Chapter V: Part 5

"Whiniver did it happen, Dil?" throwing down her budgets. "She's been no good to hersilf nor no wan else this long while. An' she cudden't iver git well, an' was a sight o' trouble. But I'm clear beat. Week after week I thought she'd be sure to go, but when you're lookin', the thing niver comes. An' it's took me so suddent like, that I had no breath left at all. Was it true--did ye find her dead, an' faint clear away?"

She looked rather admiringly at Dil.

"Yes--she were cold," said Dil briefly. "An' then I don't know what happened."

"Ye pore colleen! Ye'll be better widout her, an' ye'll be gittin well an' strong agin. It's bin a hard thing, an' yer divil of a father shud a had his own back broke. But he's fast enough, and I hope they'll kape him there. Any word of Owny?"

"No." Oh, what would Owny say--an' Patsey.

"Who kem an' streeked her? Let's see."

She took the lamp and went in. It seemed to Dil as if she would even now shake her fist at Bess, and the child stood with bated breath.

"She were a purty little thing, Dil," the mother said with a softened inflection. "Me sister Morna had yellow hair an' purplish eyes, and was that fair an' sweet, but timid like. I believe me mother had some such hair, but the rest of us had black. She looks raile purty, an' makes a better corpse than I iver thought. Why didn't ye lit thim see her, Dil? Ye's needn't a been shamed of her."

Dil was saved from answering by the advent of a throng of neighbors. The room seemed so warm, and there was such a flurry, she dropped on the lounge faint and breathless.

"Go to bed, Dan," said his mother.

Dil rose again and opened the door. The cold air, close and vile as it was, felt grateful.

"Go up-stairs a bit in Mrs. Murphy's;" and though the permission was a command, Dil went gratefully.

Mrs. Murphy sat sewing to make up for lost time. Her little girl was asleep in the cradle. She had improved since cooler weather had set in. The door of one room was shut. The old chintz-covered Boston rocker was empty.

"I couldn't stay to see them all lookin' at her," she exclaimed tremulously, as she almost tottered across the room.

"No, dear." Mrs. Murphy took her in her arms. "Ye look like a ghost. But Bess is main pritty, an' it's a custom. Will ye sit here?"

Dil shuddered as she looked at the empty chair where Mrs. Bolan used to sit.

"No; I'll take the stool. I just want to be a bit still like an' think. I couldn't talk 'bout _her_, you know."

"Yes, dear," with kindly sympathy.

Dil dropped on a box stool, leaning her folded arms on a chair. Mrs. Murphy took up her sewing again. She longed to comfort, but she was sore afraid the two lorn souls were wandering about purgatory. She had a little money of Mrs. Bolan's that she meant to spend in masses. But who would pay for a mass for Bessy Quinn's soul? And she had never been baptized. The ignorant, kindly woman was sore distressed.

Dil seemed to look through the floor and see the picture down-stairs. All her sense of possession rose in bitter revolt. Yet now she was helpless to establish her supreme right. Her mother had grudged Bess the frail, feeble spark of life; she alone had cared for her, loved her, protected her, and she was shut out, sent away. Now that Bess needed no care and lay there quiet, they could come and pity her.

Presently more tranquil thoughts came. Even her mother could not do anything to hurt Bess. She was safe at last.

There had been so much repression and self-control in Dil's short life, that it made her seem apathetic now. And yet, slowly as the poor pulses beat, there was a strange inward fire and stir, as if she must do something. A curious elusiveness shrouded the duty or work, and yet it kept hovering before her. Oh, what was it?

Did she fall asleep, and was it a vision, a vague remembrance of something she had heard? Bess was not dead, but in a strange, strange sleep. Once there had been a little girl in just this sleep, and One had come--yes, she would get up--about midnight these strange charms worked.

She would get up and go softly over to Bess. She would take the little hand in hers; she would kiss the pale, still lips, and say, "Bess, my darling, wake up. I can't live without you. You have had such a nice long rest. Open your eyes an' look at me. Bess, dear, you remember we are to go to heaven in the spring. _He_ will be waitin' for us, an' wonderin' why we don't come. He is goin' to fight the giants, to show us the way, an' row us over the river to the pallis."

Then the eyes would open blue as the summer sky, the lips would smile, the little hands reach out and grow warm. There would be a strange quiver all through the body, and Bess would sit up and be alive once more. Oh, the glad cry of joy! Oh, the wordless, exquisite rapture of that moment! And Bess, in some mysterious way, would be better, stronger, and the days would fly by until the blessed spring came.

Mrs. Murphy touched her, and roused her from this trance of delight. She heard her mother's voice and started.

"It's a nice sleep ye've had," said Mrs. Murphy's kindly voice. "An' it's full bedtime, an' past. They've all gone, an' yer mother wants ye."

Dil groped her way down-stairs. There was a vicious smell of beer and kerosene-smoke in the warm room.

"It's time ye were in bed," said her mother. "Ye kin sleep in there," indicating her own room with a nod; "fer I'll not sleep the night with me child lyin' dead in the house. Bridget Malone has kem to stay wid me. We'll jist sit up."

"O mother," cried Dil, aghast, "let me sleep in my own room! I'd rather be there with Bess."

"Is the colleen's head turned wid grafe? Sleepin' wid a corpse! Who iver heerd of sich a thing? Indade ye'll not, miss! Go to bed at wunst, an' not a word outen you."

