Part 8 (1/2)

The monsters missed their aim. Mrs. Reagan spoke kindly to him as though in her own bed; begged him to get up and go home with her. No he would not. She might go back to her old missionary paramour. She might go to ---- no matter where, he was drunk. But he could not get up, for the villains had stripped him of every st.i.tch of clothing; they had not even left him a s.h.i.+rt. So she went away, sorrowing.

”Tom,” said she, ”come, go home with me, that is a good boy, I feel so faint and weak.” Tom was a good boy; who had ever said it though? One, one he remembered, and these words came like hers and nestled down in his heart. They will live there and drive out evil ones.

Tom went home with her, giving her his arm and telling her to lean upon it. Tom was not the best of guides, he made several missteps that day, for tears dimmed his eyes, but he made one good step, it was up the ladder of reform.

”Mrs. Reagan,” said he, ”let me stay here to-day, I have got no home, and I don't feel as though I wanted to go back to Cale Jones's.”

No. He did not want to go back there. He had heard the sound of his dead mother's voice, saying, good boy. n.o.body would say, good boy, if he went back there. Conscience too was doing her work; conscience told him what he had done to a woman who now said, ”good boy.”

So he stayed--he was a good boy--she was sick and he waited upon her all day. At night he was going to get Mr. Elting and Nolan to go with him and bring Reagan home. That would be his reward. He has his hand upon the door to go out, but waits a moment to see who comes. He opens it to a hurried footstep, and in bounds Wild Maggie, her face radiant with health, strength, and the lovely bloom of country life.

”Where's father? Mother sick? What's the matter?”

Her mother draws the clothes over her face. She would not have her daughter see her weep.

”Tom, my boy, tell me; come, Tom, that is a good boy--the truth, nothing but the truth--I must know it.”

Good boy, again, and his heart overflowed. He could stand kicks, and cuffs, and curses, without a tear, but he could not hold out against, ”good boy.”

”Maggie, I will not lie to _you_, I could not; but I can't tell you the truth.”

”Why?”

”I am 'fraid you won't call me good boy again.”

”Yes, I will. I don't believe you are a bad one.”

”And you won't hate me?”

”No, no; she cannot hate you, for you have been good to her mother, to-day.”

”Mother! Oh! I know all about it. You need not tell me. Only, where is he? I will go and bring him home.”

”Did Heaven ever give a mother such another child?”

Yes, many such. Many a flower would send its blossomed sweets to many a heart, but for blighting frosts in its young years.

”What sent you home, Maggie?”

”I don't know, mother; I felt as though I was wanted. Something told me so. I dreamed so for three nights, and so I came.”

She was soon told everything. Tom made a full confession; and still she did not hate him. She told him how he could help her. He should go with her; she was going to bring her father home. She gave him a little bundle of clothes to carry; and away they went. She stopped on her way down, at the police office, made her complaint, and took an officer along with her, who arrested Cale Jones and the two women; the rest of the gang were prowling for prey somewhere else. The women were sent to the Island, next day, for they had no friends. The plotter of villainy had. The Alderman of the Sixth Ward, was his friend; political friend; him he sent for; and after being an hour in custody, he was discharged; and this was the end of his punishment.

Reagan, since his wife's visit in the morning, had steadily refused to drink any more, and had become in a measure sober. It was a sad meeting with his daughter. At first, he refused to see or speak to her. He was ashamed. Nature overcame him at last, and he got up and pulled off the dirty suit his robbers had put on him, preparatory to kicking him into the street, and put on the clean ones, which Maggie and Tom had brought him; and then they took him, each by an arm, and went home. It was a sad home; it never will be a happy one again. Then she went to work and got him some supper, spending of her own little store to buy some tea, and such things as he could eat.

”Now,” says she, ”I have got another thing to do to-night, for I must go back again in the morning. Tom, I am going to provide you with a home.

You must go to the House of Industry, reform, and make a man of yourself.”

Reader, do not forget. This ministering angel, is Wild Maggie.