dawn of a tomorrow by frances hodgson burnett

8/3/2019 Dawn of a Tomorrow by Frances Hodgson Burnett

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THE DAWN OF A TO-MORROWBy FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT

I

There are always two ways oflooking at a thing, frequentlythere are six or seven; but two waysof looking at a London fog are quiteenough. When it is thick and yellowin the streets and stings a man'sthroat and lungs as he breathes it, anawakening in the early morning iseither an unearthly and grewsome,or a mysteriously enclosing, secluding,

and comfortable thing. If oneawakens in a healthy body, and witha clear brain rested by normal sleepand retaining memories of a normallyagreeable yesterday, one may lie watchingthe housemaid building the fire;and after she has swept the hearthand put things in order, lie watchingthe flames of the blazing and cracklingwood catch the coals and set themblazing also, and dancing merrily andfilling corners with a glow; and in solying and realizing that leaping light

and warmth and a soft bed are goodthings, one may turn over on one'sback, stretching arms and legsluxuriously, drawing deep breaths andsmiling at a knowledge of the fogoutside which makes half-past eighto'clock on a December morning asdark as twelve o'clock on a Decembernight. Under such conditionsthe soft, thick, yellow gloom has itspicturesque and even humorous aspect.One feels enclosed by it at once

fantastically and cosily, and is inclinedto revel in imaginings of the pictureoutside, its Rembrandt lights andorange yellows, the halos about thestreet-lamps, the illumination of shop-windows, the flare of torches stuckup over coster barrows and coffee-stands, the shadows on the faces ofthe men and women selling and buyingbeside them. Refreshed by sleep

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and comfort and surrounded by light,warmth, and good cheer, it is easy toface the day, to confront going outinto the fog and feeling a sort ofpleasure in its mysteries. This is oneway of looking at it, but only one.

The other way is marked by enormousdifferences.

A man--he had given his nameto the people of the house as AntonyDart--awakened in a third-storybedroom in a lodging-house in a poorstreet in London, and as his consciousnessreturned to him, its slow andreluctant movings confronted thesecond point of view--marked byenormous differences. He had not

slept two consecutive hours throughthe night, and when he had slept hehad been tormented by dreary dreams,which were more full of misery becauseof their elusive vagueness, whichkept his tortured brain on a wearyingstrain of effort to reach some definiteunderstanding of them. Yet whenhe awakened the consciousness ofbeing again alive was an awful thing.If the dreams could have faded intoblankness and all have passed withthe passing of the night, how hecould have thanked whatever godsthere be! Only not to awake--only not to awake! But he hadawakened.

The clock struck nine as he didso, consequently he knew the hour.The lodging-house slavey had arousedhim by coming to light the fire. Shehad set her candle on the hearth anddone her work as stealthily as possible,but he had been disturbed,

though he had made a desperate effortto struggle back into sleep. Thatwas no use--no use. He was awakeand he was in the midst of it all again.Without the sense of luxurious comforthe opened his eyes and turnedupon his back, throwing out his armsflatly, so that he lay as in the formof a cross, in heavy weariness andanguish. For months he had awakened




each morning after such a nightand had so lain like a crucified thing.

As he watched the painful flickeringof the damp and smoking wood andcoal he remembered this and thought

that there had been a lifetime of suchawakenings, not knowing that themorbidness of a fagged brain blottedout the memory of more normal daysand told him fantastic lies which werebut a hundredth part truth. He couldsee only the hundredth part truth, andit assumed proportions so huge thathe could see nothing else. In sucha state the human brain is an infernalmachine and its workings can only beconquered if the mortal thing whichlives with it--day and night, night

and day--has learned to separate itscontrollable from its seeminglyuncontrollable atoms, and can silenceits clamor on its way to madness.

Antony Dart had not learned thisthing and the clamor had had itshideous way with him. Physicianswould have given a name to hismental and physical condition. Hehad heard these names often--appliedto men the strain of whose lives hadbeen like the strain of his own, and

had left them as it had left him-- jaded, joyless, breaking things. Someof them had been broken and haddied or were dragging out bruised andtormented days in their own homesor in mad-houses. He always shudderedwhen he heard their names,and rebelled with sick fear againstthe mere mention of them. Theyhad worked as he had worked, theyhad been stricken with the deliriumof accumulation--accumulation--

as he had been. They had beencaught in the rush and swirl of thegreat maelstrom, and had been borneround and round in it, until havinggrasped every coveted thing tossingupon its circling waters, theythemselves had been flung upon the shorewith both hands full, the rocks aboutthem strewn with rich possessions,while they lay prostrate and gazed




at all life had brought with dull,hopeless, anguished eyes. He knew--if the worst came to the worst--what would be said of him, becausehe had heard it said of others. "Heworked too hard--he worked too

hard." He was sick of hearing it.What was wrong with the world--what was wrong with man, as Man--if work could break him like this?If one believed in Deity, the livingcreature It breathed into being mustbe a perfect thing--not one to bewearied, sickened, tortured by thelife Its breathing had created. Amere man would disdain to builda thing so poor and incomplete.A mere human engineer who constructedan engine whose workings

were perpetually at fault--whichwent wrong when called upon todo the labor it was made for--whowould not scoff at it and cast it asideas a piece of worthless bungling?

"Something is wrong," he mut-tered, lying flat upon his cross andstaring at the yellow haze whichhad crept through crannies in window-sashes into the room. "Someoneis wrong. Is it I--or You?"

His thin lips drew themselvesback against his teeth in a mirthlesssmile which was like a grin.

"Yes," he said. "I am prettyfar gone. I am beginning to talk tomyself about God. Bryan did it justbefore he was taken to Dr. Hewletts'place and cut his throat."

He had not led a specially evillife; he had not broken laws, but

the subject of Deity was not onewhich his scheme of existence hadincluded. When it had hauntedhim of late he had felt it an untowardand morbid sign. The thinghad drawn him--drawn him; hehad complained against it, he hadargued, sometimes he knew--shuddering--that he had raved. Somethinghad seemed to stand aside and




watch his being and his thinking.Something which filled the universehad seemed to wait, and to havewaited through all the eternal ages,to see what he--one man--woulddo. At times a great appalled wonder

had swept over him at his realizationthat he had never known orthought of it before. It had beenthere always--through all the agesthat had passed. And sometimes--once or twice--the thought had insome unspeakable, untranslatable waybrought him a moment's calm.

But at other times he had said tohimself--with a shivering soul coweringwithin him--that this was onlypart of it all and was a beginning,

perhaps, of religious monomania.

During the last week he hadknown what he was going to do--he had made up his mind. Thisabject horror through which othershad let themselves be dragged tomadness or death he would notendure. The end should come quickly,and no one should be smitten aghastby seeing or knowing how it came.In the crowded shabbier streets ofLondon there were lodging-houseswhere one, by taking precautions,could end his life in such a manneras would blot him out of any worldwhere such a man as himself had beenknown. A pistol, properly managed,would obliterate resemblance to anyhuman thing. Months ago throughchance talk he had heard how itcould be done--and done quickly.He could leave a misleading letter.He had planned what it should be--the story it should tell of a

disheartened mediocre venturer of hispoor all returning bankrupt andhumiliated from Australia, endingexistence in such pennilessness thatthe parish must give him a pauper'sgrave. What did it matter where aman lay, so that he slept--slept--slept? Surely with one's brainsscattered one would sleep soundlyanywhere.




He had come to the house thenight before, dressed shabbily withthe pitiable respectability of adefeated man. He had entereddroopingly with bent shoulders and

hopeless hang of head. In his ownsphere he was a man who held himselfwell. He had let fall a fewdispirited sentences when he hadengaged his back room from thewoman of the house, and she hadrecognized him as one of the luckless.In fact, she had hesitated amoment before his unreliable lookuntil he had taken out money fromhis pocket and paid his rent for aweek in advance. She would havethat at least for her trouble, he had

said to himself. He should not occupythe room after to-morrow. Inhis own home some days would passbefore his household began to makeinquiries. He had told his servantsthat he was going over to Paris for achange. He would be safe and deepin his pauper's grave a week beforethey asked each other why they didnot hear from him. All was inorder. One of the mocking agonieswas that living was done for. Hehad ceased to live. Work, pleasure,sun, moon, and stars had lost theirmeaning. He stood and looked atthe most radiant loveliness of landand sky and sea and felt nothing.Success brought greater wealth eachday without stirring a pulse ofpleasure, even in triumph. Therewas nothing left but the awful daysand awful nights to which he knewphysicians could give their scientificname, but had no healing for. Hehad gone far enough. He would go

no farther. To-morrow it wouldhave been over long hours. Andthere would have been no publicdeclaiming over the humiliatingpitifulness of his end. And what did itmatter?

How thick the fog was outside--thick enough for a man to lose himselfin it. The yellow mist which




had crept in under the doors andthrough the crevices of the window-sashes gave a ghostly look to theroom--a ghastly, abnormal look, hesaid to himself. The fire wassmouldering instead of blazing. But

what did it matter? He was goingout. He had not bought the pistollast night--like a fool. Somehowhis brain had been so tired andcrowded that he had forgotten.

"Forgotten." He mentallyrepeated the word as he got out of bed.By this time to-morrow he shouldhave forgotten everything. THISTIME TO-MORROW. His mind repeatedthat also, as he began to dresshimself. Where should he be? Should

he be anywhere? Suppose heawakened again--to something asbad as this? How did a man getout of his body? After the crashand shock what happened? Did onefind oneself standing beside the Thingand looking down at it? It wouldnot be a good thing to stand andlook down on--even for that whichhad deserted it. But having tornoneself loose from it and its devilishaches and pains, one would not care--one would see how little it allmattered. Anything else must bebetter than this--the thing forwhich there was a scientific namebut no healing. He had taken allthe drugs, he had obeyed all themedical orders, and here he was afterthat last hell of a night--dressinghimself in a back bedroom of acheap lodging-house to go out andbuy a pistol in this damned fog.

He laughed at the last phrase of

his thought, the laugh which was amirthless grin.

"I am thinking of it as if I wasafraid of taking cold," he said."And to-morrow--!"

There would be no To-morrow.To-morrows were at an end. Nomore nights--no more days--no




more morrows.

He finished dressing, putting onhis discriminatingly chosen shabby-genteel clothes with a care for theeffect he intended them to produce.

The collar and cuffs of his shirt werefrayed and yellow, and he fastened hiscollar with a pin and tied his wornnecktie carelessly. His overcoat wasbeginning to wear a greenish shadeand look threadbare, so was his hat.When his toilet was complete helooked at himself in the cracked andhazy glass, bending forward toscrutinize his unshaven face under theshadow of the dingy hat.

"It is all right," he muttered.

"It is not far to the pawnshopwhere I saw it."

The stillness of the room as heturned to go out was uncanny. Asit was a back room, there was nostreet below from which could arisesounds of passing vehicles, and thethickness of the fog muffled suchsound as might have floated from thefront. He stopped half-way to thedoor, not knowing why, and listened.To what--for what? The silenceseemed to spread through all thehouse--out into the streets--through all London--through allthe world, and he to stand in themidst of it, a man on the way toDeath--with no To-morrow.

