyes of the woman watching her in sorrowful silence.

"Why you come here?" she cried. "Why you not leave me alone? I not want to see you nor anyone. You no right to come here; you not my forewoman now. You dismiss me in disgrace a week ago, you and that superintendent in your factory over there. What you come for; to punish me some more?"

"My poor child," returned the other gently, "you must not hate me so.

Believe me, I love you, Julie, and I've come here as your friend."

"You a friend to me; me, Julie Benoit who is sent away from the factory because I steal all that money! No, no, I know better than that, you no friend to me, you despise me. All the girls point their finger at me, for I steal that money. But I give it all back, do I not? And the superintendent he say it is my first offense and he will not send me to prison. Oh yes! he is very kind. Julie have give back the money, Julie is forgiven, but she is a thief and cannot work with honest people. She must go, and without a reference. No one could recommend a thief. Well, Julie does go, so why you not let her alone?"

"Julie, Julie, listen to me," cried the forewoman almost in despair.

"Believe it or not as you please, I have come here to-day to help you if I can. I have come because there was something in your face, a look in your eyes, that day you left us that has haunted me ever since. I have come because I feared you were in trouble and were too proud to tell us so. Julie, for twenty years I have been forewoman of my department over there in the factory. Many, many girls have worked with me, new ones coming, old ones going all the time. Some have left for one reason, some for another, but never before has one gone from me in anger or disgrace.

All my girls have loved me, Julie, and I loved them. Why was it I never could win you, win your trust and confidence. Was I not kind to you, child? I tried to be for I wanted your love and trust."

The flashing eyes and angry face of the girl softened a little as the woman continued:

"I know you are not a bad girl, Julie. I know that you never before stole anything. I have been thinking of you all this week and worrying about you, for it must have been some great trouble which induced you to take that money. Why did you take it, child? Won't you please tell me?"

"You ask me why I take it? Well, I will tell you. Do you know what is in that room just behind this very door I lean against? It is my mother.

She will never move again, never speak to me again; she is dead. Yes, she died last night but I not tell no one. If I tell, they will take her away and bury her I not know where. I have no money to bury her myself.

Pretty soon I will have to tell, then they bury her in a pauper's grave with other people poor like us. I not know where they put her; I never can go and kneel at her grave and whisper to her that I have not forgotten.

"You want to know why I steal that money? Well, a week ago poor mother she is so very sick. They tell me she cannot live many days; but I think if only I have money I can save her yet. I can have doctors to see her, big doctors who will go to sick people only for very much money. I can buy her food and medicine and perhaps send her away to some place where the sun will shine for her, where she can breathe G.o.d's pure air. Why even strong people can scarce live in a place like this where the sunshine never come, where it is cold and damp all the time. How can the poor little mother hope to grow well again in such a place, without good food, often without a fire, the air not fit for anyone to breathe. I think of it all the time. I lie awake at night and think of it, it is before me all day at my work. Money, money, if only I have a little money, I can save my mother yet. Then the chance come, the money is there before me. I look at it, I take it. That is all.

"You ask me why I steal that money. I steal it for her, my mother; to save her life. Yes, and for her, too, the blind grandmother, and for them," and she pointed to a very old woman sitting close to the stove and holding in her arms a whimpering child of four. At her side crouched two more children, somewhat older, huddled together in a ragged shawl. They wore neither shoes nor stockings and the small feet were blue with cold.

"Oh, you poor child," exclaimed the forewoman, her eyes filling with tears. "Why did you not tell me a week ago instead of taking that money, for one wrong can never right another; why did you not tell me? We might not have been able to save your mother, but we could have helped you.

Even after you took the money, if you had told me all, something might have been done for you. I wish you had told me, Julie, I wish you had told me."

The shocked grief of the woman's face and voice had their effect upon the girl, and it was in a much more gentle tone that she continued:

"You can see for yourself how it is with us now, but we are not always like this. If you care to listen and will sit down, I tell you all about it.

"No, indeed, we are not always like this. I can remember when father is alive how happy we all are. He is a mason, good and steady, and he work for us all the time. We live in a pretty little flat, it is bright and clean and mother keep it so and make everything look nice for us. She sing and she laugh and she look so pretty in those days. I go to school and Marie also, dear Marie who died one year ago. Antoine, too, he go to school with Marie and me. Lorraine there, she too little; she stay at home with mother and with grandmother.

"Well, we are all so happy until one day father is brought home to us.

He is dead, killed at his work by a falling derrick. That same day poor little Baptiste, him there on grandmother's lap, he come into this cruel world. Mother is sick, so very sick for a long time after. It is weeks and weeks before she can walk around again. By the time she does, the little money she had saved is all gone; there is not a cent in the house and the landlord puts us out into the street.

"I am only twelve at the time but I go to work in a factory--not your factory, but one away off the other side of the river. I have to walk long, long distance in the cold, dark morning, and walk back again at night, but I am happy for I earn money to help at home. Mother she go to work too, in a great steam laundry where she stand all day at a big machine. She very thin and pale, and so tired at night she can hardly walk home. But she, too, is content; for she have work to do and work means money to buy food for the little ones and for the blind grandmother.

"We get along pretty well for almost three years. Then, just a year ago, the factory I work for shuts down. Times are hard, there is no more work for us, we must go. We do go. We try first one place, then another, to find work. It is the same story everywhere, times are hard and there is no work for us.

"Then mother gets that dreadful cold. The laundry where she works is always so very hot. She come out at night into the cold air; her coat is thin for she cannot buy a warm one and she get a dreadful chill one night as she comes home. She cough all the time after that. It shake her nearly all to pieces; but she still go to her work till one day she fall beside her machine. They bring her home and we put her into bed and she never leave it again.

