The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, 6 May 1915, Page 3

The Storyteller

A MAN OF STONE i. From a leaden sky the snow was falling fast. It had fallen for twenty-four hours. Here and there the wind swept the sidewalks clean, and nearby heaped' the snow drifts which barricaded gate and doorway and crossing. A strong wind it was, pitilessly cold, that lashed the garments and purpled the faces of the few who struggled against it in the almost deserted streets; a cruel wind, that stole through every crack, and stung the shivering children of the poor until they wailed in pain; that made the old, hardened in suffering, bow their bent heads still lower. The naked trees moaned dismally over the suffering all about them, and the wind moaned with it and still it snowed as if it would never stop, while the day grew old and the early winter twilight came and deepened. In the middle of the afternoon a woman, thin, frail, ill-clad, hurried into the street from one of the poorest of the tenement houses, and, turning her face westward, walked, as swiftly as she could against the wind, through the business section of the city, between mile after mile of happy homes and cheap boarding-houses, —on, on, to wider streets, tree-flanked, where stone mansions stood in spacious grounds. Clasped in her hand she held a slip of paper containing an address which she had but a vague idea how to reach. Several times she asked directions of those who brushed against her, but, weary and half frozen, hardly understood what they told her; and more than once wandered out of her way and had to retrace her steps. It was almost 6 o’clock, and dark, when at last she found 17 Courtland place. Very timidly she rang (he door bell; more timidly she asked to see Mrs. Blair. The maid led her into a small room, simply but elegantly furnished, and left her there alone for what, to the shrinking, frightened woman, seemed an interminable length of time. - She was hardly conscious of the grateful summer heat of the house, or of the fine furniture, (lie spaciousness, the silence. Two details only did she notice: the fresh flowers upon the table (and of these she thought bub for an instant), and a magnificent ivory crucifix; on it her gaze lingered pleadingly. She heard the rustle of silken skirts, and trembled. But when Mrs. Blair entered the room, she gave a little gasp of relief. She was no longer afraid. Hero was no grand lady, such as she had pictured to herselftall, severe, dignified, awe-inspiringbut a young woman, a little thing, whose pale gold hair was rather dishevelled, and whose smiljng face was rather insipid. With a simplicity born of her great need, the woman instantly began to speak, going straight to the heart of her errand. * I am Mrs. Busch,’ she said, taking the nearest chair in obedience to a word from Mrs. Blair. ‘ I live in the Century Building. ‘ It’s only the agent I ever see, but I know your husband owns it, and —and I’m in great trouble. I haven’t been able to pay the rent for five months. I hope you haven’t minded much. You see, I used to make shirts at home,that was the way I made my living. But my eyes went bad on me last summer, what with sewing so much, and the light being none of the best. I sewed long after they hurt me. I had to. I went until I couldn’t see no more. Then I had to stop, and I haven’t had no work since, except when I could get a day’s washing. Andand— ’ She had spoken calmly so far. Now her lips trembled and her swollen eyes filled. Brushing away the tears with the back of her hard, gloveless hand, she looked down at the floor as she continued, talking fast and faster, and ending with a heartbroken sob; ‘ I have a little girl five years old. She is always sick, — she has been ever since she was born. But she’s so sweet and cute, you can’t think 1 And now the

agenthe says—he says he’ll turn us out of doors tomorrow unless I pay the rent, and I haven’t any 'money —and it’s cold —and it’s snowing dreadfully. Oh, what can I do,what can I do ?’ , “ : ' Mrs. Blair patted her gently on the knee. ,;; ' ' ‘ Don’t cry ! You must not cry lika» that. ' Of, course you can not pay. I am sure my husband wouldn’t think of taking money from any one who isn’t , ‘well off,’ she said kindly. She had but vague impractical. ideas business matters. ‘ I wouldn’t mind much for myself,’ Mrs. Busch went on, cheered, though she was not convinced that Mr.- Blair would view the case in exactly the same light as did his wife. I wouldn’t mind for myself, but it would kill Alice to be turned out into this weather. It’s very cold,you've no idea ! If it was only me I’d manage somehow anyhow. Maybe you’ve got a little girl or boy of your own then you know just how it is.’ Rather sadly "Mrs. Blair shook her head. ‘ But I’ll tell my husband all about it. It‘s an outrage ! Such an agent! So cruel and unreasonable Then her eyes, wandering about the room, rested on the flowers, and an idea occurred to her. ‘ I am going to send these roses to your little Alice,that’s her name, is it not?’ ‘ Yes Alice. And you’reyou’re very kind, ma’am; but they’d freeze before I’d get them home. I have about six miles to walk, and —-’ ‘ Oh, yes, they would freeze. I had not thought of that,’ Mrs. Blair agreed. She felt sympathetic and longed to help, but had no idea what to do. ‘ I—that is, you can live in the Century Building just as long as you like without paying any rent. I am sure it won’t matter at all. We couldn’t think of taking your little bit of money,’ she said, after a pause. Mrs. Busch’s pride was almost dead: years of poverty and struggle had done their worst by it; but a faint spark of it flared up at this. ‘ I’m not asking any charity. I’ve always paid my way, as my father and mother did before me, and I intend to keep on. I’m only asking time. I’ll pay all I owe when I can work regular again. * It’s only on account of Alice that I ——oh, if you could only understand how it is. She’s so cold these days, and I can’t help it, and I can’t get half enough for her to eat. We try to pretend we’re not hungry, but it’s hard, and she’s so little and sickly.’ Mrs. Blair stared at her, amazed. ‘ You’re not hungry’ she gasped. ‘ 71 angry V I’ve heard Father Daly say that many people are, but I didn’t know he really meant it, or else I didn’t quite understand. You must not be hungry.’ Then, as Mrs. Busch suddenly remembered the lateness of the hour and rose to go, she added: ‘No, no! You must not leave just yet!’ She rang the bell, and told the maid who came to get whatever food she could find in the pantry and ice chest and give it to v Mrs. Busch; then, practical for once, she corrected herself. ‘ But no; it would bo better to order one of the machines and load the things into it.’ While they waited Mrs. Blair plied Mrs.. Busch with questions, kindly meant; and, although their - blunt tactlessness sometimes made the poor woman wince, she was too grateful not to answer them all, readily, and fully. ‘ It’s very strange the way you live. I have heard of such things but had never believed they really existed,’ Mrs. Blair slowly said at last, and would have added more in the same strain if the automobile had not Kc-r-u announced at that moment. When, with some difficulty, Mrs. Busch had been crowded into it, among packages of such food as she had never tasted, Mrs. Blair gave her the tips of her bejewelled fingers, saying: ‘ Now, don’t worry about the rent. I will tell •Mr. Blair all about it when he reaches home. _ I’ll tell him everything you said. He will be so interested !’ Only a few minutes later, Mrs. Blair, wandering aimlessly through the rooms, in a fever of impatience for her husband’s coming, heard his low voice in- the

reception hall, and, running to him, kissed him far; more effusively - than usual. -, \ ; ' - y ‘ Oh/. I have something to tell you!’ she’ began eagerly. ‘A poor woman was here,so poor 1 / You have no idea how ; poor , people can be! - She } has two rooms in the Century Building and she can’t pay her rent/ but I told her you wouldn’t mind. I knew you • wouldn’t. Mr. Coale, that agent of yours, has been horrid, and he— ’ •; ; ‘My! my! Julia! Can’t you let a man get rid of his coat before you pounce upon him?’ her husband interrupted somewhat irritably. ‘ I haven’t the faintest idea what you are talking about.’ ■ He gave his hat and coat to the man and went slowly toward the library. Mrs. Blair followed, explaining further:: ‘ The woman was here only a little while ago. Such a sad-looking woman, and very thin and white ! If you had come a few minutes earlier, you could have seen her. But I promised her that I would tell you all about it as soon as you reached home. It’s tomorrow she is to be turned out, if she does not pay; and she can’t, you know; she has no money. - For months she has had nothing to do, except some laundry work. Did you know that there actually are people here in this city as poor as that ?’ Mr. Blair had dropped into a big chair and was leaning back, with his eyes closed. Fie looked weary and harassed, but his wife was thinking only of Mrs. Busch. ‘You’re listening, aren’t you, John?’ she asked, checking her torrent of incoherent explanation. * You understand, don’t you You will tell Mr. Coal© the first thing in the morning, won’t you?’ Mr. Blair made no reply; and his wife, looking at him for the first time, asked after a puzzled silence : ‘You are not tired, are you, John?’ ‘ Yes, very tired, mind and body. I have had a long, hard, anxious day.’ lie opened his eyes, and, leaning forward, began to explain a little, forgetting for the moment how useless he had long ago learned it to be. ‘ These are anxious times in the business world. The whole country is in the grip of a money panic. You see, Julia, it—■’ Mrs. Blair playfully put her finger to her ears. . ■“No, no John! I won’t listen! I wouldn’t understand. I don’t care about money. What’s the use of bothering about it?’ No use at all!’ her husband snapped; and, opening the evening paper without another word, he hid himself behind it. Mrs. Blair knew well that he did not like to be disturbed when he was reading. He was apt to be ‘cross’ if she talked to him then; but this was an exceptional and urgent case, she argued, and he would be interested, if only he could be made to listen. He could not help it. Besides, he must act early the foil lowing morning, or it would be too late. ‘ It was nice of Mrs. Busch— is the poor woman’s name, —it was nice of her to come to us for help, wasn’t it? She doesn’t blame the agent, and she doesn’t want charity. She said so. She seemed almost angry for a minute, because she thought I imagined that she did. You will speak to Mr. Coale about her to-morrow morning, won’t you No answer from Mr. Blair, —no evidence that he heard. ‘lt will be too late to-morrow afternoon,’ she tried again, after what she deemed a long silence. ‘She has a little girl who is always ill. It must be awful to be ill all the time, don’t you think so? Do you remember how miserable you were when you had influenza, and how anxious to get well in a hurx’y ? Suppose you were ill all the time ! And Alice Busch is only a little mite, five years old. I think her mother said she is five, but perhaps it was six she said.’ There was another silence, broken only by the ticking of the clock and the rustle of Mr. Blair’s paper, before his wife ventured again : ‘I told her you do not want rent from people unless it is easy for them to pay.’

Mr. Blair lowered his paper sufficiently to glare at her over the top of it. ‘I am trying to read,’ he said; and hid himself *onee more. * r’" A few seconds later dinner was announced, or it is probable that Mrs. Blair would have renewed the attack. No one had ever accused her of lacking persistence. Mr. ; Blair did not obey the summons promptly; but when he rose, dropping his paper, he put his arm about his wife’s shoulder as they went to the diningroom. He was sorry he had been so brusque, but all he said by way of apology was: You don’t' know how tired lam this evening. I feel as if I should like to rest forever. lam glad we have no engagement.’ Mrs. Blair, because she saw that his good-humor was restored, and because he had no newspaper at hand to protect him, felt the moment surely auspicious to interest him in Mrs. Busch. ‘ She has had the same rooms for four or five years, and always paid prompt until lately,’ she said. Mr. Blair frowned. ‘ Who is this woman you have been talking about for the past three-quarters of an hour ? Why am I expected to be interested in her ‘lf you would but listen, John, when I explain, you would know all about her; but you get cross as soon as I say a. word.’ If there is one thing an irritable person finds more trying than all others it is to be called ‘ cross ’ or impatient,’ or by any kindred epithet so it was not in his most amiable manner that Mr. Blair rejoined ; ‘Well, tell me the whole story, if you must; and after that let’s be done with it once for all. You will give me no peace until I have been bored with every word you said and she said, and a hundred more neither of you ever thought of saying.’ Mrs. Blair pouted for an instant before her desire to tell her story proved stronger than her resentment ; then she related, in her provokingly desultory manner, the narrative of her afternoon’s experience. Mr. Blair sat mute. ‘ You don’t seem to be interested, John. You are hardly listening, and you haven’t asked one question.’ ‘ Oh, yes, I am listening and am intensely interested ! - But do come to the point. What was the woman crying about? No doubt that is the kernel of the story.’ ‘ Mrs. Busch cried because she has no money, and she is going to be put out of her rooms tomorrow if she doesn’t pay her rent; and her little girl is sick, and may die if she has to go out in the cold and the snow. You would cry, too, if you were in her place!’ she retorted, indignantly. ‘ And her name is Busch, I think you said, and it’s the Century Building.’ ‘Yes; and she wouldn’t mind very much if she were alone, —she said so. The little girl has always been ill, and they are often cold in winter, and in summer they have no ice; and sometimes they are hungry ’ ‘So am I!’ Mr. Blair murmured. _ ‘ But not in the same way. They have nothing to eat, —nothing at all !’ ‘ Now, Julia, suppose we change the subject. I think, possibly, we could find a more cheerful one. There is no one else on earth about whom I have quite as much information as I have about this Mrs. Busch. I know all about her tears and her long walk, her clothes, her appearance, her child, and her financial status. I can’t say that I yearn to learn more.’ v Mrs. Blair had succeeded in making him listen to k-he story from beginning to end. She was delighted with her success, and never easily annoyed; so she paid no heed to this tirade, but smiled absently while it was in progress and at its close ; and after a pause Mr. Blair said, almost in his ordinary tone ‘I wonder if you realise what a severe snowstorm we are having, the worst in many years. I don remember ever to have seen such drifts. They say that the street car service is very much crippled, and trains are blocked all over the State.’