Her first impulse was to defy the woman looming up so tall and authoritative. But the shrewd sense that comes early to the children of poverty restrained her. She would be worsted in the end, so she went reluctantly. Had she dreamed? No, it must be true. She _could_ waken Bess. Again the uplifting hope took possession of her. She seemed wafted away to a beautiful country with Bess. So absorbing was the vision that it filled her with a certainty beyond the faintest doubt. She did not even take off her dress, but lay there wide-eyed and rapturous.

After a while the chatter ceased and the snoring began. How still it was everywhere! But Dil was not afraid.

X--IN THE DESERT ALONE

Dilsey Quinn rose with a peculiar lightness of heart, and seemed walking on air. A curious tingle sped through her nerves, and her eyes had a strange light of their own. She pushed the door open and looked out cautiously. Her mother was on the lounge. Bridget sat by the stove, her chair tilted back against the door-jamb. The lamp had been turned down a little, the stove-lid lifted; and it made a strange, soft semicircle on the ceiling, such as Dil had seen around the heads in pictures when she had stolen a glance at the show windows.

The silence, for that impressed her, in spite of snoring in different keys, and the weird aspect, made the room instinct with supernatural life. Dil did not understand this, but she felt it, and was filled and possessed by that exaltation of mysterious faith. She walked softly but fearlessly across the room,--if she could open the door without Bridget hearing.

John Travis should have seen her at that moment, with the unearthly radiance on her face, the uplifted confident eyes.

Her small hand was on the knob. She opened the door--a moment more--

Alas! Bridget had an impression, and sprang up. Seeing the figure she uttered a wild shriek.

"A banshee! A banshee!" she cried in a spasm of terror.

Dil stood rooted to the spot. Mrs. Quinn sprang across the room.

"Hould yer murtherin' tongue!" she cried. "Why--it's Dil," seizing her by the shoulder. "Whativer are ye doin', walkin' in yer slape an' rousin' the house? An' yer' a fool, Bridget!"

Bridget Malone stared at the small grayish figure, unconvinced.

"Wake up, ye omadhoun!" and the mother shook Dil fiercely. "Ye can't do nothin' fer the child. Let her rist in peace; she's better off nor she's been this many a day."

"O Mrs. Quinn, don't be hard on the poor gurrul. She's bin dreamin' af the little wan, bein' so used to tindin' on her all hours af the night. But I thought sure it was Bess's ghost, bein' but half awake mesilf."

"Wid no legs to walk on!" was the sarcastic rejoinder.

"As af a ghost had need of legs! An' I won't be sittin' there by the dure--"

"Git back to yer bed, Dil, an' we won't have no more sich capers in the dead o' night, frightin' folks out of their sinsis."

She led Dil roughly back to her bed. Then for safe keeping she slipped the chair back just under the knob, and Dil was a prisoner in a black hole, a small improvement on that of Calcutta.

A whirlwind of passion swept over Dilsey Quinn--a pitiful, helpless passion. She could have screamed, she could have torn the bed-clothes to pieces, or stamped in that uncontrollable rage and disappointment. But she knew her mother would beat her, and she was too sore and helpless to be banged about.

Her mother would not let her bring Bess back to life if she knew. And she could not explain--there was nothing to be put in words. You just went and did it. Oh, it seemed as if something might have helped her, some great, strong power that made people rich and happy, and gave them so many lovely things. Bess was only such a little out of all the big world!

And now she would never, never come back. An awful, cold despair succeeded the passion. They could never go to heaven together. Bess was dead, just like Mrs. Bolan, like the people who died in the court. They would take her out and bury her. That was all!

An indescribable horror fell upon Dil. The horror of the solitude that comes of doubt and darkness, the ghost of that final solitude that seems watching at the gates of death. Bess had gone off, been swallowed up in it, and there was nothing, nothing!

The morning dawned at last. Dil, half-stifled with bad air, and racked with that fearful mental inquisition, collapsed. She seemed shrunken and old, as old as Mrs. Bolan. There was nothing more for her.

Bridget Malone was to stay. The two women had a cup of coffee together, then Mrs. Quinn went to see the 'Spensary doctor. When she came back they spread a sheet over the small table, and brought out the body of the dead child.

"Folks'll be comin' in to see it," she said with some pride. "An' she looks that swate no one need be ashamed of her! She'd been a purty girl but for the accidint, for that stopped her growin'. I've had a long siege wid her, the Lord knows! An' now I must run up to Studdemyer's an' tell 'em of the sorrow an' trouble, an' mebbe I'll get lave to do somethin' to-morrow. But I'll be back afore the men kim in."

Dil moved about silently, and went frequently into her own room. The intense fervor and belief of the night had vanished. The court children straggled in and stared, half-afraid. The women said she was better off and out of her trouble; and now and then one spoke of her being in heaven.

She was not in heaven, Dil knew. And how could she be better off in the cold, hateful ground than in her warm, loving arms?

One gets strangely accustomed to the dear dead face. Dil paid it brief visits when no one else was by. A little change had come over it,--the inevitable change; but to Dil it seemed as if Bess was growing sorry that she had died; that the little shrinking everywhere meant regret.

Mrs. Quinn came back with a gift from her sympathetic customer, who imagined she had found heroic motherly devotion in this poor woman who had four children to care for. There were numberless visitors who gossiped and were treated to beer--there was quite a dinner, with an immense steak to grace the feast.

Presently a man came in and took the measure of the body, and then went up-stairs. An hour later a wagon stopped before the court, and two men shouldered a coffin. The small one went into the Quinns'. It was of stained wood with a muslin lining, and the little body was laid in its narrow home. Then the attendant went up-stairs, and some of the women followed. There was a confusion of voices, then the two men came lumbering down the winding stairs with their load, slid it into the wagon, while a curious throng gathered round in spite of the chill blast. They came up again, one man with a screwdriver in his hand.

"Take a look at her, Dil. Poor dear, she's gone to her long rest."

Mrs. Quinn pushed her forward. The women fell back a little. The man put down the coffin lid,--it was all in one piece,--and began to screw it down.

Dil gave a wild shriek as it closed over the pretty golden head, and would have dropped to the floor, but some one caught her. The man completed his task, picked up the burthen, it was so light; and when Dil came out of her faint Bess, with two other dead bodies, was being jolted over the stones to a pauper's grave.

"Come now," began Mrs. Quinn, "it's full time ye wer sensible. She's dead, an' it's a blissid relase, an' she's got no more suf'frin' to go tru wid. It's bin a hard thrial, an' she not able to take a step this four year. Ye'd better go to bed an' rist, for ye look quare 'bout the eyes. Ye kin have my bed if ye like."

Dil shook her head, and tottered to her own little cot. "O Bess! Bess!" she cried in her heart, but her lips made no sound. How could people die who were not old nor sick? For _she_ wanted to die, but she did not know how.

There were people around until after supper. Then two or three of them went down to Mrs. MacBride's. Mrs. Murphy promised to stay with Dil.

"Shure," said some one, "there'll be a third goin' out prisintly. It's bad luck when more than wan corpse goes over the trashold to wunst. An' that Dil don't look like long livin'. She's jist worn hersilf out wid that other poor thing."

In the evening Patsey came rushing up-stairs with some Christmas for the two girls. He was shocked beyond measure. He hardly dared go in and see Dil, but she called him in a weak, sad tone.

"O Dil!" That was all he said for many minutes, as he sat on the side of the cot, holding her hand. The strange look in her face awed him.

"Have ye seen Owny?" he whispered.

"Not since the night mother beat him."

"Owny--he's safe. He'll do well. Don't bodder yees poor head 'bout him. He's keepin' out o' der way, 'cause he's 'fraid de old woman'll set de cop on him. He ain't comin' back no more, but don't you worry. But he'll feel nawful! O Dil, I never s'posed she'd go so soon, if she was 'pindlin' an' weakly. Seemed when she'd lived so long--"

Patsey broke down there.

"O Patsey, I didn't s'pose she could die, jes' common dyin' like other folks. They've taken her away an' put her with dead people--I don't know where. You'll tell _him_. An'--an' mebbe 'twould be better if he didn't come back. Mother'd beat him nawful, and 'pears 's if I couldn't see any more beatin's. Don't tell me an' then I won't know. But you'll see an' keep him safe."

"Poor Dil! I'm jist as sorry's I kin hold. I loved you an' Bess, for I didn't never hev any folks," said the boy brokenly.

"An', Patsey, d'ye mind the wild roses ye brought in the summer? They was so sweet. She 'most went crazy over 'em with pure joy. An' that night she talked of thim, an' smelled thim, an' it was a bad sign. If I'd knowed, I might a done somethin', or had the doctor. An' she talked so beautiful--"

Dil was choked with sobs.

"Ye did iverything. Ye were like an angel. She wouldn't a lived half so long, but for yous. O Dil, I wisht I could bring her back. There was a boy tellin' 'bout some one--he heerd it at the Mission School--that jist took a man outen his coffin, an' made him alive. I'll ask him how it was, an' tell yous."

"Ye's so good, Patsey," with a weary sigh.

"An' I'll be droppin' in an' bring ye news. An' ye mustn't git sick, fer whin spring opens we'll spring a trap that'll s'prise ye. O Dil dear!"

He bent over and kissed her, his face all wet with tears. He had often kissed little Bess, though he was not "soft on gals." It was a solemn caress. Dil seemed so far away, as if he might lose her too.

The next morning the Christmas chimes rang out, and there were houses full of happy children making merry over Christmas gifts. The mission schools were crowded, the Christmas-trees and the feasts thronged. There were hundreds of poor children made happy, even if they could not take in the grand truth that eighteen hundred years ago a Saviour had been born to redeem the world. "Why is it not redeemed?" cried the cavillers, looking on. "If the truth is powerful, why has it not prevailed?" But the children amid their pleasures asked no questions.

Churches were full of melody, homes were full of joy and gladness, the streets in a tumult of delight; but Bessy Quinn was in her small grave, and Dil bitterly alone.

John Travis thought of them both this morning. "I hope Miss Nevins has planned a nice Christmas for them," he said to himself, since his Christmas in a foreign land was not as hopeful as he could wish. Perhaps Miss Nevins had found a way to Mrs. Quinn's heart. Women could sometimes do better than men.

Dilsey Quinn could not die; and if she was miserable and forlorn she had not the morbid brain to consider suicide, though she knew people had killed themselves. But the utter dreariness of the poor child's soul was overwhelming.

Still, she rose on Monday morning, did her work, and cared for the babies as usual. It seemed so cruelly lonesome with only her and Dan. Mrs. Murphy was very good to her, and begged her to go to the priest; but she listened in a weary, indifferent manner. If Bess was in purgatory, then she would like to go too. But in her heart she knew Bess wasn't. She was just dead, and couldn't be anywhere but in the ground.