"What to do then we know not. One, two, three days pa.s.s; at last there is a day when grandmother and I eat nothing. We give the last sc.r.a.ps of bread to the children and spend the last two pennies on milk for mother. There is nothing left for us. We not sleep that night; we sit by the empty stove and we think all night. Grandmother is praying all the time; she is, oh so good, that grandmother. She pray and she pray, and she tell me G.o.d is kind and good, He will show us a way. Me, I am not good like that. I say to her G.o.d cannot be kind and merciful, or he would not treat us so. What have we done that He punish us like that?

She say to me:

"'Hush, child, hush; you very bad, very wicked. G.o.d is good and kind and loving. He not try us any more than we can bear; He send us help soon if we trust in Him.'

"Next morning is cold, very cold; we have no fire and no food. I have been everywhere to look for work and find nothing. But I put on my hat to go out and try once more. Grandmother ask me what I do. I tell her I go again to look for work. She say: 'No, child, you stay here with your mother to-day; it is my turn now.'

"She is old; she is blind and I fear to have her go out alone, but she is firm and will go. She take her stick and she go out. She come back later with bread for the children and a little money to buy coal. I not ask her where she get it; I know. She beg it on the street. Every day she go out like that, and when she bring back food and money she not say one word and I not ask her where she get it; I know.

"She keeps us from starving for a few weeks and then, at last, I find work in your factory. For a time, I am almost happy again, for now grandmother need beg no more; my pay will keep us in food and fire. Even mother seems better for a little while, and I think perhaps she will get well and we will all be happy once again. But mother is soon very, very sick, and I see her dying day by day and can do nothing to help her.

"Then, that day last week, a party of ladies come to visit the factory.

The wife of the superintendent is with them. She very handsome, very rich; she beautifully dressed. She stop near my table to take off her coat, the room is warm and the fur coat heavy. She lay her purse down on my table while she remove the garment; one of the ladies call to her and she go away, leaving the purse behind her on my table.

"Mother is very sick that morning; she not sleep all night, but cough, cough, cough. There is the purse before me. No one is looking; I pick it up and open it. It is filled with money, the money that may save my mother's life. That lady will never miss it. I slip the purse inside my dress and go on with my work. I can hardly keep from screaming with joy I am so happy to think I have the money which is going to save my mother's life. The ladies go away and I feel that I am safe; she has forget about her purse. I want to rush away at once, but I must stay at my work so no one will suspect.

"Presently the superintendent he come in and he talk to you and you look very grave. Then he say one of the ladies have left her purse on a table in this room. Will the girls be kind enough to stop work and search for it? He will give five dollars reward to the one who finds it. We all search but no purse is found, and he go away again. Pretty soon he come back and the lady with him. She look around for a few moments, then she walk straight over to my table. The superintendent ask is she sure, quite sure. She say she is perfectly sure. She lay her purse on that table in order to remove her coat, then forget to take it up again when she go away; and she look very hard at me.

"The superintendent ask me if I have seen the purse and I say no. I suppose he know by my face that I am lying for he tell you to take me to the dressing-room and search. Then I know there is no hope for me; if you search you find the purse, so I take it out and hand it to him. He talk to me about my wickedness but I not answer him. He discharge me, but I not say one word. You talk to me, but I not speak to you either, I am too heartbroken, too despairing. My mother she will die now, she will surely die; and grandmother she will have to go out begging once again.

"I come home and I tell them I am discharged. I not tell them why, for they very good and stealing is a sin. They be so shocked and sorry. I sit beside my mother, despair in my heart, and I watch her dying, dying, dying.

"Her pain is all over now; she leave me last night and she never come back again. I watch with her in there when you come. I watch with her some more when you go; then I must tell that she is gone, that she is dead, and they come and take her away," and she threw herself on the floor by the door of her mother's room in a perfect agony of grief.

In a moment the kind-hearted woman was on her knees beside the heartbroken girl, whom she gathered into her motherly arms, murmuring words of comfort all the while. Gradually the dreadful sobbing subsided, and after a time the girl was once more standing before that door she guarded so jealously. Seeing that she was her own calm self again, the forewoman said gently:

"My poor child, again I say that I wish you had told me a week ago. So much suffering would have been saved. However, this is no time for vain regrets, it is the time for action. I must leave you at once, Julie, but I will be back, and will, I hope, bring you good news. In the meantime do you say nothing to anyone about your mother. You will believe that I will help you? You will do as I say?"

"You very good," replied Julie simply, laying her hand in that of the forewoman; "when you want me, you find me there," and she pointed to the door behind which her mother's silent form was resting.

Two days later, the forewoman, seated at her desk, was apparently absorbed in the newspaper she was reading while leisurely disposing of her noonday lunch. In reality she was covertly watching an excited group of girls on the other side of the room who were discussing some matter of evident importance. Without doubt, something was wrong. The forewoman rather surmised what the trouble was and smiled behind the shelter of her newspaper. She knew these girls and was quite sure that the difficulty, whatever it was, would be brought to her for settlement. As she had said to Julie, she loved her girls, and they in turn loved and trusted her.

In this instance she had not long to wait. Presently the girls cast aside napkins and lunch boxes and moved toward the corner of the room where their forewoman was waiting. She watched their approach in smiling silence. Slightly in advance of the others came a small, impetuous figure, a painfully thin, cross-eyed girl of fifteen, whose abundant crop of freckles had earned for her the sobriquet of "Speckles." She had answered to that name for so long now that she had almost forgotten she ever owned any other. She was impulsive, good-hearted, and a general favorite in spite of her rather sharp little tongue. Rushing up to the forewoman's desk, she said excitedly: