Chapter IV: The Entertaining Group (3)

These conversations, bristling with figures, lasted till ten o'clock precisely, and then the director of the _Comptoir Général de Crédit_, who, by the way, was an honest man--at least, as honest as is to be found in business--courteously conducted his last visitor to the head of the stairway. The visitor named was an old villain, as rich as Crœsus, who, by a not uncommon chance, enjoyed the general esteem of the public; whereas, had justice been done to him, he would have been lodging at the expense of the State in one of those large establishments provided by a thoughtful government for smaller delinquents; and there he would have pursued a useful and healthy calling for a lengthy period, the exact length having been fixed by the judges of the supreme court. But M. Godefroy showed him out relentlessly, notwithstanding his importance--it was absolutely necessary to be at the Bourse at 11 o'clock--and went into the dining-room.

It was a luxuriously furnished room. The furniture and plate would have served to endow a cathedral. Nevertheless, notwithstanding that M. Godefroy took a gulp of bicarbonate of soda, his indigestion refused to subside, consequently the banker could only take the scantiest breakfast--that of a dyspeptic. In the midst of such luxury, and under the eye of a well-paid butler, M. Godefroy could only eat a couple of boiled eggs and nibble a little mutton chop. The man of money trifled with dessert--took only a crumb of Roquefort--not more than two cents' worth. Then the door opened and an overdressed but charming little child--young Raoul, four years old--the son of the company director, entered the room, accompanied by his German nursery governess.

This event occurred every day at the same hour--a quarter to eleven, precisely, while the carriage which was to take the banker to the Bourse was awaiting the gentleman who had only a quarter of an hour to give to paternal sentiment. It was not that he did not love his son. He did love him--nay, he adored him, in his own particular way. But then, you know, business is business.

At the age of forty-two, when already worldly-wise and _blasé_, he had fancied himself in love with the daughter of one of his club friends--Marquis de Neufontaine, an old rascal--a nobleman, but one whose card-playing was more than open to suspicion, and who would have been expelled from the club more than once but for the influence of M. Godefroy. The nobleman was only too happy to become the father-in-law of a man who would pay his debts, and without any scruples he handed over his daughter--a simple and ingenuous child of seventeen, who was taken from a convent to be married--to the worldly banker. The girl was certainly sweet and pretty, but she had no dowry except numerous aristocratic prejudices and romantic illusions, and her father thought he was fortunate in getting rid of her on such favorable terms. M. Godefroy, who was the son of an avowed old miser of Andelys, had always remained a man of the people, and intensely vulgar. In spite of his improved circumstances, he had not improved. His entire lack of tact and refinement was painful to his young wife, whose tenderest feelings he ruthlessly and thoughtlessly trampled upon. Things were looking unpromising, when, happily for her, Madame Godefroy died in giving birth to her firstborn. When he spoke of his deceased wife, the banker waxed poetical, although had she lived they would have been divorced in six months. His son he loved dearly for several reasons--first, because the child was an only son; secondly, because he was a scion of two such houses as Godefroy and Neufontaine; finally, because the man of money had naturally great respect for the heir to many millions. So the youngster had golden rattles and other similar toys, and was brought up like a young Dauphin. But his father, overwhelmed with business worries, could never give the child more than fifteen minutes per day of his precious time--and, as on the day mentioned, it was always during "cheese"--and for the rest of the day the father abandoned the child to the care of the servants.

"Good morning, Raoul."

"Good morning, papa."

And the company director, having put his serviette away, sat young Raoul on his left knee, took the child's head between his big paws, and in stroking and kissing it actually forgot all his money matters and even his note of the afternoon, which was of great importance to him, as by it he could gain quite an important amount of patronage.

"Papa," said little Raoul suddenly, "will Father Christmas put anything in my shoe to-night?"

The father answered with "Yes, if you are a good child." This was very striking from a man who was a pronounced freethinker, who always applauded every anti-clerical attack in the Chamber with a vigorous "Hear, hear." He made a mental note that he must buy some toys for his child that very afternoon.

Then he turned to the nursery governess with:

"Are you quite satisfied with Raoul, Mademoiselle Bertha?"