What did it mean? It seemed tomean something. The worldwithdrawn--life withdrawn--soundwithdrawn--breath withdrawn. Hestood and waited. Perhaps this

was one of the symptoms of themorbid thing for which there wasthat name. If so he had better getaway quickly and have it over, lesthe be found wandering about notknowing--not knowing. But nowhe knew--the Silence. He waited--waited and tried to hear, as ifsomething was calling him--callingwithout sound. It returned to him




--the thought of That which hadwaited through all the ages to seewhat he--one man--would do.He had never exactly pitied himselfbefore--he did not know that hepitied himself now, but he was a

man going to his death, and a light,cold sweat broke out on him andit seemed as if it was not he whodid it, but some other--he flungout his arms and cried aloud wordshe had not known he was going tospeak.

"Lord! Lord! What shall I doto be saved?"

But the Silence gave no answer.It was the Silence still.

And after standing a few momentspanting, his arms fell and his headdropped, and turning the handle ofthe door, he went out to buy thepistol.

II

As he went down the narrow staircase,covered with its dingy andthreadbare carpet, he found thehouse so full of dirty yellow hazethat he realized that the fog must beof the extraordinary ones which areremembered in after-years as abnormalspecimens of their kind. Herecalled that there had been one ofthe sort three years before, and thattraffic and business had been almostentirely stopped by it, that accidentshad happened in the streets, and thatpeople having lost their way had

wandered about turning corners untilthey found themselves far from theirintended destinations and obliged totake refuge in hotels or the houses ofhospitable strangers. Curious incidentshad occurred and odd storieswere told by those who had feltthemselves obliged by circumstancesto go out into the baffling gloom.He guessed that something of a like




nature had fallen upon the townagain. The gas-light on the landingsand in the melancholy hallburned feebly--so feebly that onegot but a vague view of the ricketyhat-stand and the shabby overcoats

and head-gear hanging upon it. Itwas well for him that he had buta corner or so to turn before hereached the pawnshop in whosewindow he had seen the pistol heintended to buy.

When he opened the street-doorhe saw that the fog was, upon thewhole, perhaps even heavier andmore obscuring, if possible, than theone so well remembered. He couldnot see anything three feet before

him, he could not see with distinctnessanything two feet ahead. Thesensation of stepping forward wasuncertain and mysterious enough to bealmost appalling. A man notsufficiently cautious might have falleninto any open hole in his path. AntonyDart kept as closely as possibleto the sides of the houses. It wouldhave been easy to walk off the pavementinto the middle of the streetbut for the edges of the curb and thestep downward from its level. Traffichad almost absolutely ceased, thoughin the more important streets link-boys were making efforts to guidemen or four-wheelers slowly along.The blind feeling of the thing wasrather awful. Though but fewpedestrians were out, Dart foundhimself once or twice brushing againstor coming into forcible contact withmen feeling their way about likehimself.

"One turn to the right," herepeated mentally, "two to the left,and the place is at the corner of theother side of the street."

He managed to reach it at last,but it had been a slow, and therefore,long journey. All the gas-jetsthe little shop owned were lighted,but even under their flare the articles




in the window--the one or twoonce cheaply gaudy dresses andshawls and men's garments--hungin the haze like the dreary, danglingghosts of things recently executed.Among watches and forlorn pieces

of old-fashioned jewelry and odds andends, the pistol lay against the foldsof a dirty gauze shawl. There itwas. It would have been annoyingif someone else had been beforehandand had bought it.

Inside the shop more danglingspectres hung and the place wasalmost dark. It was a shabby pawnshop,and the man lounging behindthe counter was a shabby man withan unshaven, unamiable face.

"I want to look at that pistol inthe right-hand corner of your window,"Antony Dart said.

The pawnbroker uttered a soundsomething between a half-laugh anda grunt. He took the weapon fromthe window.

Antony Dart examined it critically.He must make quite sure ofit. He made no further remark.

He felt he had done with speech.

Being told the price asked for thepurchase, he drew out his purse andtook the money from it. Aftermaking the payment he noted thathe still possessed a five-pound noteand some sovereigns. There passedthrough his mind a wonder as towho would spend it. The mostdecent thing, perhaps, would be togive it away. If it was in his room

--to-morrow--the parish would notbury him, and it would be safer thatthe parish should.

He was thinking of this as heleft the shop and began to cross thestreet. Because his mind was wanderinghe was less watchful. Suddenlya rubber-tired hansom, movingwithout sound, appeared immediately




in his path--the horse's headloomed up above his own. He madethe inevitable involuntary whirl asideto move out of the way, the hansompassed, and turning again, he wenton. His movement had been too

swift to allow of his realizing thedirection in which his turn had beenmade. He was wholly unaware thatwhen he crossed the street he crossedbackward instead of forward. Heturned a corner literally feeling hisway, went on, turned another, andafter walking the length of the street,suddenly understood that he was ina strange place and had lost hisbearings.

This was exactly what had happened

to people on the day of thememorable fog of three years before.He had heard them talking of suchexperiences, and of the curious andbaffling sensations they gave rise toin the brain. Now he understoodthem. He could not be far fromhis lodgings, but he felt like a manwho was blind, and who had beenturned out of the path he knew.He had not the resource of the peoplewhose stories he had heard. Hewould not stop and address anyone.There could be no certainty as towhom he might find himself speakingto. He would speak to no one.He would wander about until hecame upon some clew. Even if hecame upon none, the fog wouldsurely lift a little and become a trifleless dense in course of time. Hedrew up the collar of his overcoat,pulled his hat down over his eyesand went on--his hand on the thinghe had thrust into a pocket.

He did not find his clew as hehad hoped, and instead of lifting thefog grew heavier. He found himselfat last no longer striving for anyend, but rambling along mechanically,feeling like a man in a dream--a nightmare. Once he recognizeda weird suggestion in the mysteryabout him. To-morrow might




one be wandering about aimlessly insome such haze. He hoped not.

His lodgings were not far fromthe Embankment, and he knew atlast that he was wandering along it,

and had reached one of the bridges.His mood led him to turn in uponit, and when he reached an embrasureto stop near it and lean upon theparapet looking down. He couldnot see the water, the fog was toodense, but he could hear some faintsplashing against stones. He hadtaken no food and was rather faint.What a strange thing it was to feelfaint for want of food--to standalone, cut off from every otherhuman being--everything done for.

No wonder that sometimes, particularlyon such days as these, therewere plunges made from the parapet--no wonder. He leaned fartherover and strained his eyes to seesome gleam of water through theyellowness. But it was not to bedone. He was thinking the inevitablething, of course; but such aplunge would not do for him. Theother thing would destroy all traces.

As he drew back he heardsomething fall with the solid tinklingsound of coin on the flag pavement.When he had been in the pawnbroker'sshop he had taken the goldfrom his purse and thrust it carelesslyinto his waistcoat pocket, thinkingthat it would be easy to reach whenhe chose to give it to one beggaror another, if he should see somewretch who would be the better forit. Some movement he had madein bending had caused a sovereign to

slip out and it had fallen upon thestones.

He did not intend to pick it up,but in the moment in which hestood looking down at it he heardclose to him a shuffling movement.What he had thought a bundle ofrags or rubbish covered with sacking--some tramp's deserted or forgotten




belongings--was stirring. It wasalive, and as he bent to look at it thesacking divided itself, and a smallhead, covered with a shock of brilliantred hair, thrust itself out, ashrewd, small face turning to look

up at him slyly with deep-set blackeyes.

It was a human girl creature abouttwelve years old.

"Are yer goin' to do it?" shesaid in a hoarse, street-strained voice."Yer would be a fool if yer did--with as much as that on yer."

She pointed with a reddened,chapped, and dirty hand at the

sovereign.

"Pick it up," he said. "You mayhave it."

Her wild shuffle forward was anactual leap. The hand made asnatching clutch at the coin. Shewas evidently afraid that he waseither not in earnest or wouldrepent. The next second she was onher feet and ready for flight.

"Stop," he said; "I've got moreto give away."

She hesitated--not believinghim, yet feeling it madness to lose achance.

"MORE!" she gasped. Then shedrew nearer to him, and a singularchange came upon her face. It wasa change which made her look oddlyhuman.

"Gawd, mister!" she said. "Yercan give away a quid like it wasnothin'--an' yer've got more--an'yer goin' to do THAT--jes cos yer 'ada bit too much lars night an' there'sa fog this mornin'! You take itstraight from me--don't yer do it.I give yer that tip for the suvrink."




She was, for her years, so ugly andso ancient, and hardened in voice andskin and manner that she fascinatedhim. Not that a man who has noTo-morrow in view is likely to beparticularly conscious of mental

processes. He was done for, but he stoodand stared at her. What part of thePower moving the scheme of theuniverse stood near and thrust himon in the path designed he did notknow then--perhaps never did. Hewas still holding on to the thing in hispocket, but he spoke to her again.

"What do you mean?" he askedglumly.

She sidled nearer, her sharp eyes

on his face.

"I bin watchin' yer," she said."I sat down and pulled the sackover me 'ead to breathe inside it an'get a bit warm. An' I see yer come.I knowed wot yer was after, I did.I watched yer through a 'ole in mesack. I wasn't goin' to call a copper.I shouldn't want ter be stoppedmeself if I made up me mind. Iseed a gal dragged out las' week an'it'd a broke yer 'art to see 'er tear 'er

clothes an' scream. Wot business'ad they preventin' 'er goin' offquiet? I wouldn't 'a' stopped yer--but w'en the quid fell, that madeit different."

"I--" he said, feeling the foolishnessof the statement, but makingit, nevertheless, "I am ill."

"Course yer ill. It's yer 'ead.Come along er me an' get a cup er

cawfee at a stand, an' buck up. Ifyer've give me that quid straight--wish-yer-may-die--I'll go with yeran' get a cup myself. I ain't 'ad a bitesince yesterday--an' 't wa'n't nothin'but a slice o' polony sossidge I foundon a dust-'eap. Come on, mister."

She pulled his coat with hercracked hand. He glanced down at




it mechanically, and saw that someof the fissures had bled and theroughened surface was smeared withthe blood. They stood together inthe small space in which the fogenclosed them--he and she--the

man with no To-morrow and thegirl thing who seemed as old ashimself, with her sharp, small noseand chin, her sharp eyes and voice--and yet--perhaps the fogsenclosing did it--something drewthem together in an uncanny way.Something made him forget the lostclew to the lodging-house--something made him turn and go withher--a thing led in the dark.

"How can you find your way?"

he said. "I lost mine."

"There ain't no fog can lose me,"she answered, shuffling along by hisside; " 'sides, it's goin' to lift.Look at that man comin' to'ards us."

It was true that they could seethrough the orange-colored mist theapproaching figure of a man whowas at a yard's distance from them.Yes, it was lifting slightly--at leastenough to allow of one's making aguess at the direction in which onemoved.

"Where are you going?" heasked.

"Apple Blossom Court," sheanswered. "The cawfee-stand's in astreet near it--and there's a shopwhere I can buy things."

"Apple Blossom Court!" he

ejaculated. "What a name!""There ain't no apple-blossomsthere," chuckling; "nor no smellof 'em. 'T ain't as nice as its nimeis--Apple Blossom Court ain't."

"What do you want to buy? Apair of shoes?" The shoes hernaked feet were thrust into were




leprous-looking things through whichnearly all her toes protruded. Butshe chuckled when he spoke.

"No, I 'm goin' to buy a di'mondtirarer to go to the opery in," she

said, dragging her old sack closerround her neck. "I ain't ad a nooun since I went to the last Drorin'-room."

It was impudent street chaff, butthere was cheerful spirit in it, andcheerful spirit has some occult effectupon morbidity. Antony Dartdid not smile, but he felt a faintstirring of curiosity, which was, afterall, not a bad thing for a man whohad not felt an interest for a year.