She had never known any joyous animal life. Hers had been all work and loving service. There was nothing to buoy her up now, nothing to which she could look forward. She was too old, too experienced, to be a child, to share a child's trivial joys.

Her mother questioned her closely about Owen. Hadn't he never sneaked in for some clothes? Didn't Patsey know where he was?

"I'll ast him if he comes agen," she said, as if even Owen was of no moment to her. "He hasn't been here sence--sence that night."

"Ye's not half-witted, Dil Quinn, an' you grow stupider every day! Sometime I'll knock lightnin' outen yer! An' if ye dast to keep it from me that he kem'd home, I'd break yer neck, yer sassy trollope. He'll be saunterin' in some night, full o' rags, an' no place to go, an' there be a pairty, now, I tell ye!"

But Owny knew when he was well off. Dan went to school regularly, and was much improved.

After the holidays the winter was hard. Work fell off, and babies were slow coming in. Mrs. Murphy's little one took a severe cold, and was carried off with the croup. She gave up her rooms and went out to service. So poor Dil lost another friend.

One Sunday during the latter part of January, Dil summoned up pluck enough to go out for a walk. There had been three or four lovely days that suggested spring, bland airs and sunshine, and the indescribable thrill in the air that stirs with sudden longing.

Dil wandered over to Madison Square. Some one had given her mother a good warm cloak, quite modern. How Bess would have enjoyed seeing her dressed in it! But though the sun shone so gloriously, she was cold in body and soul, as if she could never be warm again. The leafless branches were full of swallows chirping, but the flowers were gone, the fountain silent. No one noted the solitary little figure sitting just where she had sat that happy afternoon.

"Oh," she cried softly, while her heart swelled to breaking, and her eyes wandered southward, "do you know that Bess is dead, an' we can't never go to heaven together as we planned? I d'know's I want to now. I jes' want to die an' be put in the ground. I wisht I could be laid 'long-side of her, an' I'd stretch out my arms, an' she'd come creepin' to them, jes' as she used. She'd know how to find me. An' when you come back you can't see her no more. Oh, 'f we only could 'a' started that day! An' mammy burned up Christiana an' my beautiful picture, so I'm all alone. There ain't nothin' left," and she sighed drearily.

Where was he? "'Crost the 'Lantic Oshin," as Bess had said. She had no more idea of the Atlantic Ocean than she had of the location of heaven; not as much, for it seemed as if heaven might be over beyond the setting sun. But John Travis was still in the world. And as she sat there it seemed as if she must live to tell him about Bess, and an aim brightened her dreary life. Two months and a little more. She would come over often when the weather grew pleasanter. Already she began to feel better.

But she could not take the heartfelt glow back to Barker's Court. The loneliness settled down like a pall. The long, long evenings were intolerable. Sometimes she crept down and spent an hour with Mrs. Minch; but she was afraid her mother might come home inopportunely.

Mrs. Quinn was growing much worse in her habits; and she lost her best place, which did not improve her temper. Dil's apathetic manner angered her as well; yet the house was kept cleaner than ever, her mother's clothes were always in order, and there was nothing to find fault about, except the lack of babies, which Dil could not help.

One night in February there was quite a carouse at Mrs. MacBride's. It was midnight when Mrs. Quinn returned. Poor Dil should have been in bed, out of harm's way; but she had been living over that fateful night, believing with the purest and most passionate fervor that she might have called Bess back to life if she could have gone to her.

A man helped Mrs. Quinn up the stairs, and tumbled her in the door. Dil sprang up in affright.

Mrs. Quinn stared at Dil with bleared eyes.

"What yer doin' up this time o' night? Yees do be enough to set wan crazy wid yer mewlin', pinched-up mug that's humbly as a stun! Why d'n' ye laugh an' hev a good time, an' make the house decent, stead er like a grave? I'm not goin' to stan' it--d'y hear?"

Dil glanced about in alarm, and would have fled to her room, but her mother caught her by the arm.

"Come," she cried, "I'll shake the glumness outen yer. Why, ye'd spile vinegar even! I'll tache ye a little friskiness."

Dil struggled to free herself, but uttered no word.

"I'll tache ye!" she shouted, the devil put into her by rum driving her to fury. "Ye measlin', grouty little thing! forever moanin' an' cryin' fer the sickly brat that's gone, good riddance to her! Come, now, step up lively. We'll make a night of it, an' ye shall hev a sup o' gin to wet yer t'roat whin ye get warm."

She whirled Dil about savagely, until she was dizzy and faint, and broke away in desperation. But her mother clutched her again, and gave her a resounding box on the ear. She managed, as she was whirled round, to open the door into the hall, and scream with all the strength she could summon. Her mother seized her again with a dreadful imprecation. What happened, how it happened in the dark, Dil could never clearly remember.

Fred Minch sprang up and opened the door. Something bumped down the stairs, and lay in a heap at his feet.

"It's that poor little girl, mother. She's bleeding, killed maybe. I'll run for a policeman."

Mrs. Minch picked up the senseless child. Mrs. Quinn went on yelling, swearing, smashing things, and dancing like a mad woman.

Rows were no uncommon thing in the court. Windows were thrown up. Who was it? Some wretched wife being beaten? And when they found it was Mrs. Quinn, they shook their heads. She had been going to the dogs of late, it was plain to see.