Mademoiselle Bertha became as red as a peony at being addressed, as if the question were scarcely _comme il faut_, and replied by a little imbecile snigger, which seemed fully to satisfy M. Godefroy's curiosity about his son's conduct.

"It's fine to-day," said the financier, "but cold. If you take Raoul to Monceau Park, mademoiselle, please be careful to wrap him up well."

Mademoiselle, by a second fit of idiotic smiling, having set at rest M. Godefroy's doubts and fears on that essential point, he kissed his child, left the room hastily, and in the hall was enveloped in his fur coat by Charles, who also closed the carriage door. Then the faithful fellow went off to the café which he frequented, Rue de Miromesnil, where he had promised to meet the coachman of the baroness who lived opposite, to play a game of billiards, thirty up--and spot-barred, of course.

Thanks to the brown bay--for which a thousand francs over and above its value was paid by M. Godefroy as a result of a sumptuous snail supper given to that gentleman's coachman by the horse-dealer--thanks to the expensive brown bay which certainly went well, the financier was able to get through his many engagements satisfactorily. He appeared punctually at the Bourse, sat at several committee tables, and at a quarter to five, by voting with the ministry, he helped to reassure France and Europe that the rumors of a ministerial crisis had been totally unfounded. He voted with the ministry because he had succeeded in obtaining the favors which he demanded as the price of his vote.

After he had thus nobly fulfilled his duty to himself and his country, M. Godefroy remembered what he had said to his child on the subject of Father Christmas, and gave his coachman the address of a dealer in toys. There he bought, and had put in his carriage, a fantastic rocking-horse, mounted on castors--a whip in each ear; a box of leaden soldiers--all as exactly alike as those grenadiers of the Russian regiment of the time of Paul I, who all had black hair and snub noses; and a score of other toys, all equally striking and costly. Then, as he returned home, softly reposing in his well-swung carriage, the rich banker, who, after all, was a father, began to think with pride of his little boy and to form plans for his future.

When the child grew up he should have an education worthy of a prince, and he would be one, too, for there was no longer any aristocracy except that of money, and his boy would have a capital of about 30,000,000 francs.

If his father, a pettifogging provincial lawyer, who had formerly dined in the Latin Quarter when in Paris, who had remarked every evening when putting on a white tie that he looked as fine as if he were going to a wedding--if he had been able to accumulate an enormous fortune, and to become thereby a power in the republic; if he had been able to obtain in marriage a young lady, one of whose ancestors had fallen at Marignan, what an important personage little Raoul might become. M. Godefroy built all sorts of air-castles for his boy, forgetting that Christmas is the birthday of a very poor little child, son of a couple of vagrants, born in a stable, where the parents only found lodging through charity.

In the midst of the banker's dreams the coachman cried: "Door, please," and drove into the yard. As he went up the steps M. Godefroy was thinking that he had barely time to dress for dinner; but on entering the vestibule he found all the domestics crowded in front of him in a state of alarm and confusion. In a corner, crouching on a seat, was the German nursery-governess, crying. When she saw the banker she buried her face in her hands and wept still more copiously than before. M. Godefroy felt that some misfortune had happened.

"What's the meaning of all this? What's amiss? What has happened?"

Charles, the _valet de chambre_, a sneaking rascal of the worst type, looked at his master with eyes full of pity and stammered: "Mr. Raoul--"

"My boy?"

"Lost, sir. The stupid German did it. Since four o'clock this afternoon he has not been seen."

The father staggered back like one who had been hit by a ball. The German threw herself at his feet, screaming: "Mercy, mercy!" and the domestics all spoke at the same time.

"Bertha didn't go to _parc Monceau_. She lost the child over there on the fortifications. We have sought him all over, sir. We went to the office for you, sir, and then to the Chamber, but you had just left. Just imagine, the German had a rendezvous with her lover every day, beyond the ramparts, near the gate of Asniéres. What a shame! It is a place full of low gipsies and strolling players. Perhaps the child has been stolen. Yes, sir, we informed the police at once. How could we imagine such a thing? A hypocrite, that German! She had a rendezvous, doubtless, with a countryman--a Prussian spy, sure enough!"

His son lost! M. Godefroy seemed to have a torrent of blood rushing through his head. He sprang at Mademoiselle, seized her by the arms and shook her furiously.

"Where did you lose him, you miserable girl? Tell me the truth before I shake you to pieces. Do you hear? Do you hear?"

But the unfortunate girl could only cry and beg for mercy.

The banker tried to be calm. No, it was impossible. Nobody would dare to steal _his_ boy. Somebody would find him and bring him back. Of that there could be no doubt. He could scatter money about right and left, and could have the entire police force at his orders. And he would set to work at once, for not an instant should be lost.

"Charles, don't let the horses be taken out. You others, see that this girl doesn't escape. I'm going to the Prefecture."

And M. Godefroy, with his heart thumping against his sides as if it would break them, his hair wild with fright, darted into his carriage, which at once rolled off as fast as the horses could take it. What irony! The carriage was full of glittering playthings, which sparkled every time a gaslight shone on them. For the next day was the birthday of the divine Infant at whose cradle wise men and simple shepherds alike adored.

"My poor little Raoul! Poor darling! Where is my boy?" repeated the father as in his anguish he dug his nails into the cushions of the carriage. At that moment all his titles and decorations, his honors, his millions, were valueless to him. He had one single idea burning in his brain. "My poor child! Where is my child?"

At last he reached the Prefecture of Police. But no one was there--the office had been deserted for some time.

"I am M. Godefroy, deputy from L'Eure--. My little boy is lost in Paris; a child of four years. I must see the Prefect."

He slipped a louis into the hand of the _concièrge._

The good old soul, a veteran with a gray mustache, less for the sake of the money than out of compassion for the poor father, led him to the Prefect's private apartments. M. Godefroy was finally ushered into the room of the man in whom were centred all his hopes. He was in evening dress, and wore a monocle; his manner was frigid and rather pretentious. The distressed father, whose knees trembled through emotion, sank into an armchair, and, bursting into tears, told of the loss of his boy--told the story stammeringly and with many breaks, for his voice was choked by sobs.

The Prefect, who was also father of a family, was inwardly moved at the sight of his visitor's grief, but he repressed his emotion and assumed a cold and self-important air.

"You say, sir, that your child has been missing since four o'clock."

"Yes."

"Just when night was falling, confound it. He isn't at all precocious, speaks very little, doesn't know where he lives, and can't even pronounce his own name?"

"Unfortunately that is so."

"Not far from Asnières gate? A suspected quarter. But cheer up. We have a very intelligent _Commissaire de Police_ there. I'll telephone to him."

* * * * *

The distressed father was left alone for five minutes. How his temples throbbed and his heart beat!

Then, suddenly, the Prefect reappeared, smiling with satisfaction. "Found!"

Whereupon M. Godefroy rushed to the Prefect, whose hand he pressed till that functionary winced with the pain.

"I must acknowledge that we were exceedingly fortunate. The little chap is blond, isn't he? Rather pale? In blue velvet? Black felt hat, with a white feather in it?"

"Yes, yes; that's he. That's my little Raoul."

"Well, he's at the house of a poor fellow down in that quarter who had just been at the police office to make his declaration to the Commissaire. Here's his address, which I took down: '_Pierron, rue des Cailloux, Levallois-Perret._' With good horses you may reach your boy in less than an hour. Certainly, you won't find him in an aristocratic quarter; his surroundings won't be of the highest. The man who found him is only a small dealer in vegetables."

But that was of no importance to M. Godefroy, who, having expressed his gratitude to the Prefect, leaped down the stairs four at a time, and sprang into his carriage. At that moment he realized how devotedly he loved his child. As he drove away he no longer thought of little Raoul's princely education and magnificent inheritance. He was decided never again to hand over the child entirely to the hands of servants, and he also made up his mind to devote less time to monetary matters and the glory of France and attend more to his own. The thought also occurred to him that France wouldn't be likely to suffer from the neglect. He had hitherto been ashamed to recognize the existence of an old-maid sister of his father, but he decided to send for her to his house. She would certainly shock his lackeys by her primitive manners and ideas. But what of that? She would take care of his boy, which to him was of much more importance than the good opinion of his servants. The financier, who was always in a hurry, never felt so eager to arrive punctually at a committee meeting as he was to reach the lost little one. For the first time in his life he was longing through pure affection to take the child in has arms.

