He had grown accustomed to the beatings, to the drunken quarrels and fearful language; in fact, he had never known anything different. But last night father had tried to hurt baby. He might try again and perhaps next time no Peter would be at hand to save her. They were unusually bad last night, both father and mother; the child was frightened and had begun to whimper. Angered still further by the sound, the man had seized a stove-lifter and flung it straight at baby's head. But Peter had already sprung between and the missile struck him full on the forehead, causing a wicked-looking bruise. He had lain stunned for a time, then crept into bed with baby and listened in terror as the quarrel between his father and mother progressed from words to blows. He had not minded these things before, but what would he do if father should ever beat baby as he, Peter, had been beaten so many times? And Peter felt the time was coming when father would surely do it. Last night was but the beginning.

A noise from the next room told him that mother must be waking from the drunken sleep in which she had lain for several hours. At any moment she might open that door and enter the kitchen, and her temper was always terrible when she would first awaken from those long sleeps which followed a carousal. In a few moments, too, father would come home. The fire refused to burn; so supper would not be ready, and with mother in a temper and no supper at hand, something would surely happen.

Peter looked at the sleeping baby and shuddered. For her sake he dared not face another night like last night. Yet, what could he do? A volley of imprecations from the next room decided him: he must take baby away from here and at once. Yes, he would take her away, but where, where could he go? Where in all the great city could he find a shelter for his baby on this cold winter night? If he did take her away it might be only to have her freeze to death on the street. Well, they must go, anyway.

No matter what happened to them later they must leave here at once.

Rearranging the shawl so that part of it covered the golden head, he stooped and gathered the baby into his arms. Then it all came to him in a sudden flash of inspiration and he almost laughed aloud in his joy as he hurried from the room and out into the street. He knew exactly where to go and wondered why he had not thought of it before. How foolish he had been not to think of it at once!

One day last summer he had stood outside a tall iron railing and watched a crowd of happy children at play in the grounds which the railing enclosed. He could see it all now, the yard, the romping children and the great brick building on the other side of that railing through which he watched enviously. They were having such a good time, he did wish he might go in and join in the fun. But he could not spare the time, he had wasted too much already, and the grocer would scold him for being so long on the errand which had brought him into the neighborhood of the yard and the children. As he turned reluctantly away, two ladies pa.s.sed and he heard one say in answer to a question from her companion:

"That building? Why, that is St. Teresa's Orphanage, a home for poor children who have no parents or else have bad ones who neglect or ill treat them. The good sisters gather in all such needy children whom they can find, care for them, educate them and teach them a trade so that they may----"

The rest Peter had not heard, but those few words, spoken by the pa.s.sing lady on that day last summer, had suddenly recurred to his mind. "St.

Teresa's Orphanage, a home for children with bad parents who neglect or ill treat them." That was their case exactly, baby's and his. To St.

Teresa's, then, they must go in search of a home. He was quite sure he could find it again. It was ever so far away, over on the other side of the city, but he remembered the way perfectly, and would have no difficulty in reaching the orphanage.

For some time Peter trudged bravely along the city streets. It was quite dark now and lights streamed from the windows of shops and houses as he pa.s.sed. Throngs of people hurried by anxious to escape from the cold night to the firesides of home. All these people carried mysterious-looking parcels; "Christmas presents for some happy little boy or girl," thought Peter. Twice he stopped to shift the baby from one shoulder to the other. He never knew before that she was so heavy; his half frozen little arms almost refused to carry their burden any longer.

He was terribly tired, and he wondered why the lights were dancing so.

They were turning round and round and made him so dizzy he could scarce see where he was going. He did not think, that day last summer, that the way was quite so long as this. Surely, he must have been walking for hours and hours. Oh! why was baby so heavy and why would those lights persist in dancing so?

He wondered if they could be lost and what would happen to them if they were. He was almost certain he had taken the right turnings every time, but he might have made a mistake. At that last corner he was not quite sure whether he should turn to the left or the right. If they were lost, what would become of them?

The lights were acting very strangely to-night; they had stopped dancing now but were all turning black, and what was this funny feeling that was creeping over him? He sat down hurriedly on some steps he was pa.s.sing and leaned his head against the railing for support. He felt baby slipping from his arms onto the step beside him but was powerless to hold her. Once more that funny feeling was creeping over him and he wondered if he could be dying. Mr. Dempsey's Tim had died. Peter had gone upstairs to see him. They had put him into a funny-looking white box that was nearly covered with flowers, and he looked so strange lying there all white and still among the blossoms. The next day the white box, the flowers and poor little Tim were carried away. The neighbors said Tim was dead; Mrs. Dempsey said he had gone to heaven. Peter wondered if he died would anyone put him in a white box and cover him with flowers; if he died, would he go to heaven and see Tim there?

