Chapter 7

"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:

"Miss Merton, it can't be true, what Louise has just been telling us, that you are going to let that horrid Julie Benoit come back again. You surely wouldn't take her back, would you, Miss Merton?"

"Yes, it is perfectly true," replied the forewoman calmly. "Julie will return to us next Monday, and I hope all my girls will do everything they can to make her feel that we are glad to have her back."

"But we're not glad. We don't want her back," cried one girl.

"Why it's impossible after what she did," added another.

"I, for one, wouldn't work in the same room with a girl like that," said a third, with a toss of her head. "I wouldn't dare leave any of my belongings out of my sight for a single instant."

"That's just the trouble," chimed several all at once. "We wouldn't feel safe for a moment knowing there was a thief amongst us."

During this outburst the forewoman sat quietly watching the indignant faces before her. Then she said very gravely:

"Girls, I think we all misjudged Julie, and really almost owe her an apology. I have asked her pardon, and though I do not expect you to do the same, I do ask you to receive her back with kindness."

"Misjudged her! Apology!" gasped Speckles. "She took that money, didn't she?"

"Yes."

"And a person who takes money that belongs to someone else is a thief, isn't she?"

"Yes, certainly."

"Well then, I say a thief is a thief, and I don't see where any misjudging comes in," and Speckles looked defiantly from one to another.

A tall blonde whose thoughtful blue eyes had been studying the forewoman's face, laid her hand on the excited girl's arm, remarking gently:

"Let's not judge too hastily, Speckles dear. I think Miss Merton has something to tell us. For my part I used to pity Julie, she seemed so weak and sickly and so terribly alone. She was with us but she was not one of us."

"Pity your grandmother," cried Speckles the irrepressible. "If she was alone all the time, it was her own fault. She was a stuck-up old thing and wouldn't make friends with any of us. If you'd speak to her she'd only stare at you with those fierce black eyes of hers and answer yes or no just as short and snappy as you please."

"I doubt if we tried very hard, any of us, to win her friendship, the poor little thing. And she did seem so forlorn and lonely at times," answered the blonde. "But there, girls, let's all keep quiet if we can for I know Miss Merton has something to tell us."

"You are right, Louise, I have a little story to tell you, the story of Julie Benoit," and she told them Julie's story as she had heard it from Julie herself. In conclusion, she added: "When I left that poor child beside her dead mother, I went at once to the superintendent and told him the whole story. You girls know how kind he is; many of you have had personal experience of his charity. He called in his wife and together they planned to bury Julie's mother as a Catholic should be buried, they to stand all the expense. They have also undertaken to see that the younger children are sent to school and the grandmother properly cared for, and Julie is to return to her place here on Monday.

"I wish you could have seen her face when I went back to those two dreadful rooms in the alley where she lives and told her what the superintendent and his wife had said. She stared at me, amazed, incredulous; then said slowly in an awed whisper:

"'They do all that for me, Julie Benoit the thief! You tell the lady it is I who steal her money but she forgive and have my mother buried like a Christian. She have her taken into church where the priest will bless her and pray over her. She have her buried where I can go and kneel beside her grave and tell her that I love her still and that I forget her never, no never. The lady do all that for me who steal her money. But she is good, she is kind to forgive me.'

"After a moment's thought, she added: 'You think God will forgive me too? I very bad, very wicked; I say all those dreadful things about Him, but He will forgive me, is it not so? Grandmother say He good and kind. You think He will forgive me if I ask Him?'

"It was a very different Julie that I left that night; oh! very different from the girl who met me with such fierceness earlier in the evening. Just as I was leaving, she said to me very humbly: 'The girls at the factory, you think they will forgive me also? I very rude to them; I say I hate them all. You think they will forgive me?'

"So now, my girls, your welcome to Julie on Monday morning will be the best answer to that question."

"Will we forgive her, the poor girl!" cried Speckles impulsively. "You bet we will. If there's any one here who won't be kind to that poor little Julie, she'll just have to reckon with me. I think it is we who should ask her to forgive us, for I must admit we were all rather hateful to her. Oh, I say, girls! I've just got an idea," she continued. "Here, Louise, just hand me one of those empty boxes from that shelf over your head. There you are. Now then, this is a hat and I pass it around to each one of you, so. I say to each one of you: 'Did you notice that poor Julie has been wearing a thin summer coat all this bitter winter weather? It used to make me shiver just to look at her. Did any of you notice that her shoes were all broken through and even in rain or snow storms she never had any rubbers to wear over them?' Suppose each one of us chip in a few pennies, we can all spare a little, and have Miss Merton give it to her to buy shoes or something for herself. I'll start with fifty cents."

The box was passed from one to another, each contributing what she could, and each contribution meaning more or less of a sacrifice to the donor. In this way a goodly sum was collected and laid on Miss Merton's table.

"There, girls," said the triumphant Speckles. "That will show Julie whether we have forgiven her or not. And now, do you hear that musical whistle calling us back to our places? We'd better hustle for the machines will start up in a minute or two. Machines are like time and the tide, they wait for no man. Nor woman, either, not even for Julie Benoit," and with a laugh, Speckles was off like the wind.