The carriage rolled rapidly along in the clear, crisp night air down boulevard Malesherbes; and, having crossed the ramparts and passed the large houses, plunged into the quiet solitude of suburban streets. When the carriage stopped M. Godefroy saw a wretched hovel, on which was the number he was seeking; it was the house where Pierron lived. The door of the house opened immediately, and a big, rough-looking fellow with red mustache appeared. One of his sleeves was empty. Seeing the gentleman in the carriage, Pierron said cheerily: "So you are the little one's father. Don't be afraid. The little darling is quite safe," and, stepping aside in order to allow M. Godefroy to pass, he placed his finger on his lips with: "Hush! The little one is asleep!"

Yes, it was a real hovel. By the dim light of a little oil lamp M. Godefroy could just distinguish a dresser from which a drawer was missing, some broken chairs, a round table on which stood a beer-mug which was half empty, three glasses, some cold meat on a plate, and on the bare plaster of the wall two gaudy pictures--a bird's-eye view of the Exposition of 1889, with the Eiffel Tower in bright blue, and the portrait of General Boulanger when a handsome young lieutenant. This last evidence of weakness of the tenant of the house may well be excused, since it was shared by nearly everybody in France. The man took the lamp and went on tiptoe to the corner of the room where, on a clean bed, two little fellows were fast asleep. In the little one, around whom the other had thrown a protecting arm, M. Godefroy recognized his son.

"The youngsters were tired to death, and so sleepy," said Pierron, trying to soften his rough voice. "I had no idea when you would come, so gave them some supper and put them to bed, and then I went to make a declaration at the police office. Zidore generally sleeps up in the garret, but I thought they would be better here, and that I should be better able to watch them."

M. Godefroy, however, scarcely heard the explanation. Strangely moved, he looked at the two sleeping infants on an iron bedstead and covered with an old blanket which had once been used either in barracks or hospital. Little Raoul, who was still in his velvet suit, looked so frail and delicate compared with his companion that the banker almost envied the latter his brown complexion.

"Is he your boy?" he asked Pierron.

"No," answered he. "I am a bachelor, and don't suppose I shall ever marry, because of my accident. You see, a dray passed over my arm--that was all. Two years ago a neighbor of mine died, when that child was only five years old. The poor mother really died of starvation. She wove wreaths for the cemeteries, but could make nothing worth mentioning at that trade--not enough to live. However, she worked for the child for five years, and then the neighbors had to buy wreaths for her. So I took care of the youngster. Oh, it was nothing much, and I was soon repaid. He is seven years old, and is a sharp little fellow, so he helps me a great deal. On Sundays and Thursdays, and the other days after school, he helps me push my handcart. Zidore is a smart little chap. It was he who found your boy."

"What!" exclaimed M. Godefroy--"that child!"

"Oh, he's quite a little man, I assure you. When he left school he found your child, who was walking on ahead, crying like a fountain. He spoke to him and comforted him, like an old grandfather. The difficulty is, that one can't easily understand what your little one says--English words are mixed up with German and French. So we couldn't get much out of him, nor could we learn his address. Zidore brought him to me--I wasn't far away; and then all the old women in the place came round chattering and croaking like so many frogs, and all full of advice.

"'Take him to the police,'" said some.

But Zidore protested.

"That would scare him," said he, for like all Parisians, he has no particular liking for the police--"and besides, your little one didn't wish to leave him. So I came back here with the child as soon as I could. They had supper, and then off to bed. Don't they look sweet?"

When he was in his carriage, M. Godefroy had decided to reward the finder of his child handsomely--to give him a handful of that gold so easily gained. Since entering the house he had seen a side of human nature with which he was formerly unacquainted--the brave charity of the poor in their misery. The courage of the poor girl who had worked herself to death weaving wreaths to keep her child; the generosity of the poor cripple in adopting the orphan, and above all, the intelligent goodness of the little street Arab in protecting the child who was still smaller than himself--all this touched M. Godefroy deeply and set him reflecting. For the thought had occurred to him that there were other cripples who needed to be looked after as well as Pierron, and other orphans as well as Zidore. He also debated whether it would not be better to employ his time looking after them, and whether money might not be put to a better use than merely gaining money. Such was his reverie as he stood looking at the two sleeping children.