When the officer came, she made such a vigorous onslaught that he was forced to call assistance. She was after Owen now, and Dil had hidden him. The threats she uttered were enough to make one shudder. They mastered her at length, and dragged her down-stairs, where Mrs. Minch was waiting to explain poor Dil's plight.

She was still unconscious when the ambulance came. There was a bad cut up in the edge of her hair, but no bones seemed to be broken that any one could discover.

"Poor child!" said Mrs. Minch, when quiet was restored. "It would be a blessing if she could go with Bess. She'll never get over the loss. She's not been the same since, and many a day my heart's ached for her."

"She were a nice smart woman, that Mrs. Quinn, if she'd a let rum alone," was the general verdict. "An' though she took the child's death in a sensible manner, it broke her all up," said some of the court people, "and she went to hard drinking at once."

When Mrs. Quinn's trial came on, Dil's life was still hanging in a doubtful balance. She was sent to the Island for ninety days, for drunkenness and assaulting the policeman, and would there await the final result.

But Mrs. MacBride went on adding to her bank account and her real estate, to the wreck of youth and womanhood, to the prisons and paupers' graves. She kept such a very respectable place, the law never meddled with her.

Dilsey Quinn lay on her hospital pallet delirious, but never violent, and lapsing into unconsciousness. She had a dislocated shoulder, two broken ribs, and sundry bruises; but it was the years of hard work, foul air, dark rooms, and unsanitary conditions that the doctors had to fight against blindly. Her bruised and swollen face, her stubby, red-brown hair that had been cut short, her wide mouth and short nose, made no appeal in the name of beauty. She was merely a "case."

Her nurse was a youngish, kindly woman, used to such incidents. Beaten wives and children were often sent to her ward. In the early part of her experience she had suffered with them. Now she had grown--not unsympathetic, but wiser; tender she would always be.

Now and then there was something so wistful in the child's eyes that it touched her heart. She lay so patient and uncomplaining, she made so little trouble.

But sometimes the woman wondered why they were brought into the world to suffer, starve, and die. What wise purpose was served?

XI--WHEN HE AND SUMMER COMES

One morning Dilsey Quinn looked slowly and curiously around the ward, and then asked the nurse how she came there.

She lay a long while, piecing out the story, remembering what was back of it.

"As you did not die, your mother will come out of the Island early in June. I suppose it was a sort of accident. Was she used to beating you?"

A flush went over the pallid face.

"No," she replied quietly.

"Do you want to go back to her?"

"O, no, no!" with a note of terror in the voice. "I couldn't live with her no more."

"Have you any friends?"

There was a hesitating look, but the child did not answer. Had she any friend? Yes, Patsey.

"How would you like to go to some of the Homes? You would be well treated and taught some trade," the nurse ventured kindly.

"I can work for myself," returned Dil, with quiet decision. "I can keep house, an' tend babies, an' wash an' iron."

"Would you like a nice place in the country?"

"I want to stay in the city," she said slowly. "There's some one I want to see. It's 'bout my little sister that's dead. I can soon get some work."

"How old are you?"

"I shall be fifteen long in the summer, a spell after Fourth of July."

"You are very small. Are you quite sure?"

"Oh, yes. Why, you see, I was fourteen last summer. Jack was next to me. Then Bess. She was 'leven, but she hadn't grown any 'cause she was hurted."

"Hurt? How?" the nurse asked with interest. The children told their stories so simply.

"Along o' father's bein' nawful drunk an' slammin' her agin the wall. He went to prison 'cause he most killed a man. Bess died just before Christmas. We was goin'--"

Dil paused. Would nurse know anything about a journey to heaven?

"Were you going to run away? But if the poor little girl was hurt, she is better off. God is taking care of her in heaven."

"Oh, no. She isn't there. She's just dead. We was goin' together in the spring, and--and some one was going with us who knew all 'bout the way."

"My child, what do you know about heaven?" asked the nurse, struck by the confident tone.

"I didn't know--much. I heard 'bout it at the Mission School, and told Bess. We wanted to go like Christiana. We met a man in the square last summer, an' he told us 'bout his Lord Jesus, that he could cure little hurted legs that hadn't ever grown any and couldn't walk. An' he promised to go to heaven with us. We was goin' to start then, but we didn't just know the way. I'd learned 'bout the river in the Mission School. An' he said he'd bring us the book 'bout Christiana, an' then we'd know; but we better wait, for it would be so cold before we got there, an' the cold shrivelled up poor little Bess so. Well, we waited an' waited, but he did come, an' he brought the book. It was so lovely." Dil gave a long, rapturous sigh, and a glory shone in her eyes. "An' we found out 'bout crossin' the river an' the pallis. We see her goin' up the steps. An' then mammy took the book an' burnt it up in a tantrum, an' we couldn't read it any more, but we'd got the pictures all fixed in our minds. Curis, isn't it, how you can see things that ain't there, when you've got thim all fixed in your mind?"

"And you were going to heaven?" Nurse was amazed at the great, if misplaced, faith. "And your friend--"

The soft, suggestive voice won Dil to further confidence.

"He had to go 'way crost the 'Lantic Oshin. But he would have come back. He did just what he told you, always. An' that's why I must get well an' go back an' see him an' tell him--"

The voice faltered, and the eyes overflowed with tears. Dil's hearer was greatly moved.