As the girls departed, each to her own machine or work-table, Miss Merton looked after them, a tear in her eye and a smile upon her lips.

"God bless my girls," she said to herself. "Their hearts are in the right place, every one of them. I need have no fear of the welcome they will give my poor little Julie Benoit."

PETER.

Peter was thinking. Not that it was an unusual event for Peter to think. Quite the contrary! To Peter himself it seemed that life was one continuous round of thinking and planning and worrying. It certainly was for him, especially since the advent of the baby, that wonderful baby sister of his. Somehow things had not mattered so much before, when there was no one to be considered but himself. Now it was different, with his baby to be thought of and cared for. Peter was worried and anxious. He felt that a great responsibility rested upon his shoulders. They were young shoulders, too, far too young to be burdened with the cares and troubles of life.

The winter wind came tearing down the street, stinging his face and piercing through his thin garments. Shivering, he turned up the collar of his worn and ragged coat and thrust his hands deep into the pockets. Then he hastened on with eyes on the ground and bent down head, for Peter was thinking. A mighty problem confronted him, a problem which must be solved at once.

He turned into the dirty, narrow alley in which he lived, opened the door of a tenement house, and, running quickly up a flight of stairs, entered Mrs. Dempsey's kitchen. The savory odor of frying ham greeted his nostrils and reminded him that he had had nothing to eat since morning. Well, never mind that, he would have supper soon now, he and baby together.

"Bless me, Peter, is that you home so early?" cried cheery Mrs. Dempsey turning around from the stove, frying-pan in one hand, a large fork in the other. "You must have had good luck to-night to be back so early."

Peter caught up in his arms the pretty child who toddled across the floor and threw herself upon him with a shriek of delight. With a gravity befitting his great responsibility, he seated himself upon a nearby chair, holding the baby close to him and smoothing back the tangled yellow curls.

"Yes, Mrs. Dempsey, I had real good luck to-night. Was all sold out long afore the other fellers, then hustled right home to baby. I hope she wasn't no bother to ye, Mrs. Dempsey."

"Bother is it? The darlin', an' she as quiet as a little lamb. It's an angel she is entirely an' ye'd think so yerself if ye could have seen the nice supper of bread and milk she ate along with my own young ones."

"Does angels eat bread and milk, Mrs. Dempsey?" Peter asked the question in all sincerity. He had often wondered about angels and he really wanted to know.

"Oh, I guess they does," replied the good woman absently, too busy with her cooking to pay much heed to what Peter was saying. "Goin', Peter? Wish ye could stay and have a bite yerself, but I suppose if that precious father of your'n come home and his supper warn't ready he'd make it pretty hot for you, poor child. Well, good-night, Peter. Bring the baby back in the morning."

"By the way, Peter," she called after him just as he was closing the door. "To-morrow's Christmas day ye know. Don't forget to drop into the church on yer way home and hear Mass, like a good boy."

Peter's ideas on the subject of religion were very vague. Mrs. Dempsey had told him he must always attend Mass on Sunday and reminded him of the fact every Saturday night when he would come to claim the baby. Perhaps Christmas was another sort of Sunday, thought Peter. To him Christmas had always meant a time when other boys and girls talked of nothing but Christmas trees and turkey and wonderful presents they had received. No one had ever given Peter anything. He wondered if Mrs. Dempsey would. He had not known Mrs. Dempsey last Christmas; she came to the alley only a few months ago. Life had been somewhat easier for Peter since her coming for she helped so much in caring for baby while he was out. He wished Mrs. Dempsey would give baby something for Christmas. He had hoped to do so himself, but somehow he never could find a cent for anything except the absolute necessities of life. Sometimes he could do no more than provide bread and milk for the baby and go hungry himself. That was when father would beat him and take away the few pennies he was saving to buy food for the little sister and himself.

With baby held carefully in his arms, Peter descended the two flights of stairs to his home in the cellar. As he pushed open the door of the room which served as kitchen and living room in the daytime and as sleeping apartment for himself and baby at night, the damp chill of the place struck him as it never had done before. Groping his way to the table he lighted the candle upon it. Then, after wrapping baby in his mother's old shawl and depositing her upon their bed in the corner, he proceeded to make a fire in the cracked and rusty stove. Peter was only eleven, but the children of the slums are little men and women almost from their cradles, and Peter was really the man of the family. He it was who cared for the baby and prepared their frugal meals; he it was who cried his papers upon the street in the cold darkness of the winter mornings, who ran errands all day for the grocer on the next corner and again in the evening sallied forth with his papers under his arm in order to procure food to keep the life in their bodies. If father ever earned any money but little of it was contributed to the family support.

As Peter wrestled with the fire, which positively refused to kindle, he was still revolving in his mind the problem which troubled him. He had been thinking of it all day, and the only thing he could decide was that something must be done at once, but what that something was to be he could not imagine. Things had been going from bad to worse lately, and after last night he would never know an easy moment while baby was under the same roof with father and mother. For himself he did not care. 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 passed 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 passing 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 passed. 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 passing 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 God; well, Peter could not even guess what the throne of God 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.