Finally, he turned round to study the features of the greengrocer, and was charmed by the loyal expression in the face of the man, and his clear, truthful eyes.

"My friend," said M. Godefroy, "you and your adopted son have rendered me an immense service. I shall soon prove to you that I am not ungrateful. But, for to-day--I see that you are not in comfortable circumstances, and I should like to leave a small proof of my thankfulness."

But the hand of the cripple arrested that of the banker, which was diving into his coat-pocket where he kept bank-notes.

"No, sir; no! Anybody else would have done just as we have done. I will not accept any recompense; but pray don't take offense. Certainly, I am not rolling in wealth, but please excuse my pride--that of an old soldier; I have the Tonquin medal--and I don't wish to eat food which I haven't earned."

"As you like," said the financier; "but an old soldier like you is capable of something better. You are too good to push a handcart. I will make some arrangement for you, never fear."

The cripple responded by a quiet smile, and said coldly: "Well, sir, if you really wish to do something for me--"

"You'll let me care for Zidore, won't you?" cried M. Godefroy, eagerly.

"That I will, with the greatest of pleasure," responded Pierron, joyfully. "I have often thought about the child's future. He is a sharp little fellow. His teachers are delighted with him."

Then Pierron suddenly stopped, and an expression came over his face which M. Godefroy at once interpreted as one of distrust. The thought evidently was: "Oh, when he has once left us he'll forget us entirely."

"You can safely pick the child up in your arms and take him to the carriage. He'll be better at home than here, of course. Oh, you needn't be afraid of disturbing him. He is fast asleep, and you can just pick him up. He must have his shoes on first, though."

Following Pierron's glance M. Godefroy perceived on the hearth, where a scanty coke fire was dying out, two pairs of children's shoes--the elegant ones of Raoul, and the rough ones of Zidore. Each pair contained a little toy and a package of bonbons.

"Don't think about that," said Pierron in an abashed tone. "Zidore put the shoes there. You know children still believe in Christmas and the child Jesus, whatever scholars may say about fables; so, as I came back from the _commissaire_, as I didn't know whether your boy would have to stay here to-night, I got those things for them both."

At which the eyes of M. Godefroy, the freethinker, the hardened capitalist, and _blasé_ man of the world, filled with tears.

He rushed out of the house, but returned in a minute with his arms full of the superb mechanical horse, the box of leaden soldiers, and the rest of the costly playthings bought by him in the afternoon, and which had not even been taken out of the carriage.

"My friend, my dear friend," said he to the green grocer, "see, these are the presents which Christmas has brought to my little Raoul. I want him to find them here, when he awakens, and to share them with Zidore, who will henceforth be his playmate and friend. You'll trust me now, won't you? I'll take care both of Zidore and of you, and then I shall ever remain in your debt, for not only have you found my boy, but you have also reminded me, who am rich and lived only for myself, that there are other poor who need to be looked after. I swear by these two sleeping children, I won't forget them any longer."

Such is the miracle which happened on the 24th of December of last year, ladies and gentlemen, at Paris, in the full flow of modern egotism. It doesn't sound likely--that I own; and I am compelled to attribute this miraculous event to the influence of the Divine Child who came down to earth nearly nineteen centuries ago to command men to love one another.

--François Coppée.

=The Peace of Yesterdays=

It was a wet, unpleasant evening in February, and little Miss Hicks, hurrying homeward with her chop for to-morrow's dinner, felt wet and unpleasant, too. Her jacket was too thin for such weather, and her worn shoes, splashing over the muddy pavement, made her dread the twinges of rheumatism which would surely follow. She paused a moment for breath beneath the sheltering awning of a book-store, and, as she shook her dripping skirts, she glanced into the gaily lighted windows. It happened to be the evening before Valentine's day, and the windows of the shop were filled with the usual "tokens of affection"; riotous cupids with garlands of roses and forget-me-nots, reposing on beds of celluloid; lovely scrolls in delicate pinks and blues with amorous, gilded verses inscribed on them; wonderful creations in silks of brilliant hue, at which all the small girls of the neighborhood gazed covetously. On one side lay a heap of comic valentines in ugly, staring reds and yellows, but Miss Hicks never noticed them, for she had eyes only for the gorgeous visions on the other side. As she looked at them, a flood of suddenly-released memories came into her head which made her cheeks for a moment grow youthfully pink and her faded eyes glow like stars.