"Bess has gone to heaven first, my poor dear," but her own voice was tremulous with emotion.

"Oh, she couldn't. Why, she couldn't walk, with her poor hurted legs, 'n' 'twas so cold 'n' all. An' she wouldn't 'a' gone to the very best heaven, not even the pallis shinin' with angels, athout me."

"But you don't understand"--how should she explain to the literal understanding. "The Lord came for her, took her in his arms, and carried her to heaven."

"Oh, he wouldn't 'a' taken her athout sayin' a word, and leaved me behind, 'cause he must 'a' knowed we was plannin' to go together. No; she's just dead like other folks. An' _he_ can't see her when he comes."

There was a long, dreary, tearless sob.

"Oh, my poor child, she _is_ safe with the Lord. Do you really know who God is?"

"Mr. Travis's Lord Jesus lives in heaven," said Dil, in a kind of weary, half-puzzled tone. "He told us how he come down to some place, I disremember now, an' cured hurted people, an' made blind folks see, an' fed the hungry, an' went back an' fixed a beautiful pallis for them. There's lots more in Barker's Court that they swear by, but them ain't the ones Mr. Travis meant."

The nurse was as much astonished by the confident ignorance as Mr. Travis had been, and felt quite as helpless.

"I wish you could believe that little Bess is in heaven," she said gently.

"She couldn't be happy athout me," the poor child replied confidently, with tears in her faltering voice. "I always tended her, an' curled her hair, an' wheeled her about, an'--an' loved her so." The tone sank to a touching pathos. "An' she didn't go crost no river--she couldn't stand up 'thout bein' held. An' oh, do you s'pose I'd gone an' left Bess for anything? No more would she gone an' left me."

The brown eyes were heart-breaking in their trustful simplicity. The child's confidence was beyond any stage of persuasion. With time one might unravel the tangle in her untutored brain, but she could not in the brief while the child would remain in the hospital.

"Tell me about your friend, Mr. Travis," the nurse said, after a silence of some moments.

"He painted pictures, an' he made a beautiful one of Bess. But mammy burned it with the book. She said there wasn't any heaven anyway. An' Mrs. Murphy said it was purgatory, 'n' if you paid money, you'd get out. But Bess would go there. An' _he_ didn't say nothin' 'bout purgatory. He come one day an' sang the beautifullest hymn 'bout 'everlastin' spring,' an' everybody cried. Poor old Mrs. Bolan was there. But when he comes back he'll tell me just how it is."

Perhaps that was best. Nurse went about her duties, the strange, sweet, entire faith haunting her. And the pathos of the two setting out for a literal heaven!

There were days when Dil sat in a vague, absent mood, her eyes staring into vacancy, seeming to hear nothing that went on about her. But she improved slowly; and though the nurse tried to persuade her to go to some friends of hers, she found the child wonderfully resolute.

And yet, when she was discharged, an awful sense of loneliness came over Dilsey Quinn. The nurse gave her a dollar, and an address to which she was to apply in case of any misfortune.

"You've been so good," Dil said, with swimming eyes. "An' I'll promise if I don't get no place."

And now she must find John Travis. He would surely know if Bess could get to heaven in any strange way, alone in the night. And if she was there, then Dil must go straightway. She could not even lose a day.

The world looked curious to her this April day. There were golden quivers in the sunshine, and a laughing blueness in the sky. And oh, such a lovely, fragrant air! Dil felt as if she could skip for very joy.

She found her way to the square, and sat down on the olden seat. Already some flowers were out, and the grass was green. The "cop" came around presently, but she was not afraid of him now. She rose and spoke to him, recalling the summer afternoon and the man who had made pictures of herself and Bess.

"I don't know who he was. No, he hasn't been back to inquire." The policeman would not have known Dil.

"His name was Mr. John Travis. He writ it on Bess's picture. I was so 'fraid I'd miss him. But he will come, 'cause he can't find no one in Barker's Court. An' when I get a place, I'll come an' bring the number, so's you can tell him."

"Yes, I'll be on the lookout for him." The child's grave, innocent faith touched him. How pale and thin she was!

Then she considered. Mrs. Minch would be in the court, she thought. Perhaps she might steal in without any one seeing her who would tell her mother afterward. And she could hear about Dan.

She stopped at a baker's, and bought some lunch. But by and by she began to grow very tired, and walked slowly, looking furtively about. She was almost at Barker's Court when a familiar whistle startled her.

"O Dil Quinn, Dil!" cried a dear, well remembered voice.

Patsey Muldoon caught her hand as if he would never let it go. He had half a mind to kiss her in the street, he was that glad. His eyes danced with joy.

"I've been layin' out fer ye, Dil, hangin' round an' waitin'. I was dead sure yous'd come back here. An' I've slipped in Misses Minch's, an' jes' asked 'bout the old gal, an' I told her 'f you come, jes' to hold on t'ye."

"O Patsey!"

"How nawful thin ye air, Dil. Have ye got railly well?"

Dil swallowed over a great lump in her throat, and had much ado not to cry, as she said, "I'm not so strong."

"Well, we want ye, we jes' do," and he laughed.

"What for?" It was so good to have any one want her in this desolation, that she drew nearer, and he put her hand in his arm in a very protecting fashion.