"What is it you are going tobuy?"

"I'm goin' to fill me stummickfust," with a grin of elation. "Threethick slices o' bread an' drippin' an'a mug o' cawfee. An' then I'mgoin' to get sumethin' 'earty to carryto Polly. She ain't no good, porething!"

"Who is she?"

Stopping a moment to drag up theheel of her dreadful shoe, sheanswered him with an unprejudiceddirectness which might have beenappalling if he had been in the moodto be appalled.

"Ain't eighteen, an' tryin' to earn'er livin' on the street. She ain'tmade for it. Little country thing,allus frightened to death an' ready

to bust out cryin'. Gents ain't goin'to stand that. A lot of 'em wantscheerin' up as much as she does.Gent as was in liquor last nightknocked 'er down an' give 'er ablack eye. 'T wan't ill feelin', buthe lost his temper, an' give 'er aknock casual. She can't go outto-night, an' she's been 'uddled upall day cryin' for 'er mother."




"Where is her mother?"

"In the country--on a farm.Polly took a place in a lodgin'-'ousean' got in trouble. The biby was

dead, an' when she come out o'Queen Charlotte's she was took in bya woman an' kep'. She kicked 'erout in a week 'cos of her cryin'.The life didn't suit 'er. I found 'ercryin' fit to split 'er chist one night--corner o' Apple Blossom Court--an' I took care of 'er."

"Where?"

"Me chambers," grinning; "toploft of a 'ouse in the court. If anyone

else 'd 'ave it I should be turnedout. It's an 'ole, I can tell yer--but it 's better than sleepin' underthe bridges."

"Take me to see it," said AntonyDart. "I want to see the girl."

The words spoke themselves. Whyshould he care to see either cockloftor girl? He did not. He wantedto go back to his lodgings with thatwhich he had come out to buy.Yet he said this thing. Hiscompanion looked up at him with anexpression actually relieved.

"Would yer tike up with 'er?"with eager sharpness, as if confrontinga simple business proposition."She's pretty an' clean, an' shewon't drink a drop o' nothin'. Ifshe was treated kind she'd becheerfler. She's got a round fice an'light 'air an' eyes. 'Er 'air 's curly.

P'raps yer'd like 'er.""Take me to see her."

"She'd look better to-morrow,"cautiously, "when the swellin 's gonedown round 'er eye."

Dart started--and it was becausehe had for the last five minutes forgotten




something.

"I shall not be here to-morrow,"he said. His grasp upon the thingin his pocket had loosened, and hetightened it.

"I have some more money in mypurse," he said deliberately. "Imeant to give it away before going.I want to give it to people who needit very much."

She gave him one of the sly,squinting glances.

"Deservin' cases?" She put it tohim in brazen mockery.

"I don't care," he answered slowlyand heavily. "I don't care a damn."

Her face changed exactly as hehad seen it change on the bridgewhen she had drawn nearer to him.Its ugly hardness suddenly lookedhuman. And that she could lookhuman was fantastic.

" 'Ow much 'ave yer?" she asked." 'Ow much is it?"

"About ten pounds."

She stopped and stared at himwith open mouth.

"Gawd!" she broke out; "tenpounds 'd send Apple Blossom Courtto 'eving. Leastways, it'd take someof it out o' 'ell."

"Take me to it," he said roughly."Take me."

She began to walk quickly, breathingfast. The fog was lighter, andit was no longer a blinding thing.

A question occurred to Dart.

"Why don't you ask me to givethe money to you?" he said bluntly.




"Dunno," she answered as bluntly.But after taking a few steps farthershe spoke again.

"I 'm cheerfler than most of 'em,"she elaborated. "If yer born cheerfle

yer can stand things. When Igets a job nussin' women's bibiesthey don't cry when I 'andles 'em.I gets many a bite an' a copper 'coso' that. Folks likes yer. I shallget on better than Polly when I'mold enough to go on the street."

The organ of whose lagging, sickpumpings Antony Dart had scarcelybeen aware for months gave a suddenleap in his breast. His bloodactually hastened its pace, and ran

through his veins instead of crawling--a distinct physical effect of anactual mental condition. It wasproduced upon him by the merematter-of-fact ordinariness of hertone. He had never been a senti-mental man, and had long ceased tobe a feeling one, but at that momentsomething emotional and normalhappened to him.

"You expect to live in that way?"he said.

"Ain't nothin' else fer me to do.Wisht I was better lookin'. ButI've got a lot of 'air," clawing hermop, "an' it's red. One day,"chuckling, "a gent ses to me--heses: `Oh! yer'll do. Yer an uglylittle devil--but ye ARE a devil.' "

She was leading him through anarrow, filthy back street, and shestopped, grinning up in his face.

"I say, mister," she wheedled,"let's stop at the cawfee-stand.It's up this way."

When he acceded and followedher, she quickly turned a corner.They were in another lane thickwith fog, which flared with theflame of torches stuck in costers'




barrows which stood here and there--barrows with fried fish upon them,barrows with second-hand-lookingvegetables and others piled withmore than second-hand-looking garments.Trade was not driving, but

near one or two of them dirty, ill-used looking women, a man or so,and a few children stood. At acorner which led into a black holeof a court, a coffee-stand was stationed,in charge of a burly ruffian incorduroys.

"Come along," said the girl."There it is. It ain't strong, butit 's 'ot."

She sidled up to the stand, drawing

Dart with her, as if glad of hisprotection.

" 'Ello, Barney," she said. " 'Ere 'sa gent warnts a mug o' yer best.I've 'ad a bit o' luck, an' I wantsone mesself."

"Garn," growled Barney. "Youan' yer luck! Gent may want amug, but y'd show yer money fust."

"Strewth! I've got it. Y' aint gotthe chinge fer wot I 'ave in me 'and'ere. 'As 'e, mister?"

"Show it," taunted the man, andthen turning to Dart. "Yer wantsa mug o' cawfee?"

"Yes."

The girl held out her handcautiously--the piece of gold lyingupon its palm.

"Look 'ere," she said.

There were two or three menslouching about the stand. Suddenlya hand darted from betweentwo of them who stood nearest, thesovereign was snatched, a screamedoath from the girl rent the thickair, and a forlorn enough scarecrow




of a young fellow sprang away.

The blood leaped in Antony Dart'sveins again and he sprang after himin a wholly normal passion ofindignation. A thousand years ago--as

it seemed to him--he had been agood runner. This man was not one,and want of food had weakened him.Dart went after him with strideswhich astonished himself. Up thestreet, into an alley and out of it, adozen yards more and into a court,and the man wheeled with a hoarse,baffled curse. The place had nooutlet.

"Hell!" was all the creature said.

Dart took him by his greasy collar.Even the brief rush had left him feelinglike a living thing--which wasa new sensation.

"Give it up," he ordered.

The thief looked at him with ahalf-laugh and obeyed, as if he feltthe uselessness of a struggle. Hewas not more than twenty-five yearsold, and his eyes were cavernous withwant. He had the face of a man

who might have belonged to a betterclass. When he had uttered theexclamation invoking the infernalregions he had not dropped theaspirate.

"I 'm as hungry as she is," heraved.

"Hungry enough to rob a childbeggar?" said Dart.

"Hungry enough to rob a starvingold woman--or a baby," witha defiant snort. "Wolf hungry--tiger hungry--hungry enough tocut throats."

He whirled himself loose andleaned his body against the wall,turning his face toward it. Suddenlyhe made a choking sound




and began to sob.

"Hell!" he choked. "I 'll giveit up! I 'll give it up!"

What a figure--what a figure, as

he swung against the blackened wall,his scarecrow clothes hanging on him,their once decent material makingtheir pinning together of buttonlessplaces, their looseness and rents showingdirty linen, more abject than anyother squalor could have made them.Antony Dart's blood, still runningwarm and well, was doing its normalwork among the brain-cells whichhad stirred so evilly through the night.When he had seized the fellow bythe collar, his hand had left his

pocket. He thrust it into anotherpocket and drew out some silver.

"Go and get yourself some food,"he said. "As much as you can eat.Then go and wait for me at the placethey call Apple Blossom Court. Idon't know where it is, but I amgoing there. I want to hear howyou came to this. Will you come?"

The thief lurched away from thewall and toward him. He stared upinto his eyes through the fog. Thetears had smeared his cheekbones.

"God!" he said. "Will I come?Look and see if I'll come." Dartlooked.

"Yes, you 'll come," he answered,and he gave him the money. "I 'mgoing back to the coffee-stand."

The thief stood staring after him

as he went out of the court. Dartwas speaking to himself.

"I don't know why I did it," hesaid. "But the thing had to bedone."

In the street he turned into hecame upon the robbed girl, running,panting, and crying. She uttered a




shout and flung herself upon him,clutching his coat.

"Gawd!" she sobbed hysterically,"I thort I'd lost yer! I thort I'dlost all of it, I did! Strewth! I 'm

glad I've found yer--" and shestopped, choking with her sobs andsniffs, rubbing her face in her sack.

"Here is your sovereign," Dartsaid, handing it to her.

She dropped the corner of thesack and looked up with a queerlaugh.

"Did yer find a copper? Did yergive him in charge?"

"No," answered Dart. "He wasworse off than you. He was starving.I took this from him; but I gavehim some money and told him tomeet us at Apple Blossom Court."

She stopped short and drew backa pace to stare up at him.

"Well," she gave forth, "y' ARE aqueer one!"

And yet in the amazement on herface he perceived a remote dawningof an understanding of the meaningof the thing he had done.

He had spoken like a man in adream. He felt like a man in adream, being led in the thick mistfrom place to place. He was ledback to the coffee-stand, where nowBarney, the proprietor, was pouringout coffee for a hoarse-voiced coster

girl with a draggled feather inher hat, who greeted their arrivalhilariously.

"Hello, Glad!" she cried out."Got yer suvrink back?"

Glad--it seemed to be the creature'swild name--nodded, but heldclose to her companion's side, clutching




his coat.

"Let's go in there an' change it,"she said, nodding toward a small porkand ham shop near by. "An' thenyer can take care of it for me."

"What did she call you?" AntonyDart asked her as they went.

"Glad. Don't know as I ever 'ada nime o' me own, but a little coveas went once to the pantermine toldme about a young lady as was FairyQueen an' 'er name was Gladys BeverlySt. John, so I called mesself that.No one never said it all at onct--they don't never say nothin' butGlad. I'm glad enough this mornin',"

chuckling again, " 'avin' theluck to come up with you, mister.Never had luck like it 'afore."

They went into the pork and hamshop and changed the sovereign.There was cooked food in the windows--roast pork and boiled hamand corned beef. She bought slicesof pork and beef, and of suet-puddingwith a few currants sprinkledthrough it.

"Will yer 'elp me to carry it?"she inquired. "I 'll 'ave to get afew pen'worth o' coal an' wood an'a screw o' tea an' sugar. My wig,wot a feed me an' Polly 'll 'ave!"

As they returned to the coffee-stand she broke more than once intoa hop of glee. Barney had changedhis mind concerning her. A solidsovereign which must be changedand a companion whose shabby gentility

was absolute grandeur whencompared with his present surroundingsmade a difference.

She received her mug of coffee andthick slice of bread and dripping witha grin, and swallowed the hot sweetliquid down in ecstatic gulps.

"Ain't I in luck?" she said, handing




her mug back when it was empty."Gi' me another, Barney."