The door of the shop closed with a final bang, and the lights went out suddenly. But Miss Hicks only smiled happily to herself, as she hurried through the remaining squares to her own dingy little house in dingy little Lombard street. The dim street lamp showed a sign, battered and discolored, of "Miss M. Hicks, Fashionable Milliner," and as the owner of the shop opened the creaking door, stepped inside, and lighted a lamp, a few old-fashioned hats and bonnets could be faintly discerned on the narrow counter, while in the one small showcase were sundry faded ribbons and drooping birds.

"It's a wonder to me," her nearest neighbors would often say, "how that Miss Hicks manages to get along; kith nor kin she don't seem to have none, and the customers she's got ain't enough to keep body and soul together. But I've heard as how she gets an annuity from some dead relatives and that probably helps her out, if she's real good at scrimping and saving."

But in spite Of the solicitude of her neighbors, they never found out any certain facts about the little woman in rusty black, who was always either sitting at her window, sewing on the hats of her few customers, or else taking a solitary stroll through the dingy, narrow streets. She went walking usually when the daylight was nearly gone, for in a timid, childish way she shrank from observation, and preferred to commune with herself rather than join her neighbors in friendly gossip.

Generally she liked to be slow about preparing and eating her meals, for in this way they took up quite a part of the long, lonely day; but to-night she was in such a hurry about her few preparations and did everything with such an air of abstraction that she nearly amputated a finger while cutting bread, and entirety forgot to put anything in the tea-pot except hot water. When at last the dishes had been washed and carefully put away, each in its own proper place, when the sleek white cat had been given a generous saucer of milk, then Miss Hicks, with an air of trembling and hesitating eagerness, placed a chair against the old-fashioned cupboard in the living-room, and reaching up, to the peril of life and limb, drew forth from its inmost recesses a square pasteboard box. She carefully wiped off the dust on its surface--it was probably the only dusty article in her whole establishment--and, carrying the box to the kitchen table, deposited it there with a loving little pat.

But now, when her intentions seemed practically accomplished, something held her back; it seemed an though invisible fingers were closing over her own to keep her from opening the box, from prying into the things which she had not had the courage to look at for such long, long years. She thought, with a shiver, of these years. Fifteen of them! And so clear does memory sometimes become that Miss Hicks could distinctly remember when she had placed the last letter in the box--her "Treasure Box" she had often called it lovingly--and as she thought of all that had happened since she had put that letter in, of all the loneliness and desolation of those fifteen years, she bent her head on the little green box and cried softly.

After a while she raised her head, and with a quick flash of determination in her grey eyes, took the lid from the box and turned the contents out on the table. On top of the heap lay several yellowed envelopes, quaintly embossed, with "Miss Mary Ellen Hicks" written on them in faded, boyish writing. With a caressing touch Miss Hicks put these aside and picked up a bent tintype of a boy with laughing eyes and a tender, pleasant mouth. At this she looked a long time, at first with a little answering smile for the smile in the picture, then with misty reminiscent eyes. More modern valentines came next in the pile; much more elaborate, too, these were, and the verses seemed chosen by a more discriminating eye. She put them all aside, with a sigh and a loving look for each, and picked up the one at the very bottom; the envelope bore a western postmark and was not elaborate nor fanciful as the others had been, nor were the contents anything more than a sheet of paper folded around the picture of a man--a man who, in spite of the lines of weariness in his face, had still the boyish eyes and kind mouth of the other picture. On the paper was written, in a strong, angular hand:

"Dear heart, try to think of me and remember me to-day, even though
I am so far away from home and you. I am sorry that I have no other
valentine to send you, but there is more love in this scrap of
paper than in all the valentines in creation. I am thinking just
now how, a year ago, you and I were sitting in the dear old home
parlor, making valentines for the neighbors' children, and when I
think of the difference between then and now, I feel as sad and
depressed as the wailing pines around me. I have had such strange
premonitions to-day, too; I seem to see such a long vista of years
before me and you do not seem to have a share in any of them. Dear
heart, I want you to promise me that you will never forget me, no
matter where I may be, whether I am living or dead. If I know this
it will take away, in part at least, my loneliness and my feeling
of desertion on this desolate ranch. Good-bye, dear, and God bless
you.
Your Dan."