"Well, I'll tell ye. See, now, we was boardin' with an old woman. There was five of us, but Fin, he waltzed off. The old woman died suddint like three weeks ago, an' we've bin keepin' house sence. The lan'lord he come round, 'n' we promised the rent every Monday, sure pop; an' we paid it too," proudly. "We've got Owny. I've had to thrash him twict, but he's doin' fus' rate now. An' he sed, if we could git a holt o' yous! He said ye made sech lickin' good stews 'n' coffee 'twould make a feller sing in his sleep."

"O Patsey, you alwers was so good!" Dil wiped her eyes. This unlooked-for haven was delightful beyond any words.

"'Twas norful quair I sh'd meet you, wasn't it? An' we jes' won't let any one in de court know it, 'n' they can't blow on us. The ould woman's up on de Island, but her time'll soon be out. Dan, he's gone to some 'stution. We'll keep shet o' her. She's a peeler, she is! Most up to the boss in a shindy, now, wasn't she? But when dey begins to go to de Island, de way gits aisy fer 'em, an' dey keep de road hot trottin' over it."

Dil sighed, and shuddered too. We suppose the conscious tie of nature begets love, but it had not in Dil's case. And she had a curious feeling that she should drop dead if her mother should clutch her.

"I don't want to see her, Patsey, never agen. Poor Bess is gone--"

"Jes' don't you mind. My eyes is peeled fer de old woman! An' where I'm goin' to take you's so far off. But we'll jes' go an' hev some grub. We'll take de car. I'm out 'n a lark, I am!"

Patsey laughed, a wholesome, inspiriting sound. Dil was very, very tired, and it was so good to sit down. She felt so grateful, so befriended, so at rest, as if her anxieties had suddenly ended.

It was indeed a long distance,--a part of the city Dil knew nothing about,--across town and down town, in the old part, given over to business and the commonest of living. A few blocks after they left the car they came to a restaurant, and Patsey ordered some clam-chowder. It tasted so good to the poor little girl, and was so warming, that her cheeks flushed a trifle.

Patsey amused her with their ups and downs, the scrapes Owny had been in, and some of his virtues as well. Patsey might have adorned some other walk in life, from the possibilities of fairness and justice in his character.

Dil began to feel as if she belonged to the old life again. Her hospital experience, with the large, clean rooms, the neatness, the flowers, the visitors, and her kindly nurse, seemed something altogether outside of her own life.

They trudged along, and stopped at the end of a row of old-fashioned brick houses, two stories, with dormer windows. A wide alley-way went up by the last one. There was a building in the rear that had once been a shop, but now housed four families. Up-stairs lived some Polish tailors; at the lower end, a youngish married couple.

It was quite dusk now, but a lamp was lighted in the room. Two fellows were skylarking, but they stopped suddenly at the unusual sight of a "gal."

"Why it ain't never Dil!"

Owny was an immense exclamation point in supreme amazement.

"Didn't I tell yous! I was a-layin' fer her. An' she's jes' come out o' the 'ospital."

"Dil, you look nawful white."

"We'll make her hev red cheeks in a little, jes' you wait. This feller's Tom Dillon."

Dilsey took a survey of her new home, and for the first moment her heart failed her. It looked so dreadfully dirty and untidy. The room was quite large, with an old lounge, a kitchen table, a trunk, and some chairs; a stove in the fireplace, and a cupboard with the door swinging open, but the dishes seemed to be mostly on the table.

"We sleep here," explained Patsey, ushering her into the adjoining apartment. There was an iron bedstead in the centre of the room, and four bunks in two stories ranged against the side. "Ye see, we ain't much at housekeepin', but youse c'n soon git things straight," and Patsey laughed to hide a certain shame and embarrassment. "We'll clean house to-morrer, an' hev things shinin'. An' here's a place--"

It was a little corner taken off the other room, and partly shut in by the closet. "Th' ould woman used to sleep here--say, Dil, yous wouldn't be afraid--tell ye, a feller offered me a lot o' paper--wall paper, an' we'll make it purty as a pink."

Dil had never seen "th' ould woman," and had no fear of her.

"It'll be nice when we get it fixed," she said cheerily.

Then Sandy Fossett came in, and was "introjuced." He, too, had heard the fame of the 'lickin' good stews,' but he was surprised to find such a very little body.

Dil lay on the lounge that night, but did not sleep much, it was all so strange. Any other body would have felt disheartened in the morning, but Patsey was "so good." He "hustled" the few things out of the little room, asked the woman in the other part about making paste, and ran off for his paper. Dil found a scrubbing-brush, and had the closet partly cleaned when he returned. Mrs. Brian came in and "gave them a hand." She was a short, stout, cheery body, with just enough Irish to take warmly to Dil.

If the poor child had small aptitude for book-learning, she had the wonderful art of housekeeping at her very finger ends. In a week the boys hardly knew the place. Dil's little room was really pretty, with its paper of grasses and field flowers on the lightest gray ground. She scalded and scrubbed her cot, and drove out any ghost that might have lingered about; she made a new "bureau" out of grocery boxes, not that she had any clothes at present, but she might have. She was so thankful for a home that work was a pleasure to her, though she did get very, very tired, and a pain would settle in the place where the ribs were broken.

The living room took on a delightful aspect. The chairs were scrubbed and painted, the table was cleaned up and covered with enamelled cloth. And such coffee as Dil made; such stews of meat and potatoes and onions, and a carrot or a bit of parsley; and oh, such soups and chowders! When she made griddlecakes the boys went out and stood on their heads--there was no other way to express their delight. Fin came back in a jiffy, and another lad, named Shorty by his peers. Indeed, there could have been ten if there had been room.