Antony Dart drank coffee also andate bread and dripping. The coffeewas hot and the bread and dripping,

dashed with salt, quite eatable. Hehad needed food and felt the betterfor it.

"Come on, mister," said Glad,when their meal was ended. "I wantto get back to Polly, an' there 's coaland bread and things to buy."

She hurried him along, breakingher pace with hops at intervals. Shedarted into dirty shops and broughtout things screwed up in paper. She

went last into a cellar and returnedcarrying a small sack of coal over hershoulders.

"Bought sack an' all," she saidelatedly. "A sack 's a good thingto 'ave."

"Let me carry it for you," saidAntony Dart

"Spile yer coat," with her sidelongupward glance.

"I don't care," he answered. "Idon't care a damn."

The final expletive was totallyunnecessary, but it meant a thing hedid not say. Whatsoever was thrustinghim this way and that, speakingthrough his speech, leading him todo things he had not dreamed ofdoing, should have its will with him.He had been fastened to the skirts of

this beggar imp and he would go onto the end and do what was to be donethis day. It was part of the dream.

The sack of coal was over hisshoulder when they turned intoApple Blossom Court. It wouldhave been a black hole on a sunnyday, and now it was like Hades, litgrimly by a gas-jet or two, small




and flickering, with the orange hazeabout them. Filthy, flagging, murkydoorways, broken steps and brokenwindows stuffed with rags, and thesmell of the sewers let loose hadApple Blossom Court.

Glad, with the wealth of the porkand ham shop and other riches inher arms, entered a repellent doorwayin a spirit of great good cheerand Dart followed her. Past a roomwhere a drunken woman lay sleepingwith her head on a table, a childpulling at her dress and crying, up astairway with broken balusters andbreaking steps, through a landing,upstairs again, and up still fartheruntil they reached the top. Glad

stopped before a door and shookthe handle, crying out:

" 'S only me, Polly. You canopen it." She added to Dart in anundertone: "She 'as to keep it locked.No knowin' who'd want to get in.Polly," shaking the door-handle again,"Polly 's only me."

The door opened slowly. On theother side of it stood a girl with adimpled round face which was quitepale; under one of her childishlyvacant blue eyes was a discoloration,and her curly fair hair was tucked upon the top of her head in a knot.As she took in the fact of AntonyDart's presence her chin began toquiver.

"I ain't fit to--to see no one,"she stammered pitifully. "Why didyou, Glad--why did you?"

"Ain't no 'arm in 'IM," said Glad." 'E's one o' the friendly ones. 'Egive me a suvrink. Look wot I'vegot," hopping about as she showedher parcels.

"You need not be afraid of me,"Antony Dart said. He paused asecond, staring at her, and suddenlyadded, "Poor little wretch!"




Her look was so scared and uncertaina thing that he walked awayfrom her and threw the sack of coalon the hearth. A small grate withbroken bars hung loosely in the fireplace,

a battered tin kettle tilteddrunkenly near it. A mattress, fromthe holes in whose ticking strawbulged, lay on the floor in a corner,with some old sacks thrown over it.Glad had, without doubt, borrowedher shoulder covering from thecollection. The garret was as cold asthe grave, and almost as dark; thefog hung in it thickly. There werecrevices enough through which itcould penetrate.

Antony Dart knelt down on thehearth and drew matches from hispocket.

"We ought to have brought somepaper," he said.

Glad ran forward.

"Wot a gent ye are!" she cried."Y' ain't never goin' to light it?"

"Yes."

She ran back to the rickety tableand collected the scraps of paperwhich had held her purchases.They were small, but useful.

"That wot was round the sausagean' the puddin's greasy," sheexulted.

Polly hung over the table andtrembled at the sight of meat and

bread. Plainly, she did notunderstand what was happening. Thegreased paper set light to the wood,and the wood to the coal. All threeflared and blazed with a sound ofcheerful crackling. The blaze threwout its glow as finely as if it had beenset alight to warm a better place.The wonder of a fire is like thewonder of a soul. This one changed




the murk and gloom to brightness,and the deadly damp and cold towarmth. It drew the girl Pollyfrom the table despite her fears.She turned involuntarily, made twosteps toward it, and stood gazing

while its light played on her face.Glad whirled and ran to the hearth.

"Ye've put on a lot," she cried;"but, oh, my Gawd, don't it warmyer! Come on, Polly--come on."

She dragged out a wooden stool,an empty soap-box, and bundled thesacks into a heap to be sat upon. Sheswept the things from the table andset them in their paper wrappings onthe floor.

"Let's all sit down close to it--close," she said, "an' get warm an'eat, an' eat."

She was the leaven which leavenedthe lump of their humanity. Whatthis leaven is--who has found out?But she--little rat of the gutter--was formed of it, and her mere pureanimal joy in the temporary animalcomfort of the moment stirred anduplifted them from their depths.

III

They drew near and sat uponthe substitutes for seats in acircle--and the fire threw up flameand made a glow in the fog hangingin the black hole of a room.

It was Glad who set the battered

kettle on and when it boiled madetea. The other two watched her,being under her spell. She handedout slices of bread and sausage andpudding on bits of paper. Polly fedwith tremulous haste; Glad herselfwith rejoicing and exulting in flavors.Antony Dart ate bread and meat ashe had eaten the bread and drippingat the stall--accepting his normal




hunger as part of the dream.

Suddenly Glad paused in the midstof a huge bite.

"Mister," she said, "p'raps that

cove's waitin' fer yer. Let's 'ave'im in. I'll go and fetch 'im."

She was getting up, but Dart wason his feet first.

"I must go," he said. "He isexpecting me and--"

"Aw," said Glad, "lemme goalong o' yer, mister--jest to showthere's no ill feelin'."

"Very well," he answered.

It was she who led, and he whofollowed. At the door she stoppedand looked round with a grin.

"Keep up the fire, Polly," shethrew back. "Ain't it warm andcheerful? It'll do the cove good tosee it."

She led the way down the black,unsafe stairway. She always led.

Outside the fog had thickenedagain, but she went through it as ifshe could see her way.

At the entrance to the court thethief was standing, leaning againstthe wall with fevered, unhopefulwaiting in his eyes. He movedmiserably when he saw the girl, andshe called out to reassure him.

"I ain't up to no 'arm," shesaid; "I on'y come with the gent."

Antony Dart spoke to him.

"Did you get food?"

The man shook his head.

"I turned faint after you left me,




and when I came to I was afraid Imight miss you," he answered. "Idaren't lose my chance. I boughtsome bread and stuffed it in mypocket. I've been eating it whileI've stood here."

"Come back with us," said Dart."We are in a place where we havesome food."

He spoke mechanically, and wasaware that he did so. He was apawn pushed about upon the boardof this day's life.

"Come on," said the girl. "Yercan get enough to last fer threedays."

She guided them back through thefog until they entered the murkydoorway again. Then she almostran up the staircase to the room theyhad left.

When the door opened the thieffell back a pace as before an unex-pected thing. It was the flare offirelight which struck upon his eyes.He passed his hand over them.

"A fire!" he said. "I haven'tseen one for a week. Coming outof the blackness it gives a man astart."

Improvident joy gleamed in Glad'seyes.

"We 'll be warm onct," shechuckled, "if we ain't never warmagaen."

She drew her circle about thehearth again. The thief took theplace next to her and she handed outfood to him--a big slice of meat,bread, a thick slice of pudding.

"Fill yerself up," she said. "Thenye'll feel like yer can talk."

The man tried to eat his food with




decorum, some recollection of thehabits of better days restraining him,but starved nature was too much forhim. His hands shook, his eyesfilled, his teeth tore. The rest ofthe circle tried not to look at him.

Glad and Polly occupied themselveswith their own food.

Antony Dart gazed at the fire.Here he sat warming himself in aloft with a beggar, a thief, and ahelpless thing of the street. He hadcome out to buy a pistol--its weightstill hung in his overcoat pocket--and he had reached this place ofwhose existence he had an hour agonot dreamed. Each step which hadled him had seemed a simple, inevitable

thing, for which he had apparentlybeen responsible, but which heknew--yes, somehow he KNEW--hehad of his own volition neitherplanned nor meant. Yet here he sat--a part of the lives of the beggar,the thief, and the poor thing ofthe street. What did it mean?

"Tell me," he said to the thief,"how you came here."

By this time the young fellow hadfed himself and looked less like awolf. It was to be seen now thathe had blue-gray eyes which weredreamy and young.

"I have always been inventingthings," he said a little huskily. "Idid it when I was a child. I alwaysseemed to see there might be a wayof doing a thing better--gettingmore power. When other boyswere playing games I was sitting in

corners trying to build models outof wire and string, and old boxesand tin cans. I often thought I sawthe way to things, but I was alwaystoo poor to get what was needed towork them out. Twice I heard ofmen making great names and fortunes because they had been able tofinish what I could have finished if Ihad had a few pounds. It used to




drive me mad and break my heart."His hands clenched themselves andhis huskiness grew thicker. "Therewas a man," catching his breath,"who leaped to the top of the ladderand set the whole world talking and

writing--and I had done the thingFIRST--I swear I had! It was allclear in my brain, and I was halfmad with joy over it, but I couldnot afford to work it out. Hecould, so to the end of time it willbe HIS." He struck his fist upon hisknee.

"Aw!" The deep little drawlwas a groan from Glad.

"I got a place in an office at last.

I worked hard, and they began totrust me. I--had a new idea. Itwas a big one. I needed money towork it out. I--I rememberedwhat had happened before. I feltlike a poor fellow running a race forhis life. I KNEW I could pay backten times--a hundred times--whatI took."

"You took money?" said Dart.

The thief's head dropped.

"No. I was caught when I wastaking it. I wasn't sharp enough.Someone came in and saw me, andthere was a crazy row. I was sentto prison. There was no more tryingafter that. It's nearly two yearssince, and I've been hanging aboutthe streets and falling lower andlower. I've run miles panting aftercabs with luggage in them and nothad strength to carry in the boxes

when they stopped. I've starvedand slept out of doors. But thething I wanted to work out is inmy mind all the time--like somemachine tearing round. It wantsto be finished. It never will be.That's all."

Glad was leaning forward staringat him, her roughened hands with




the smeared cracks on them claspedround her knees.

"Things 'AS to be finished," shesaid. "They finish theirselves."

"How do you know?" Dartturned on her.

"Dunno 'OW I know--but I do.When things begin they finish. It'slike a wheel rollin' down an 'ill."Her sharp eyes fixed themselves onDart's. "All of us 'll finish somethin'--'cos we've begun. You will--Polly will--'e will--I will."She stopped with a sudden sheepishchuckle and dropped her foreheadon her knees, giggling. "Dunno wot

I 'm talking about," she said, "butit's true."

Dart began to understand that itwas. And he also saw that thisragged thing who knew nothingwhatever, looked out on the worldwith the eyes of a seer, though shewas ignorant of the meaning of herown knowledge. It was a weirdthing. He turned to the girl Polly.

"Tell me how you came here,"he said.

He spoke in a low voice andgently. He did not want to frightenher, but he wanted to know how SHEhad begun. When she lifted herchildish eyes to his, her chin beganto shake. For some reason she didnot question his right to ask what hewould. She answered him meekly,as her fingers fumbled with the stuffof her dress.

"I lived in the country with mymother," she said. "We was veryhappy together. In the spring therewas primroses and--and lambs. I--can't abide to look at the sheepin the park these days. They remindme so. There was a girl inthe village got a place in town andcame back and told us all about it.




It made me silly. I wanted tocome here, too. I--I came--"She put her arm over her face andbegan to sob.

