Part 40 (2/2)

”Why, Mrs. McTravers, we will take her in and put her to bed, and let her sleep till morning.”

”Take her in? What, take a common street-walker in to disgrace your house?”

”Indeed, my dear, good, kind lady,” said the object of their conversation, now for the first time speaking. ”I am no street-walker--I am not what you take me for. Do not--pray do not, force me to go into the street again to-night. Let me lay here on the door-sill till daylight.”

”Never! It shall never be said I refused to give shelter to one of my own s.e.x in distress, no matter what she is or has been. Mrs. McTravers, she must have a bed in the house to-night.”

”I should like to know then where you will find it. Every bed in the house is full.”

”I will give her mine then, and sleep myself on the floor.”

”No, no, no, let me sleep on the floor--on the hearth--on the stones in the back-yard, rather than go in the street again, but I won't sleep in your bed.”

”Well, well, come with me to my room. I will make you a bed on the floor, and you shall sleep there.”

”Sure, sure, Heaven will bless you; and if you knew all you would forgive me, for I am not so bad as you think I am, or as that woman thinks I am.”

”Oh, never mind what she says, she has a good heart after all. Come, come along with me.”

”Did you ever see the like of it. She is going to take that thing to her room, a miserable tramper; I dare say the house will be robbed before morning. I will pick up the spoons, and lock all the closets, before I go to bed again. Dear me, did anybody ever see such a woman as that? She never sees a woman in rags, but she wants to pull off her shawl, and give her. I dare say, she won't let this girl out of the house to-morrow till she has all her draggled clothes washed and fixed up, and may be then will send for a carriage to take her away. It is a great plague to anybody to have such a tender heart. It is all the time getting them into trouble.

”There, now I believe the silver is all safe, but mercy knows what will become of this night's adventure. So much for getting drunk. What does anybody want to get drunk for? There was McTravers, the brute, always getting drunk. I am sure, I love a little bitters to clear my throat in the morning, and a gla.s.s or two of wine at dinner, and a little hot stuff as I am going to bed, but as for getting drunk--bah--I hate anybody that gets drunk. Oh, dear, this night air, I wish I had not wasted all the hot water on the drunken dogs, for I do feel as though I wanted a dram now, and no more water--what will I do? I must take a little cold, or I shall not sleep a wink to-night. Bah, how I hate drunkards.”

What for, Mrs. McTravers, why should you hate your own manufacture?

Let the reader reflect; there is a night before him.

When the curtain rises, we shall see what the author saw last night.

CHAPTER XV.

LITTLE KATY'S MOTHER.

”A true devoted pilgrim is not weary, To measure kingdoms with his steps.”

When Mrs. McTravers told me that Mrs. De Vrai had sent a message for me, I was too weary to measure steps along a few blocks; but when I read those three little magic words, weariness had gone. Bridget thought so too. ”He is gone, ma'am.” Yes, he was gone, gone abroad at midnight with a merry heart.

”A merry heart goes all day, Your sad one tires in a mile.”

A mile was soon told, and I felt no tiring. Up this step and that, peering at the blind numbers on the doors; how could I tell one from the other? The almanac said there should be moons.h.i.+ne at this hour, the clouds and rain put in their veto. No matter, the almanac had said it, and that was enough for the gas contractors. If the moon chose to get behind a cloud, it was none of their look out. They would not light their lamps, though darkness, thick, black darkness, spread over the earth. Why should they? It was not in the bond. So the traveller plodded on in the dark. How could one see the numbers? Not by city light, but by city license. Here burns a ”coffee-house” lamp, where rum alone is sold. More improvident than his city fathers, this one lights up his lamp, of dark, rainy nights, whether the moon is in the almanac, or city fathers' brains. His number is plain enough. 'Tis an even number--I am on the wrong side of the street. Now, cross over, and here is, 47, 49, 51, 53--this must be it, and yet it cannot be. It is a neat, two story, brick house, with bas.e.m.e.nt and attic, in a row of the same sort, in a clean, wide street.

It is a very unlikely place for such a home as we have seen, for the home of Little Katy's mother.

How, are we deceived again? It must be in the number; perhaps we can not see it rightly by the dim glimmer of the grog-shop lamp. It is the first glimmer that ever came from such a place to any good.

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