Owen was very much improved. He was shooting up into a tall boy, and had his mother's black eyes and fresh complexion. When the two boys talked about Bess, Dil could almost imagine her coming back. She sometimes tried to make believe that little Bess had gone to the hospital to get her poor hurted legs mended, and would surely return to them.

There was quite a pretty yard between the two houses. It really belonged to the "front" people. There was a grass-plot and some flowers, and an old honeysuckle climbing the porch. The air was much better than in Barker's Court, and altogether it was a more humanizing kind of living. And though the people up-stairs ran a sewing-machine in the evening, there were no rows. Mr. Brian did some kind of work on the docks, and went away early, coming back at half-past six or so. He was a nice, steady sort of fellow; and though he had protested vigorously against a "raft of boys" keeping house, after Dil came he was very friendly.

Patsey also "laid out" for Mrs. Quinn. When she came down from the "Island," she heard that her furniture had been set in the street, and then taken in by some of the neighbors. Dan was in a Home, Owen had not been seen, neither had Dilsey. Then the woman drank again and raged round like a tiger, was arrested, but pleaded so hard, and promised amendment so earnestly, that sentence was suspended.

It was well that Owen and Dilsey kept out of her way, for if she had found either of them she would have wreaked a full measure of vengeance upon them. There had never been a great deal of tenderness in her nature, and her experiences of the last ten years had not only hardened but brutalized her. The habit of steady drinking had blunted her natural feelings more than occasional outbreaks with weeks of soberness. She had no belief in a future state and no regard for it. Still, she had not reached that last stage of demoralization--she was willing to work; and when she had money to spend, Mrs. MacBride made her welcome again.

After Dil had her house a little in order, and had made herself a new gingham gown, she took her way one lovely afternoon over to Madison Square. She had meant to tell Patsey about John Travis, but an inexplicable feeling held her back. How she was coming to reach after higher things, or that they were really higher, she did not understand. Heaven was still a great mystery to her. With the boys Bess was simply dead, gone out of life, and sometime everybody seemed to go out of life. Why they did was the inscrutable mystery?

It was curious, but now she had no desire to finish Christiana, although she devoted some time every day to reading. The old things that had been such a pleasure seemed sacred to Bess, laid away, awaiting a mysterious solution. For she _knew_ John Travis could tell her all about it.

Patsey had written her name and address on a slip of paper, several of them indeed, so as not to raise any suspicion. He laughed, and said she "was very toney, wantin' kerds." She saw the policeman, and was relieved that she had not missed Travis, yet strangely disappointed that he had not come.

The boys just adored her, and certainly they were a jolly lot. Sometimes they had streaks of luck, at others they were hard up. But every Saturday night the rent money was counted out to make sure, and the agent was soon greatly interested in her. She was a wonderful little market woman, and she found so much entertainment going out to do errands. She used to linger about the flower stands, and thrill with emotions that seemed strange indeed to her. She took great pleasure in watching the little flower bed a thin, delicate looking woman used to tend, that belonged to the front house.

One day Patsey brought her home a rose.

"Oh," she cried, "if Bess was only here to see!" and tears overflowed her eyes. "O Patsey, do you mind them wild roses the lady gev you an' you brought to us? They're always keepin' in my mind with Bess."

"I wisht I knew where they growed, I'd go fer some. But ain't this a stunner?"

"It's jes' splendid, an' you're so good, Patsey."

"I wisht yer cheeks cud be red as that," the boy said earnestly.

Mrs. Brian went out now and then to do a bit of washing, "unbeknownst to her man," who thought he earned enough for both of them. She came and sat on the little stoop with Dil occasionally, and had a "bit of a talk." Patsey had advised that she should let folks think both her parents were dead--he had said so in the first instance to make her coming with them seem reasonable.

But one day she told Mrs. Brian about little Bess, "who was hurted by a bad fall, and died last winter." Then she ventured on a wonder about heaven, hoping for some tangible explanation.

"I s'pose it's a good thing to go to heaven when you're sick, or old an' all tired out, but I ain't in any hurry. I want a good bit o' fun an' pleasure first. My man sez if you're honest an' do the fair thing, it's as good a religion as he wants, an' he'll trust it to take any one there. My 'pinion is that some of them that talks about it don't appear to know, when you pin 'em down to the pint. My man thinks most everybody who ain't awful bad'll go. There's some folks so dreadful you know, that the devil really ought to have 'em for firewood."

No one seemed in any hurry to go. It was a great mystery to Dil. And now Barker's Court seemed as if it must have been the City of Destruction. If only her mother had been like Christiana! It was all such a puzzle. She was so lonely, and longed for some satisfying comfort.

The weather was so lovely again. Ah! if Bess had not died, they would have started by themselves, she felt quite sure. And as the days passed with no John Travis, Dil sometimes grew cold and sick at heart. In spite of the boys' merriment and kindliness, she could not get down to the real hold on life. It seemed to her as if she was wandering off in some strange land, when she used to sit alone and wonder; it could hardly be called thinking, it was so intangible.

XII--THE RESPONSE OF PINING EYES

The boys chipped in one evening and took Dil to the theatre. They were fond of the rather coarse fun and stage heroics. Dil was simply bewildered with the lights, the blare of the second-rate orchestra, and the crowds of people. She was a little afraid too. What if they should meet some one who knew her mother?