"She can't tell you," said Glad.

"There was a swell in the 'ousemade love to her. She used to carryup coals to 'is parlor an' 'e talked to'er. 'E 'ad a wye with 'im--"

Polly broke into a smothered wail.

"Oh, I did love him so--I did!"she cried. "I'd have let him walkover me. I'd have let him killme."

" 'E nearly did it," said Glad.

" 'E went away sudden an' she 'snever 'eard word of 'im since."

From under Polly's face-hidingarm came broken words.

"I couldn't tell my mother. Idid not know how. I was too frightenedand ashamed. Now it's toolate. I shall never see my motheragain, and it seems as if all the lambsand primroses in the world was dead.Oh, they're dead--they're dead--and I wish I was, too!"

Glad's eyes winked rapidly and shegave a hoarse little cough to clearher throat. Her arms still claspingher knees, she hitched herself closerto the girl and gave her a nudgewith her elbow.

"Buck up, Polly," she said, "weain't none of us finished yet. Look

at us now--sittin' by our own firewith bread and puddin' inside us--an' think wot we was this mornin'.Who knows wot we 'll 'ave this timeto-morrer."

Then she stopped and looked witha wide grin at Antony Dart.

"Ow did I come 'ere?" she said.




"Yes," he answered, "how didyou come here?"

"I dunno," she said; "I was 'erefirst thing I remember. I lived with

a old woman in another 'ouse in thecourt. One mornin' when I wokeup she was dead. Sometimes I'vebegged an' sold matches. SometimesI've took care of women's childrenor 'elped 'em when they 'ad to lie up.I've seen a lot--but I like to see alot. 'Ope I'll see a lot more aforeI'm done. I'm used to bein' 'ungryan' cold, an' all that, but--but Iallers like to see what's comin' to-morrer. There's allers somethin'else to-morrer. That's all about

ME," and she chuckled again.

Dart picked up some fresh sticksand threw them on the fire. Therewas some fine crackling and a newflame leaped up.

"If you could do what you liked,"he said, "what would you like todo?"

Her chuckle became an outrightlaugh.

"If I 'ad ten pounds?" she asked,evidently prepared to adjust herselfin imagination to any form of un-looked-for good luck.

"If you had more?"

His tone made the thief lift hishead to look at him.

"If I 'ad a wand like the one Jem

told me was in the pantermine?""Yes," he answered.

She sat and stared at the fire a fewmoments, and then began to speak ina low luxuriating voice.

"I'd get a better room," she said,revelling. "There 's one in the




next 'ouse. I'd 'ave a few sticks o'furnisher in it--a bed an' a chairor two. I'd get some warm petticutsan' a shawl an' a 'at--witha ostrich feather in it. Polly an'me 'd live together. We'd 'ave

fire an' grub every day. I'd getdrunken Bet's biby put in an 'ome.I'd 'elp the women when they 'ad tolie up. I'd--I'd 'elp 'IM a bit,"with a jerk of her elbow toward thethief. "If 'e was kept fed p'r'aps 'ecould work out that thing in 'is 'ead.I'd go round the court an' 'elp themwith 'usbands that knocks 'em about.I'd--I'd put a stop to the knockin'about," a queer fixed look showingitself in her eyes. "If I 'ad moneyI could do it. 'Ow much," with

sudden prudence, "could a body 'ave--with one o' them wands?"

"More than enough to do all youhave spoken of," answered Dart.

"It 's a shime a body couldn't 'aveit. Apple Blossom Court 'd be adifferent thing. It'd be the sime asMiss Montaubyn says it's goin' tobe." She laughed again, this time asif remembering something fantastic,but not despicable.

"Who is Miss Montaubyn?"

"She 's a' old woman as lives nextfloor below. When she was youngshe was pretty an' used to dance inthe 'alls. Drunken Bet says she wasone o' the wust. When she got oldit made 'er mad an' she got wusser.She was ready to tear gals eyes out,an' when she'd get took for makin'a row she'd fight like a tiger cat.

About a year ago she tumbled downstairswhen she'd 'ad too much an'she broke both 'er legs. Youremember, Polly?"

Polly hid her face in her hands.

"Oh, when they took her away tothe hospital!" she shuddered. "Oh,when they lifted her up to carry




her!"

"I thought Polly 'd 'ave a fit whenshe 'eard 'er screamin' an' swearin'.My! it was langwich! But it wasthe 'orspitle did it."

"Did what?"

"Dunno," with an uncertain, evenslightly awed laugh. "Dunno wotit did--neither does nobody else,but somethin' 'appened. It wasalong of a lidy as come in one dayan' talked to 'er when she was lyin'there. My eye," chuckling, "it wasqueer talk! But I liked it. P'rapsit was lies, but it was cheerfle liesthat 'elps yer. What I ses is--if

THINGS ain't cheerfle, PEOPLE 'S got to be--to fight it out. The women inthe 'ouse larft fit to kill theirselveswhen she fust come 'ome limpin' an'talked to 'em about what the lidytold 'er. But arter a bit they likedto 'ear 'er--just along o' thecheerfleness. Said it was like apantermine. Drunken Bet says if shecould get 'old 'f it an' believe it simeas Jinny Montaubyn does it'd be ascheerin' as drink an' last longer."

"Is it a kind of religion?" Dartasked, having a vague memory ofrumors of fantastic new theories andhalf-born beliefs which had seemedto him weird visions floating throughfagged brains wearied by old doubtsand arguments and failures. Theworld was tired--the whole earthwas sad--centuries had wroughtonly to the end of this twentiethcentury's despair. Was the strugglewaking even here--in this back

water of the huge city's human tide?he wondered with dull interest.

"Is it a kind of religion?" he said.

"It 's cheerfler." Glad thrust outher sharp chin uncertainly again."There 's no 'ell fire in it. An'there ain't no blime laid onGodamighty." (The word as she uttered




it seemed to have no connectionwhatever with her usual colloquialinvocation of the Deity.) "Whena dray run over little Billy an' crushed'im inter a rag, an' 'is mother wasscreamin' an' draggin' 'er 'air down,

the curick 'e ses, `It 's Gawd's will,''e ses--an' 'e ain't no bad sortneither, an' 'is fice was white an' wetwith sweat--`Gawd done it,' 'e ses.An' me, I'd nussed the child an' Iclawed me 'air sime as if I was 'ismother an' I screamed out, `Thendamn 'im!' An' the curick 'edropped sittin' down on the curb-stone an' 'id 'is fice in 'is 'ands."

Dart hid his own face after themanner of the wretched curate.

"No wonder," he groaned. Hisblood turned cold.

"But," said Glad, "MissMontaubyn's lidy she says Godamightynever done it nor never intended it,an' if we kep' sayin' an' believin' 'e 'sclose to us an' not millyuns o' milesaway, we'd be took care of whilstwe was alive an' not 'ave to wait tillwe was dead."

She got up on her feet and threwup her arms with a sudden jerk andinvoluntary gesture.

"I 'm alive! I 'm alive!" shecried out, "I've got ter be took careof NOW! That 's why I like wot shetells about it. So does the women.We ain't no more reason ter be sureof wot the curick says than ter besure o' this. Dunno as I've got terchoose either way, but if I 'ad, I'd

choose the cheerflest."Dart had sat staring at her--sohad Polly--so had the thief. Dartrubbed his forehead.

"I do not understand," he said.

" 'T ain't understanding! It 'sbelievin'. Bless yer, SHE doesn't




understand. I say, let's go an' talk to 'era bit. She don't mind nothin', an'she'll let us in. We can leave Pollyan' 'im 'ere. They can make somemore tea an' drink it."

It ended in their going out of theroom together again and stumblingonce more down the stairway'scrookedness. At the bottom of thefirst short flight they stopped in thedarkness and Glad knocked at a doorwith a summons manifestly expectantof cheerful welcome. She used theformula she had used before.

" 'S on'y me, Miss Montaubyn,"she cried out. " 'S on'y Glad."

The door opened in wide welcome,and confronting them as sheheld its handle stood a small oldwoman with an astonishing face. Itwas astonishing because while it waswithered and wrinkled with marks ofpast years which had once stampedtheir reckless unsavoriness upon itsevery line, some strange redeemingthing had happened to it and itsexpression was that of a creature towhom the opening of a door couldonly mean the entrance--the tumblingin as it were--of hopes realized.Its surface was swept clean ofeven the vaguest anticipation ofanything not to be desired. Smiling asit did through the black doorwayinto the unrelieved shadow of thepassage, it struck Antony Dart atonce that it actually implied this--and that in this place--and indeedin any place--nothing could havebeen more astonishing. Whatcould, indeed?

"Well, well," she said, "come in,Glad, bless yer."

"I've brought a gent to 'earyer talk a bit," Glad explainedinformally.

The small old woman raised hertwinkling old face to look at him.




"Ah!" she said, as if summing upwhat was before her. " 'E thinksit 's worse than it is, doesn't 'e, now?Come in, sir, do."

This time it struck Dart that herlook seemed actually to anticipate theevolving of some wonderful and desirablething from himself. As if evenhis gloom carried with it treasure asyet undisplayed. As she knew nothingof the ten sovereigns, he wonderedwhat, in God's name, she saw.

The poverty of the little squareroom had an odd cheer in it. Muchscrubbing had removed from it theobjections manifest in Glad's room

above. There was a small red firein the grate, a strip of old, but gaycarpet before it, two chairs and atable were covered with a harlequinpatchwork made of bright odds andends of all sizes and shapes. Thefog in all its murky volume couldnot quite obscure the brightness ofthe often rubbed window and itsharlequin curtain drawn across upona string.

"Bless yer," said Miss Montaubyn,"sit down."

Dart sat and thanked her. Gladdropped upon the floor and girdledher knees comfortably while MissMontaubyn took the second chair,which was close to the table, andsnuffed the candle which stood neara basket of colored scraps such as,without doubt, had made the harlequincurtain.

"Yer won't mind me goin' onwith me bit o' work?" she chirped.

"Tell 'im wot it is," Glad suggested.

"They come from a dressmaker as isin a small way," designating the scrapsby a gesture. "I clean up for 'er an'she lets me 'ave 'em. I make 'em upinto anythink I can--pin-cushions an'




bags an' curtings an' balls. Nobody'dthink wot they run to sometimes.Now an' then I sell some of 'em.Wot I can't sell I give away."

"Drunken Bet's biby plays with

'er ball all day," said Glad.

"Ah!" said Miss Montaubyn,drawing out a long needleful ofthread, "Bet, SHE thinks it worsethan it is."

"Could it be worse?" asked Dart."Could anything be worse thaneverything is?"

"Lots," suggested Glad; "might'ave broke your back, might 'ave a

fever, might be in jail for knifin'someone. 'E wants to 'ear youtalk, Miss Montaubyn; tell 'im allabout yerself."

"Me!" her expectant eyes on him." 'E wouldn't want to 'ear it. Ishouldn't want to 'ear it myself.Bein' on the 'alls when yer a prettygirl ain't an 'elpful life; an' bein'took up an' dropped down till yerdropped in the gutter an' don't know'ow to get out--it 's wot yer mustn'tlet yer mind go back to."

"That 's wot the lidy said," calledout Glad. "Tell 'im about the lidy.She doesn't even know who she was."The remark was tossed to Dart.