The paper dropped from Miss Hicks' nerveless fingers as she remembered that first long year of separation--a lonely year, even though it was she herself who had urged Dan to be independent of his rich, crotchety old uncle and to seek his own fortune away somewhere, so that he might be the man she wanted him to be. She remembered achingly how long she had waited for another letter, at first with eager anticipation, later with dread; how slowly time had passed after that tender little valentine note, and how one day some of her own letters came back to her, marked unclaimed. And then she thought of the time, several years later, when her mother had died and when she felt for the first time the old grief of utter loneliness and misery, and the desolation of those months came over her again, in one great sickening wave that made her shake from head to foot; she recalled the days that followed, full of visits from kind and condoling neighbors, who gradually let her alone when they saw how much she desired it; the nights, full of grief and unsatisfied longing, when she gave way unrestrainedly to the sorrow which was pent up during the day.

But--and Miss Hicks straightened up with a proud little smile, though her lips still trembled--at all events she had remained faithful to her promise; though doubts had often assailed her, she had kept the tryst bravely, and she comforted herself often by thinking, when she felt especially tired and alone, that if Dan were living, he would surely find his way back to her some day, and if he were dead she had a childish little feeling of relief that he was watching over her and protecting her all the time.

The clock struck eleven slow, even strokes, and Miss Hicks, in amazement at the lateness of the hour, hastily put the valentines in the box, and with one last look, set it back on the shelf, and went to bed. She tossed restlessly for a long time, for her thoughts and the recollections they had awakened were sadder than usual. But still she felt glad that at last she had had the courage to call back openly the memories that she had striven to put aside for so long. And when she did finally fall asleep, her dreams made her thin lips part in happy curves, and caused her to utter now and then deep, unconscious sighs of content.

The next morning was sunshiny, with no trace of yesterday's gloom, and the little street seemed to have become dry as if by magic, and to have lost for the time being its dinginess in the sunshine poured out on it so liberally. Miss Hicks sat at her window, busied with re-trimming an old bonnet; but there was no reflection of sunshine in her face. The reaction due to what she had done last night had come over her, and the memories which had seemed sweet then were unpleasant and bitter this morning. All her life, she thought sadly, was made up of unrealised hopes and ungranted desires; whatever had been dear to her had been taken away when she most needed it; every disaster and trouble had come upon her when she was least ready to meet it. And now she thought with a sigh, she had become too old to ever have it different; it seemed to her that never had her eyes been so lifeless, her mouth so lined and careworn, her hair so thin and grey as they had appeared this morning in her little mirror. What an unfair thing the world was anyway, she thought, as she bit off her thread reflectively and watched the mail-carrier coming briskly across the street. What a lot of mail those people next door did get! Even that was not divided fairly.

But--and she stared in astonishment--the mail-carrier was actually coming to her house; at this very minute he was climbing her rickety little steps and knocking at her battered little door. She hastily dropped her work and hurried to open the latch.

"It must be the wrong place," she began deprecatingly, but he shoved a bulky envelope through the crack in the door and with a pleasant "Guess it's yours, all right; good morning," was off again before she could demonstrate further. It certainly must be hers, for it said, "Miss Mary Ellen Hicks, Lombard Street, Midville," in big, bold characters on the envelope; it was an embossed one, too, with gay cupids and garlands of roses on the border. Miss Hicks looked at it wonderingly at first; then she smiled with the pleased anticipation of a child, and she prepared to cut the envelope carefully, carefully. She looked at the post-mark, but it was too blurred to be plainly seen--and just then a thought came to her that made her grow suddenly white and tremble. No, no, it was impossible; but what if--? Such things had happened, many and many a time, and just because such things never had happened to her was no reason that they might not occur now. She was almost afraid to see what the envelope held, and she turned it over hesitatingly in her hand; but finally with shaking fingers she cut the paper, blew it open, and drew out the folded paper inside. Expectantly she unfolded it, her heart beating high, her lips parted in anticipation. Then suddenly daylight seemed to leave her, and when the mistiness had cleared away, she found herself staring at a hideous cartoon in flaring red and green, of an old maid with cork-screw curls, a thin, angular figure, and a long hooked nose, while underneath was boldly printed:

"You're the meanest old maid in the city--
With that we'll all surely agree;
We know you once thought you were pretty,
But no trace of it now can we see.
And, say, have you e'er learned the meaning
Of sweetheart, or lover, or beau?
One look at your face, and we needn't
Take the trouble to hear you say 'no'."