Peter had often been very anxious as to what heaven was like. He had asked Mrs. Dempsey. Her answer had not been quite satisfactory, but then she could not know exactly since she had never been there. And the angels, what were they like? Again Mrs. Dempsey had been referred to and again the reply was most disappointing. Beautiful beings with wings?

Why, birds had wings and some of them were very beautiful. As for singing before the throne of G.o.d; well, Peter could not even guess what the throne of G.o.d meant.

He guessed he must be dying; he felt dead already, all except his head.

That would go soon and then he would see the angels he had wondered so much about. But if he died, what would become of baby? Who would look after his precious baby? That dreadful thought caused him to open his eyes suddenly. With a great effort he raised his head and the sight of the iron railing against which he was leaning made his heart bound with a sudden thrill of hope and put new life into the exhausted little frame. It was the railing through which he had watched the children on that day last summer, and the steps on which he sat were the steps of St. Teresa's Orphanage. He had taken the right turning after all and had reached his destination without knowing it.

With difficulty. Peter got upon his feet, lifted the baby and essayed to drag himself up that long flight of steps. Panting, exhausted, he reached the top and laid his burden down at the threshold of that door which always opened so gladly to receive such waifs as he. In the darkness Peter felt around for the bell. Surely, there must be a bell somewhere. He must find it quickly for that dreadful feeling was creeping over him and he knew in another moment he would fall. Where was it; oh! why could he not find it? At last the despairing fingers touched the b.u.t.ton of an electric bell; they pressed it hard, and a loud peal rang through the hall inside. Then Peter sank down to the ground beside the baby and even his head went this time.

A moment later (or so it seemed to Peter) he opened his eyes and saw bending over him the most beautiful face he had ever beheld. He knew now that he was in heaven was looking on the face of an angel. It was just what he should think an angel's face ought to be, so sweet and kind and gentle, the soft eyes filled with heavenly love and pity. And there were the wings, too, all white and shining, but Mrs. Dempsey had neglected to mention that angels' wings grew out of their heads. Somehow, Peter had supposed their wings grew from their shoulders; he was sure Mrs. Dempsey had said so. He would like to send her a message and tell her how mistaken she had been. He wondered if he could.

He felt a gentle hand slip beneath his shoulders and raise him a little and the angel commenced to feed him with something warm and sweet upon a spoon. It tasted better than anything he had ever eaten before.

Suddenly he thought of baby. What had happened to her? Was she in heaven too? He tried to ask the angel, but found he could not utter a word; he was too weak and tired. The kind eyes watching him interpreted rightly the anxious look that crossed his face; they were well accustomed to divining the unspoken troubles of worried little minds. The angel spoke and to Peter the voice sounded like heavenly music:

"You must not try to talk, dear. Just finish this gruel like a good boy and then go to sleep again. Your baby sister is quite safe, and is sleeping sweetly in her crib over in the little one's dormitory. You shall see her in the morning if you are good now and do as I tell you."

As he finished the gruel his eyes closed wearily for a moment, and when he opened them again there were two angels leaning over him. The second was not nearly so lovely as the first, but her face, too, bore that same look of heavenly sweetness which Peter felt instinctively none but angels' faces could wear. It was the look which older people than Peter have often marveled at; the look one sees upon the faces of those who have died to the world and to themselves and given their entire being to G.o.d in a life of charity and self-sacrifice.

The second angel laid her fingers on his wrist and seemed to be counting something as she kept her eyes on a small silver watch she held in her hand. Then she poured a spoonful of bright-colored liquid from a bottle, and, lifting his head, bade him swallow the medicine. Unquestioningly he obeyed, and as his head was laid back upon the pillow he felt himself slipping away into the land of oblivion. Just as consciousness was leaving him, he heard a voice, seemingly far away, saying:

"He will do very nicely now, Sister Agnes. It was simply a case of starvation and complete exhaustion."

Vaguely he wondered what she meant.

G.o.d'S WAY.

"We have reached the summit at last, Cecile? The hill seemed unusually steep to-night and the way unusually long."

"Yes, mother, we have reached the top at last and here is the rustic bench on which we usually sit and watch the sun go down behind those blue and misty hills in the distance."

"Ah! those hills, Cecile. How I have always loved them. To me this has ever seemed the fairest spot on earth, and the view from this hill just at sunset the most beautiful I have ever seen. It is ten long years since my eyes have beheld it, but in my mind I still see it all so clearly. Tell me it is all there, Cecile, just as it was on that evening so many, many years ago when I first looked upon its beauties. Your dear father had just brought me, a happy bride, here to his northern home. We walked up the hill together to watch the sun set and I thought then I had never seen a lovelier view: the green fields of waving corn, and the apple orchards all in blossom, sloping down gradually to the river; the river itself tumbling and tossing madly over the waterfall far up there to the left, then swirling and eddying on for a s.p.a.ce, only to grow calm once more quietly, steadily, resume its placid journey to the ocean. Beyond the river, those wonderful forests, dark, mysterious and silent. They rise and rise, higher, ever higher, and terminate at last in the blue and misty hills of which you were just speaking. I love it all, Cecile, and I could not bear to think that any part of it had changed with the advancing years. Tell me it is just the same; tell me it is all there as it was so long ago."