"Never even 'eard 'er name," withunabated cheer said Miss Montaubyn."She come an' she went an' me toolow to do anything but lie an' lookat 'er and listen. An' `Which of us

two is mad?' I ses to myself. But Ilay thinkin' and thinkin'--an' it wasso cheerfle I couldn't get it out ofme 'ead--nor never 'ave since."

"What did she say?"

"I couldn't remember the words--it was the way they took awaythings a body 's afraid of. It was




about things never 'avin' really beenlike wot we thought they was.Godamighty now, there ain't a bit of'arm in 'im."

"What?" he said with a start.

" 'E never done the accidents andthe trouble. It was us as went outof the light into the dark. If we'dkep' in the light all the time, an'thought about it, an' talked about it,we'd never 'ad nothin' else. 'Tain'tpunishment neither. 'T ain't nothin'but the dark--an' the dark ain'tnothin' but the light bein' away.`Keep in the light,' she ses, `neverthink of nothin' else, an' then you'llbegin an' see things. Everybody's

been afraid. There ain't no need.You believe THAT.' "

"Believe?" said Dart heavily.

She nodded.

" `Yes,' ses I to 'er, `that 's wherethe trouble comes in--believin'.'And she answers as cool as couldbe: `Yes, it is,' she ses, `we've allbeen thinkin' we've been believin',an' none of us 'as. If we 'ad what 'd

there be to be afraid of? If webelieved a king was givin' us ourlivin' an' takin' care of us who'dbe afraid of not 'avin' enough toeat?' "

"Who?" groaned Dart. He sathanging his head and staring at thefloor. This was another phase ofthe dream.

" `Where is 'E?' I ses. ` 'Im as

breaks old women's legs an' crushesbabies under wheels--so as they 'llbe resigned?' An' all of a suddenshe calls out quite loud: `Nowhere,'she ses. `An' never was. But 'Imas stretched forth the 'eavens an' laidthe foundations of the earth, 'Im asis the Life an' Love of the world,'E's 'ERE! Stretch out yer 'and,' sheses, 'an' call out, "Speak, Lord, thy




servant 'eareth," an' ye'll 'ear an' SEE.

An' never you stop sayin' it--let yer'eart beat it an' yer breath breathe it--an' yer 'll find yer goin' aboutlaughin' soft to yerself an' lovin'

everythin' as if it was yer own child atbreast. An' no 'arm can come toyer. Try it when yer go 'ome.' "

"Did you?" asked Dart.

Glad answered for her with atremulous--yes it was a TREMULOUS--giggle, a weirdly moved little sound.

"When she wakes in the mornin'she ses to 'erself, `Good thingsis goin' to come to-day--cheerfle

things.' When there's a knock atthe door she ses, `Somethin' friendly 'scomin' in.' An' when Drunken Bet'smakin' a row an' ragin' an' tearin'an' threatenin' to 'ave 'er eyes out of'er fice, she ses, `Lor, Bet, yer don'tmean a word of it--yer a friend toevery woman in the 'ouse.' Whenshe don't know which way to turn,she stands still an' ses, `Speak, Lord,thy servant 'eareth,' an' then she doeswotever next comes into 'er mind--an' she says it's allus the right answer.

Sometimes," sheepishly, "I've triedit myself--p'raps it's true. I did itthis mornin' when I sat down an'pulled me sack over me 'ead on thebridge. Polly 'd been cryin' so loudall night I'd got a bit low in mestummick an'--" She stopped suddenlyand turned on Dart as if lighthad flashed across her mind. "Dunnonothin' about it," she stammered,"but I SAID it--just like she does--an' YOU come!"

Plainly she had uttered whateverwords she had used in the form of asort of incantation, and here was theresult in the living body of this mansitting before her. She stared hardat him, repeating her words: "YOUcome. Yes, you did."

"It was the answer," said Miss




Montaubyn, with entire simplicity asshe bit off her thread, "that 's wot itwas."

Antony Dart lifted his heavyhead.

"You believe it," he said.

"I 'm livin' on believin' it," shesaid confidingly. "I ain't gotnothin' else. An' answers keepscomin' and comin'."

"What answers?"

"Bits o' work--an' things as'elps. Glad there, she's one."

"Aw," said Glad, "I ain't nothin'.I likes to 'ear yer tell about it. Sheses," to Dart again, a little slowly, asshe watched his face with curiouslyquestioning eyes--"she ses 'E'S inthe room--same as 'E's everywhere--in this 'ere room. Sometimes shetalks out loud to 'Im."

"What!" cried Dart, startledagain.

The strange Majestic Awful Idea--the Deity of the Ages--to bespoken of as a mere unfeared Reality!And even as the vaguely formedthought sprang in his brain he startedonce more, suddenly confronted bythe meaning his sense of shockimplied. What had all the sermons ofall the centuries been preaching butthat it was Reality? What had allthe infidels of every age contendedbut that it was Unreal, and the follyof a dream? He had never thought

of himself as an infidel; perhaps itwould have shocked him to be calledone, though he was not quite sure.But that a little superannuated dancerat music-halls, battered and worn byan unlawful life, should sit and smilein absolute faith at such a--a superstitionas this, stirred something likeawe in him.




For she was smiling in entireacquiescence.

"It 's what the curick ses," sheenlarged radiantly. "Though 'e don tbelieve it, pore young man; 'e on'y

thinks 'e does. `It's for 'igh an'low,' 'e ses, `for you an' me as wellas for them as is royal fambleys.The Almighty 'E 's EVERYWHERE!'`Yes,' ses I, `I've felt 'Im 'ere--asnear as y' are yerself, sir, I 'ave--an'I've spoke to 'Im."'

"What did the curate say?" Dartasked, amazed.

"Seemed like it frightened 'im abit. `We mustn't be too bold, Miss

Montaubyn, my dear,' 'e ses, for 'e'sa kind young man as ever lived, an'often ses `my dear' to them 'e 'scomfortin'. But yer see the lidy 'ad gaveme a Bible o' me own an' I'd set 'erean' read it, an' read it an' learnedverses to say to meself when I was inbed--an' I'd got ter feel like it wassomeone talkin' to me an' makin' meunderstand. So I ses, ` 'T ain't boldnesswe're warned against; it's notlovin' an' trustin' enough, an' notaskin' an' believin' TRUE. Don't yerremember wot it ses: "I, even I, am'e that comforteth yer. Who artthou that thou art afraid of manthat shall die an' the son of man thatshall be made as grass, an' forgettethJehovah thy Creator, that stretchedforth the 'eavens an' laid the foundationsof the earth?" an' "I've coveredthee with the shadder of me'and," it ses; an' "I will go beforethee an' make the rough placessmooth;" an' " 'Itherto ye 'ave asked

nothin' in my name; ask thereforethat ye may receive, an' yer joy maybe made full." ' An' 'e looked downon the floor as if 'e was doin' some'ard thinkin', pore young man, an' 'eses, quite sudden an' shaky, `Lord, Ibelieve, 'elp thou my unbelief,' an' 'eses it as if 'e was in trouble an' didn'tknow 'e'd spoke out loud."




"Where--how did you come uponyour verses?" said Dart. "How didyou find them?"

"Ah," triumphantly, "they wasall answers--they was the first

answers I ever 'ad. When I first come'ome an' it seemed as if I was goin'to be swep' away in the dirt o' thestreet--one day when I was neardrove wild with cold an' 'unger, Iset down on the floor an' I draggedthe Bible to me an' I ses: `Thereain't nothin' on earth or in 'ell as 'll'elp me. I'm goin' to do wot thelidy said--mad or not.' An' I 'eldthe book--an' I 'eld my breath, too,'cos it was like waitin' for the end o'the world--an' after a bit I 'ears

myself call out in a 'oller whisper,`Speak, Lord, thy servant 'eareth.Show me a 'ope.' An' I was tremblin'all over when I opened thebook. An' there it was! `I willgo before thee an' make the roughplaces smooth, I will break in piecesthe doors of brass and will cut insunder the bars of iron.' An' Iknowed it was a answer."

"You--knew--it--was ananswer?"

"Wot else was it?" with a shiningface. "I'd arst for it, an' thereit was. An' in about a hour Gladcome runnin' up 'ere, an' she'd 'ada bit o' luck--"

" 'T wasn't nothin' much," Gladbroke in deprecatingly, "on'y I'd gotsomethin' to eat an' a bit o' fire."

"An' she made me go an' 'ave a

'earty meal, an' set an' warm meself.An' she was that cheerfle an' full o'pluck, she 'elped me to forget aboutthe things that was makin' me into amadwoman. SHE was the answer--same as the book 'ad promised. Theycomes in different wyes the answersdoes. Bless yer, they don't come inclaps of thunder an' streaks o' lightenin'--they just comes easy an' natural--




so 's sometimes yer don't thinkfor a minit or two that they'reanswers at all. But it comes to yer ina bit an' yer 'eart stands still for joy.An' ever since then I just go to mebook an' arst. P'raps," her smile an

illuminating thing, "me bein' thelow an' pore in spirit at the beginnin',an' settin' 'ere all alone by me-self day in an' day out, just thinkin'it all over--an' arstin'--an' waitin'--p'raps light was gave me 'cos Iwas in such a little place an' in thedark. But I ain't pore in spirit now.Lor', no, yer can't be when yer'veon'y got to believe. `An' 'ithertoye 'ave arst nothin' in my name;arst therefore that ye may receivean' yer joy be made full.' "

"Am I sitting here listening to anold female reprobate's disquisition onreligion?" passed through AntonyDart's mind. "Why am I listening?I am doing it because here isa creature who BELIEVES--knowingno doctrine, knowing no church.She BELIEVES--she thinks she KNOWSher Deity is by her side. She is notafraid. To her simpleness the awfulUnknown is the Known--and WITHher."

"Suppose it were true," he utteredaloud, in response to a sense of inwardtremor, "suppose--it--were--TRUE?" And he was not speakingeither to the woman or the girl, andhis forehead was damp.

"Gawd!" said Glad, her chinalmost on her knees, her eyes staringfearsomely. "S'pose it was--an' ussittin' 'ere an' not knowin' it--an'

no one knowin' it--nor gettin' thegood of it. Sime as if--" ponderinghard in search of simile, "simeas if no one 'ad never knowed about'lectricity, an' there wasn't no 'lectriclights nor no 'lectric nothin'. Onctnobody knowed, an' all the sime itwas there--jest waitin'."

Her fantastic laugh ended for her




with a little choking, vaguelyhysteric sound.

"Blimme," she said. "Ain't itqueer, us not knowin'--IF IT'S TRUE."

Antony Dart bent forward in hischair. He looked far into the eyesof the ex-dancer as if some unseenthing within them might answerhim. Miss Montaubyn herself forthe moment he did not see.

"What," he stammered hoarsely,his voice broken with awe, "whatof the hideous wrongs--the woesand horrors--and hideous wrongs?"

"There wouldn't be none if WE

was right--if we never thought nothin'but `Good's comin'--good 's'ere.' If we everyone of us thoughtit--every minit of every day."

She did not know she was speakingof a millennium--the end ofthe world. She sat by her onecandle, threading her needle andbelieving she was speaking of To-day.

He laughed a hollow laugh.

"If we were right!" he said. "Itwould take long--long--long--tomake us all so."

"It would be slow p'raps. Well,so it would--but good comes quickfor them as begins callin' it. It'sbeen quick for ME," drawing herthread through the needle's eyetriumphantly. "Lor', yes, me legs isbetter--me luck 's better--people 'sbetter. Bless yer, yes!"