The cutting doggerel seemed imprinted in letters of fire on Miss Hicks's brain; it burned through her and made her heart beat nearly to suffocation. But the two small boys who were waiting at the corner, were grievously disappointed; they expected at least to see her come out off her house in wrath, and demand justice somewhere, as several others of their victims had done. They waited for nearly an hour; then, when a mate called them across the street, they ran off with him, forgetting their disappointment altogether after a few moments of play.

But the numb little figure in the milliner's shop had not forgotten; at noon she was still sitting limply in her chair, gazing out at nothing with burning, brilliant eyes, that now had knowledge in their depths where before there had been only wonder. Her mouth quivered pitifully, though she tried bravely to make it firm and resolute. She had had a glimpse into the Present, harsh and unsympathetic, and she shrank back again into the Past, where she had been much more happy and contented. The To-days were not for her; from henceforth, she knew, all her solace and companionship, all her brief happiness and pleasures, all her longings and desires--the rest of her life, in short--must be lived in the quiet, peace-bringing Yesterdays.

--Katherine Kurz.

=A Christmas Legend=

There was great commotion in the forest, for the south wind, heavy with cloying fragrance of the jasmine, had been the bearer of wondrous tidings. The forest sang with joy, for, after these many years, it was to have a share in the great festival of the Master's birthday. This, was the news that the south wind had brought, and he had told, too, how an angel would come to choose the tree whom the Master had most loved.

"It is I whom the Master loves," spoke the oak, rearing his great head in the still air. "I heard the angels sing at his birth; and often has he rested in the shade at my feet. It is fitting that I be chosen."

"Nay, old oak," cried the palm, shaking her plumes in eager denial. "Whose branches did the multitude wave at the Master's entry into Jerusalem? I have been already chosen!" There were many in the forest who nodded their approval to this speech of the palm's, but the olive sighed, and whispered:

"I have watched with him in Gethsemane, and he has wet my feet with his tears."

"But I," cried the cedar, stretching his tense arms to the listening stars, "I heard his dying groans, and my heart is stained with his blood; it was upon me that his body was nailed--me, who watched over his boyhood on the plains of Nazareth!" The forest was very still as the cedar finished, and only the chestnut ventured to speak--shaking out her broad leaves, and distilling everywhere the heavy fragrance of her blossoms.

"I am ready for the feast," she said complacently. "Last night, while all of you were sleeping, an angel came, and lit these candles of mine."

Thus spoke among themselves the rulers of the forest, while the south wind played among their branches; nor did they notice the tiny tree that listened at their feet, and crooned lullabies to the drowsy birds.

The winged months flew by. In the forest, the days passed as before; and, after the south wind had sung its farewell to the tree-tops, the forest forgot the tidings which the breeze had brought. Only one tree remembered; the lullaby which it sang to the birds nestled in its arms was of the wonderful birthday festival of the Master.

Finally came the North Wind, calling to the forest to prepare for its long sleep. The trees, one by one, cast off their brilliant raiment--the cedar, last of all--and stood gaunt and naked under the dark sky. Only the tiny tree in the shadow of the oak did not heed, and bravely defied the fierce jestings of the North Wind. "Oho' little tree," he roared, whirling the snowflakes through its tiny boughs, "doff your green garment and go to sleep! Or, perhaps, you are waiting for the angel?" Then the forest laughed long and loud. "Little tree," it jeered, "cling to the oak; the angel will step upon you!"

But even as it jeered, a great light broke through the forest; the trees were afraid and bowed themselves as before a storm. And when they lifted up their heads, behold! the little tree stood straight and tall in its robes of green, and in its topmost branch there gleamed a star.

--Ida F. Treat.