"Yes, mother dear," answered the younger woman, "it is all there just as it has ever been; the fields and the river, the forests and the hills beyond."

Cecile neglected to mention that the fields were now mere barren stubble and that the river was visible only here and there as it peeped through between the many buildings lining its banks; immense buildings of factory and mill, smaller structures, cottages and tenement houses occupied by the workers in factory and mill. She supposed the forests were still there but the day had been very sultry with scarce a breath of air stirring and a heavy pall of smoke from the huge chimneys hung over the valley, hiding everything which lay beyond. Only the tops of the distant hills rose in triumph above it.

"I am glad to think it is all unchanged," said the mother with a sigh of content. "I know it is foolish to feel as I do about it, but it would be a real grief to me to think that my beautiful valley had been sacrificed to the need or the greed of advancing civilization."

"G.o.d has been very good to me, Cecile, and I thank Him with all my heart for the blessings He has sent me to compensate for that one dreadful calamity, your dear father's sudden death ten years ago and my long illness and subsequent blindness. As I sat to-day in my little garden listening to the twittering of the birds, and inhaling the fragrance of my flowers, I was thinking how peaceful and happy my life is and how grateful I should be. You know, dear, just occasionally I long to be able to see again, to see the birds and the flowers, to see the beautiful world around me. That is very wrong and wicked I know, and I chase the rebellious wish away by thinking of my many blessings, especially of you and my Philippe. You have both been my comfort and consolation. By the way, dear, no letter has come from Philippe to-day?"

"No, mother, not yet."

"It is strange that we have not heard from him. This is the first time he has not written to me for my birthday."

"But he did not forget you, mother. Are you not wearing his beautiful gift to you which arrived this morning?"

"No, he did not forget," replied the older woman, as her fingers strayed lovingly over the lace scarf resting so lightly on her snow-white hair.

"My Philippe never forgets and that is why I worried just a little this morning when his usual birthday letter did not come. Then, this afternoon, a sudden idea occurred to me which made me very happy. Shall I tell you what it was, Cecile? I am quite sure I have discovered the reason why Philippe did not write me for my birthday."

It was well the blind eyes could not see the look of startled fear which flashed across Cecile's face.

"You have discovered why he did not write?" she exclaimed, and her voice trembled slightly.

The mother laughed happily. "Yes, I am quite sure I have discovered the reason. I have a feeling, and I know it is a true feeling, that before my birthday is quite over Philippe will be here with us. He is coming, Cecile; he is not far away at this very moment, and before the evening is over he will be with us."

Tears filled Cecile's eyes but she rose quietly and said, trying to speak lightly:

"The night mist is rising from the river, mother dear. Had we not better turn our faces toward the east and home?"

"You are right, child, it will be as well for us to go home a little early to-night. I am feeling unaccountably weary though very, very happy. It will be best for me to go home and rest a little before the evening train arrives bringing my Philippe back to me."

Cecile said nothing, but very gently, very tenderly guided the blind mother's steps as they wended their way homeward in the sweet summer twilight.

Half an hour later Cecile paced restlessly up and down the broad veranda of her home. She had left her mother sleeping on the couch in her pretty sitting-room upstairs and could now face the problems and difficulties which confronted her. In her mind she reviewed the years that had come and gone since that sad night when her dying father had whispered almost with his last breath:

"Your mother, Cecile; I trust her to you. Take care of her for me when I am no longer here to watch over her myself. Promise me you will shield her from every worry, that you will stand between her and all troubles as I have always done."

The girl had promised and right faithfully had she kept her word, but at what a cost to herself! She was thinking now of her promise and of how she had kept it. She was thinking, too, of her mother's serious illness which had followed that night, an illness from which she had recovered, it is true, but which left her blind for life. What a terrible calamity her mother's blindness had appeared to be at that time, and yet, there came a day, that dreadful day two years ago, when she had thanked G.o.d on her knees for the affliction which enabled her to conceal the trouble which had come upon them.

Once more she lived through that day two years ago, the day when those awful letters had come, one from Philippe, one from the lawyers. She had read them at first without comprehending their meaning. Then as the truth began to dawn upon her, she cried to herself that it could not be true, it could not be. There was some terrible mistake somewhere. But there it was before her in black and white; Philippe's own confession, the lawyers' letter confirming all the facts. They were ruined, penniless, and Philippe had done this thing; Philippe, her tall handsome brother, the pride and darling of their mother's heart. But worse than poverty, worse than ruin faced them. Philippe was a disgraced man, sentenced to jail for fifteen years.