"It 's true," said Glad; "she getson somehow. Things comes. Shenever wants no drink. Me now,"she applied to Miss Montaubyn, "ifI took it up same as you--wot'dcome to a gal like me?"

"Wot ud yer want ter come?"Dart saw that in her mind was an




absolute lack of any premonition ofobstacle. "Wot'd yer arst fer in yerown mind?"

Glad reflected profoundly.

"Polly," she said, "she wants to go'ome to 'er mother an' to the country.I ain't got no mother an' wot I'ear of the country seems like I'd gettired of it. Nothin' but quiet an'lambs an' birds an' things growin.'Me, I likes things goin' on. I likespeople an' 'and organs an' 'buses. I'dstay 'ere--same as I told YOU," witha jerk of her hand toward Dart."An' do things in the court--ifI 'ad a bit o' money. I don't wantto live no gay life when I 'm a woman.

It's too 'ard. Us pore uns ends toobad. Wisht I knowed I could geton some 'ow."

"Good 'll come," said MissMontaubyn. "Just you say the same asme every mornin'--`Good's fillin'the world, an' some of it's comin' tome. It 's bein' sent--an' I 'm goin'to meet it. It 's comin'--it 'scomin'.' " She bent forward and touchedthe girl's shoulder with her astonishingeyes alight. "Bless yer, wot'sin my room's in yours; Lor', yes."

Glad's eyes stared into hers, theybecame mysteriously, almost awesomely,astonishing also.

"Is it?" she breathed in a hushedvoice.

"Yes, Lor', yes! When yer getup in the mornin' you just stand stillan' ARST it. `Speak, Lord,' ses you;

`speak, Lord--' ""Thy servant 'eareth," endedGlad's hushed speech. "Blimme,but I 'm goin' to try it!"

Perhaps the brain of her saw itstill as an incantation, perhaps thesoul of her, called up strangely outof the dark and still new-born and




blind and vague, saw it vaguely andhalf blindly as something else.

Dart was wondering which ofthese things were true.

"We've never been expectin'nothin' that's good," said MissMontaubyn. "We 're allus expectin'the other. Who isn't? I was allusexpectin' rheumatiz an' 'unger an'cold an' starvin' old age. Wot wasyou lookin' for?" to Dart.

He looked down on the floor andanswered heavily.

"Failing brain--failing life--despair--death!"

"None of 'em 's comin'--if yerdon't call 'em. Stand still an' listenfor the other. It's the other that'sTRUE."

She was without doubt amazing.She chirped like a bird singing on abough, rejoicing in token of theshining of the sun.

"It's wot yer can work on--this," said Glad. "The curick--

'e's a good sort an' no' 'arm in 'im--but 'e ses: `Trouble an' 'unger ister teach yer ter submit. Accidentsan' coughs as tears yer lungs is sentyou to prepare yer for 'eaven. If yerloves 'Im as sends 'em, yer 'll gothere.' ` 'Ave yer ever bin?' ses I.` 'Ave yer ever saw anyone that'sbin? 'Ave yer ever saw anyonethat's saw anyone that's bin?'`No,' 'e ses. `Don't, me girl, don't!'`Garn,' I ses; `tell me somethin'

as 'll do me some good afore I'mdead! 'Eaven's too far off.' "

"The kingdom of 'eaven is at'and," said Miss Montaubyn. "Blessyer, yes, just 'ere."

Antony Dart glanced round theroom. It was a strange place. Butsomething WAS here. Magic, was




it? Frenzy--dreams--what?

He heard from below a suddenmurmur and crying out in thestreet. Miss Montaubyn heard itand stopped in her sewing, holding

her needle and thread extended.

Glad heard it and sprang to herfeet.

"Somethin 's 'appened," she criedout. "Someone 's 'urt."

She was out of the room in abreath's space. She stood outsidelistening a few seconds and dartedback to the open door, speakingthrough it. They could hear below

commotion, exclamations, the wailof a child.

"Somethin 's 'appened to Bet!"she cried out again. "I can 'ear thechild."

She was gone and flying down thestaircase; Antony Dart and MissMontaubyn rose together. The tumultwas increasing; people wererunning about in the court, and itwas plain a crowd was forming bythe magic which calls up crowds asfrom nowhere about the door. Thechild's screams rose shrill above thenoise. It was no small thing whichhad occurred.

"I must go," said MissMontaubyn, limping away from hertable. "P'raps I can 'elp. P'rapsyou can 'elp, too," as he followedher.

They were met by Glad at thethreshold. She had shot back tothem, panting.

"She was blind drunk," she said,"an' she went out to get more. Shetried to cross the street an' fell undera car. She'll be dead in five minits.I'm goin' for the biby."




Dart saw Miss Montaubyn stepback into her room. He turnedinvoluntarily to look at her.

She stood still a second--so stillthat it seemed as if she was not drawing

mortal breath. Her astonishing,expectant eyes closed themselves,and yet in closing spoke expectancystill.

"Speak, Lord," she said softly, butas if she spoke to Something whosenearness to her was such that herhand might have touched it. "Speak,Lord, thy servant 'eareth."

Antony Dart almost felt his hairrise. He quaked as she came near,

her poor clothes brushing againsthim. He drew back to let her passfirst, and followed her leading.

The court was filled with men,women, and children, who surgedabout the doorway, talking, crying,and protesting against each other'scrowding. Dart caught a glimpseof a policeman fighting his waythrough with a doctor. A dishevelledwoman with a child at herdirty, bare breast had got in and wastalking loudly.

"Just outside the court it was,"she proclaimed, "an' I saw it. Ifshe'd bin 'erself it couldn't 'ave'appened. `No time for 'osspitles,'ses I. She's not twenty breaths todror; let 'er die in 'er own bed, porething!" And both she and her babybreaking into wails at one and thesame time, other women, some hysteric,some maudlin with gin, joined

them in a terrified outburst."Get out, you women," commandedthe doctor, who had forcedhis way across the threshold. "Sendthem away, officer," to the policeman.

There were others to turn out ofthe room itself, which was crowdedwith morbid or terrified creatures,




all making for confusion. Glad hadseized the child and was forcing herway out into such air as there wasoutside.

The bed--a strange and loathly

thing--stood by the empty, rustyfireplace. Drunken Bet lay on it, abundle of clothing over which thedoctor bent for but a few minutesbefore he turned away.

Antony Dart, standing near thedoor, heard Miss Montaubyn speakto him in a whisper.

"May I go to 'er?" and the doctornodded.

She limped lightly forward andher small face was white, but expectantstill. What could she expectnow--O Lord, what?

An extraordinary thing happened.An abnormal silence fell. The ownersof such faces as on stretchednecks caught sight of her seemed ina flash to communicate with othersin the crowd.

"Jinny Montaubyn!" someonewhispered. And "Jinny Montaubyn"was passed along, leaving anawed stirring in its wake. Thosewhom the pressure outside hadcrushed against the wall near thewindow in a passionate hurry, breathedon and rubbed the panes that theymight lay their faces to them. Onetore out the rags stuffed in a brokenplace and listened breathlessly.

Jinny Montaubyn was kneeling

down and laying her small old handon the muddied forehead. She heldit there a second or so and spoke ina voice whose low clearness broughtback at once to Dart the voice inwhich she had spoken to the Somethingupstairs.

"Bet," she said, "Bet." And thenmore soft still and yet more clear,




"Bet, my dear."

It seemed incredible, but it was afact. Slowly the lids of the woman'seyes lifted and the pupils fixedthemselves on Jinny Montaubyn, who

leaned still closer and spoke again.

" 'T ain't true," she said. "Notthis. 'T ain't TRUE. There IS NODEATH," slow and soft, but passionatelydistinct. "THERE--IS--NO--DEATH."

The muscles of the woman's facetwisted it into a rueful smile. Thethree words she dragged out were sofaint that perhaps none but Dart'sstrained ears heard them.

"Wot--price--ME?"

The soul of her was loosening fastand straining away, but Jinny Montaubynfollowed it.

"THERE--IS--NO--DEATH," andher low voice had the tone of a slendersilver trumpet. "In a minit yer 'llknow--in a minit. Lord," liftingher expectant face, "show her thewye."

Mysteriously the clouds were clearingfrom the sodden face--mysteri-ously. Miss Montaubyn watchedthem as they were swept away! Aminute--two minutes--and theywere gone. Then she rose noiselesslyand stood looking down, speakingquite simply as if to herself.

"Ah," she breathed, "she DOESknow now--fer sure an' certain."

Then Antony Dart, turning slightly,realized that a man who had enteredthe house and been standing near him,breathing with light quickness, sincethe moment Miss Montaubyn hadknelt, was plainly the person Gladhad called the "curick," and thathe had bowed his head and coveredhis eyes with a hand which trembled.




IV

He was a young man with aneager soul, and his work in

Apple Blossom Court and places likeit had torn him many ways. Religiousconventions established throughcenturies of custom had not preparedhim for life among the submerged.He had struggled and been appalled,he had wrestled in prayer and felthimself unanswered, and in repentanceof the feeling had scourged himselfwith thorns. Miss Montaubyn,returning from the hospital, had filledhim at first with horror and protest.

"But who knows--who knows?"he said to Dart, as they stood andtalked together afterward, "Faith asa little child. That is literally hers.And I was shocked by it--and triedto destroy it, until I suddenly sawwhat I was doing. I was--in mycloddish egotism--trying to showher that she was irreverent BECAUSEshe could believe what in my soul Ido not, though I dare not admit somuch even to myself. She took fromsome strange passing visitor to hertortured bedside what was to her arevelation. She heard it first as achild hears a story of magic. Whenshe came out of the hospital, she toldit as if it was one. I--I--" hebit his lips and moistened them,"argued with her and reproachedher. Christ the Merciful, forgiveme! She sat in her squalid littleroom with her magic--sometimesin the dark--sometimes withoutfire, and she clung to it, and loved it

and asked it to help her, as a childasks its father for bread. When shewas answered--and God forgive meagain for doubting that the simplegood that came to her WAS an answer--when any small help came to her,she was a radiant thing, and withouta shadow of doubt in her eyes toldme of it as proof--proof that shehad been heard. When things went




wrong for a day and the fire was outagain and the room dark, she said, `I'aven't kept near enough--I 'aven'ttrusted TRUE. It will be gave mesoon,' and when once at such a timeI said to her, `We must learn to say,

Thy will be done,' she smiled up atme like a happy baby and answered:

`Thy will be done on earth AS IT IS IN'EAVEN. Lor', there's no cold there,nor no 'unger nor no cryin' nor pain.That's the way the will is done in'eaven. That's wot I arst for allday long--for it to be done onearth as it is in 'eaven.' What couldI say? Could I tell her that the willof the Deity on the earth he createdwas only the will to do evil--to

give pain--to crush the creaturemade in His own image. What elsedo we mean when we say under allhorror and agony that befalls, `It isGod's will--God's will be done.'Base unbeliever though I am, I couldnot speak the words. Oh, she hassomething we have not. Her poor,little misspent life has changed itselfinto a shining thing, though it shinesand glows only in this hideous place.She herself does not know of itsshining. But Drunken Bet wouldstagger up to her room and ask to betold what she called her `pantermine'stories. I have seen her there sittinglistening--listening with strangequiet on her and dull yearning inher sodden eyes. So would otherand worse women go to her, andI, who had struggled with them,could see that she had reached someremote longing in their beings whichI had never touched. In time theseed would have stirred to life--it is

beginning to stir even now. Duringthe months since she came back to thecourt--though they have laughedat her--both men and women havebegun to see her as a creature weirdlyset apart. Most of them feel somethinglike awe of her; they half believeher prayers to be bewitchments,but they want them on their side.They have never wanted mine. That




I have known--KNOWN. She believesthat her Deity is in Apple BlossomCourt--in the dire holes its peoplelive in, on the broken stairway, inevery nook and awful cranny of it--a great Glory we will not see--only

waiting to be called and to answer.Do _I_ believe it--do you--do anyof those anointed of us who preacheach day so glibly `God is EVERYWHERE'?Who is the one who believes? Ifthere were such a man he would goabout as Moses did when `He wistnot that his face shone.' "

They had gone out together andwere standing in the fog in thecourt. The curate removed his hatand passed his handkerchief over his

damp forehead, his breath comingand going almost sobbingly, his eyesstaring straight before him into theyellowness of the haze.

"Who," he said after a momentof singular silence, "who are you?"

Antony Dart hesitated a fewseconds, and at the end of his pausehe put his hand into his overcoatpocket.

"If you will come upstairs withme to the room where the girl Gladlives, I will tell you," he said, "butbefore we go I want to hand somethingover to you."

The curate turned an amazed gazeupon him.

"What is it?" he asked.

Dart withdrew his hand from his

pocket, and the pistol was in it."I came out this morning to buythis," he said. "I intended--nevermind what I intended. A wrongturn taken in the fog brought mehere. Take this thing from me andkeep it."

The curate took the pistol and put




it into his own pocket without comment.In the course of his laborshe had seen desperate men anddesperate things many times. He hadeven been--at moments--a desperateman thinking desperate things

himself, though no human being hadever suspected the fact. This manhad faced some tragedy, he could see.Had he been on the verge of a crime--had he looked murder in the eyes?What had made him pause? Wasit possible that the dream of JinnyMontaubyn being in the air hadreached his brain--his being?

He looked almost appealingly athim, but he only said aloud:

"Let us go upstairs, then."

So they went.

As they passed the door of theroom where the dead woman layDart went in and spoke to MissMontaubyn, who was still there.

"If there are things wanted here,"he said, "this will buy them." Andhe put some money into her hand.

She did not seem surprised at theincongruity of his shabbiness producingmoney.

"Well, now," she said, "I WASwonderin' an' askin'. I'd like 'erclean an' nice, an' there's milkwanted bad for the biby."

In the room they mounted to Gladwas trying to feed the child withbread softened in tea. Polly sat near

her looking on with restless, eagereyes. She had never seen anythingof her own baby but its limp newbornand dead body being carriedaway out of sight. She had not evendared to ask what was done with suchpoor little carrion. The tyranny ofthe law of life made her want to pawand touch this lately born thing, as heragony had given her no fruit of her




own body to touch and paw and nuzzleand caress as mother creatures willwhether they be women or tigressesor doves or female cats.

"Let me hold her, Glad," she half

whimpered. "When she 's fed letme get her to sleep."

"All right," Glad answered; "wecould look after 'er between us wellenough."

The thief was still sitting on thehearth, but being full fed andcomfortable for the first time in many aday, he had rested his head againstthe wall and fallen into profoundsleep.

"Wot 's up?" said Glad when thetwo men came in. "Is anythin''appenin'?"

"I have come up here to tell yousomething," Dart answered. "Letus sit down again round the fire. Itwill take a little time."

Glad with eager eyes on himhanded the child to Polly and satdown without a moment's hesitance,avid of what was to come. Shenudged the thief with friendly elbowand he started up awake.

" 'E 's got somethin' to tell us,"she explained. "The curick 's comeup to 'ear it, too. Sit 'ere, Polly,"with elbow jerk toward the bundleof sacks. "It 's got its stummickfull an' it 'll go to sleep fast enough."

So they sat again in the weird

circle. Neither the strangeness ofthe group nor the squalor of thehearth were of a nature to be newthings to the curate. His eyes fixedthemselves on Dart's face, as did theeyes of the thief, the beggar, and theyoung thing of the street. No oneglanced away from him.

His telling of his story was almost




monotonous in its semi-reflectivequietness of tone. The strangenessto himself--though it was a strangenesshe accepted absolutely withoutprotest--lay in his telling it at all,and in a sense of his knowledge that

each of these creatures wouldunderstand and mysteriously know whatdepths he had touched this day.

"Just before I left my lodgingsthis morning," he said, "I foundmyself standing in the middle of myroom and speaking to Somethingaloud. I did not know I was goingto speak. I did not know what Iwas speaking to. I heard my ownvoice cry out in agony, `Lord, Lord,what shall I do to be saved?' "

The curate made a sudden move-ment in his place and his sallowyoung face flushed. But he saidnothing.

Glad's small and sharp countenancebecame curious.

" `Speak, Lord, thy servant'eareth,' " she quoted tentatively.

"No," answered Dart; "it wasnot like that. I had never thoughtof such things. I believed nothing.I was going out to buy a pistol andwhen I returned intended to blowmy brains out."

"Why?" asked Glad, withpassionately intent eyes; "why?"

"Because I was worn out and donefor, and all the world seemed wornout and done for. And among other

things I believed I was beginningslowly to go mad."

From the thief there burst forth alow groan and he turned his face tothe wall.

"I've been there," he said; "I 'mnear there now."




Dart took up speech again.

"There was no answer--none.As I stood waiting--God knows forwhat--the dead stillness of the roomwas like the dead stillness of the grave.

And I went out saying to my soul,`This is what happens to the foolwho cries aloud in his pain.' "

"I've cried aloud," said the thief,"and sometimes it seemed as if ananswer was coming--but I alwaysknew it never would!" in a torturedvoice.

" 'T ain't fair to arst that wye,"Glad put in with shrewd logic.

"Miss Montaubyn she allers knowsit WILL come--an' it does."

"Something--not myself--turnedmy feet toward this place," said Dart."I was thrust from one thing toanother. I was forced to see and hearthings close at hand. It has been asif I was under a spell. The womanin the room below--the woman lyingdead!" He stopped a second, andthen went on: "There is too muchthat is crying out aloud. A man such

as I am--it has FORCED itself upon me--cannot leave such things and givehimself to the dust. I cannot explainclearly because I am not thinking asI am accustomed to think. A changehas come upon me. I shall notuse the pistol--as I meant to useit."

Glad made a friendly clutch at thesleeve of his shabby coat.

"Right O!" she cried. "That 'sit! You buck up sime as I told yer.Y' ain't stony broke an' there's 'allersto-morrer."

Antony Dart's expression wasweirdly retrospective.

"I did not think so this morning,"he answered.




"But there is," said the girl."Ain't there now, curick? There 'sa lot o' work in yer yet; yer coulddo all sorts o' things if y' ain'ttoo proud. I 'll 'elp yer. So 'll

the curick. Y' ain't found out yetwhat a little folks can live on tillluck turns. Me, I'm goin' to tryMiss Montaubyn's wye. Le's bothtry. Le 's believe things is comin'.Le 's get 'er to talk to us somemore."

The curate was thinking the thingover deeply.

"Yer see," Glad enlarged cheerfully,"yer look almost like a gentleman.

P'raps yer can write a good'and an' spell all right. Can yer?"

"Yes."

"I think, perhaps," the curate beganreflectively, "particularly if youcan write well, I might be able toget you some work."

"I do not want work," Dartanswered slowly. "At least I do notwant the kind you would be likelyto offer me."

The curate felt a shock, as if coldwater had been dashed over him.Somehow it had not once occurredto him that the man could be oneof the educated degenerate viciousfor whom no power to help lay inany hands--yet he was not the commonvagrant--and he was plainlyon the point of producing an excusefor refusing work.

The other man, seeing his startand his amazed, troubled flush, putout a hand and touched his armapologetically.

"I beg your pardon," he said."One of the things I was going totell you--I had not finished--wasthat I AM what is called a gentleman.




I am also what the world knows as arich man. I am Sir Oliver Holt."

Each member of the party gazedat him aghast. It was an enormousname to claim. Even the two female

creatures knew what it stood for. Itwas the name which represented thegreatest wealth and power in the worldof finance and schemes of business.It stood for financial influence whichcould change the face of nationalfortunes and bring about crises. It wasknown throughout the world. Yesterdaythe newspaper rumor that itsowner had mysteriously left Englandhad caused men on 'Change to discusspossibilities together with loweredvoices.

Glad stared at the curate. For thefirst time she looked disturbed andalarmed.

"Blimme," she ejaculated, " 'e 'sgone off 'is nut, pore chap!--'e 'sgone off it!"

"No," the man answered, "youshall come to me"--he hesitated asecond while a shade passed over hiseyes--"TO-MORROW. And you shall

see."

He rose quietly to his feet and thecurate rose also. Abnormal as theclimax was, it was to be seen thatthere was no mistake about therevelation. The man was a creature ofauthority and used to carryingconviction by his unsupported word.That made itself, by some clear,unspoken method, plain.

"You are Sir Oliver Holt! Anda few hours ago you were on thepoint of--"

"Ending it all--in an obscurelodging. Afterward the earth wouldhave been shovelled on to a work-house coffin. It was an awful thing."He shook off a passionate shudder."There was no wealth on earth that




could give me a moment's ease--sleep--hope--life. The wholeworld was full of things I loathed thesight and thought of. The doctorssaid my condition was physical. Perhapsit was--perhaps to-day has

strangely given a healthful jolt to mynerves--perhaps I have been draggedaway from the agony of morbidityand plunged into new intense emotionswhich have saved me from thelast thing and the worst--SAVEDme!"

He stopped suddenly and his faceflushed, and then quite slowly turnedpale.

"SAVED ME!" he repeated the words

as the curate saw the awed bloodcreepingly recede. "Who knows,who knows! How many explanationsone is ready to give before onethinks of what we say we believe.Perhaps it was--the Answer!"

The curate bowed his headreverently.

"Perhaps it was."

The girl Glad sat clinging to her

knees, her eyes wide and awed andwith a sudden gush of hysteric tearsrushing down her cheeks.

"That 's the wye! That 's thewye!" she gulped out. "No onewon't never believe--they won't,NEVER. That's what she sees, MissMontaubyn. You don't, 'E don't,"with a jerk toward the curate. "Iain't nothin' but ME, but blimme if Idon't--blimme!"

Sir Oliver Holt grew paler still.He felt as he had done when JinnyMontaubyn's poor dress swept againsthim. His voice shook when hespoke.

"So do I," he said with a suddendeep catch of the breath; "it wasthe Answer."




In a few moments more he wentto the girl Polly and laid a hand onher shoulder.

"I shall take you home to your

mother," he said. "I shall take youmyself and care for you both. Sheshall know nothing you are afraid ofher hearing. I shall ask her to bringup the child. You will help her."

Then he touched the thief, whogot up white and shaking and witheyes moist with excitement.

"You shall never see another manclaim your thought because you havenot time or money to work it out.

You will go with me. There areto-morrows enough for you!"

Glad still sat clinging to her kneesand with tears running, but the uglinessof her sharp, small face was athing an angel might have paused tosee.

"You don't want to go away fromhere," Sir Oliver said to her, and sheshook her head.

"No, not me. I told yer wot Iwanted. Lemme do it."

"You shall," he answered, "andI will help you."

The things which developed inApple Blossom Court later, the thingswhich came to each of those whohad sat in the weird circle round thefire, the revelations of new existence

which came to herself, aroused noamazement in Jinny Montaubyn'smind. She had asked and believed


dawn of a tomorrow by frances hodgson burnett

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