‘ Yes Mrs. Blair said listlessly, not interested. ‘ You won’t forget about Mrs. ' Busch ?1 ■ she reminded him, after scarcely a pause, . . ‘No, no!’ he answered shortly, trying, to -be patient; and began to felicitate himself that at length the subject was considered finished when the meal passed without any further reference to it; and on their returning to the library Mrs. Blair buried herself in a new magazine.' He really was inexpressibly weary, and harassed by a score of anxieties, involving millions of dollars of his own and other people’s money besides. Leaving untouched his half-read paper, he leaned against the back of his chair and shut his eyes, with a deep sense of thankfulness that he could rest. But the lull was short-lived. His wife was not engrossed in her story. After a few minutes she closed the magazine. Her husband sighed. ‘ I told her you would not allow her to. be turned out of her rooms,’ she remarked exultingly. Mr. Blair made no answer, but he frowned darkly. ‘ John, wouldn’t it be lovely never again to charge her or any other poor people ? We don’t want poor people’s money, do we ? Tell Air. Coale not to, won’t you? Or shall I?’ # Mr. Blair was angry at last. ‘ Please do not meddle with my business affairs! I shall tell Mr. Coale nothing of the kind ; and if I heatone word more about this matter, I will do nothing. I mean every word I say. Naturally he was obstinate, and nature had the upper hand in that hour ; but his wife had never learned when to be silent. ‘O John, you don’t mean that! I know you don’t! You will interfere, won’t you, John?’ ‘No!’ he answered roughly. ‘Once and for all, I wash my hands of the whole affair. It’s the agent’s business. Why should I meddle?’ Still Airs. Blair did not understand that he was fin earnest. After a scarcely perceptible pause, she said sweetly, her baby smile playing about her lips; ‘ I told Mrs. Busch that Air. Coale really has no authority. The building is yours, isn’t it, John?’ ‘ Why on earth did you tell her that? lie has, —- of course he has ! I did intend to interfere in this case, though it would have been a trouble, and a thing that, in general, I don’t approve of. Now I shall do nothing. Do you understand?’ At last it dawned upon Mrs. Blair that her husband was thoroughly angry, and she had best be silent. That he meant to carry out his threat did not even occur to her ; and she went to bed feeling light-hearted, because she had saved their home to a poor woman and her child. Forty-eight hours later Mr. Blair was ensconced in his library, pouring over the evening paper. He had had a singularly gratifying day. The steps he had taken to safeguard his own and others’ interests had proved successful beyond his most sanguine hopes. He had had an excellent dinner, during which he and his wife had chatted happily, without any of the miniature quarrels that ordinarily marred their intercourse. He was feeling supremely content, satisfied with himself and all the world, until in a corner of the first page of his paper he found this short paragraph: ‘ Yesterday morning Mrs. Busch, a widow, with her five-year-old child, was turned out of her wretched rooms in the Century Building. At one time she was employed by Hart and Co., shirt makers; but for the past six months has been out of work. The child was seriously ill; and, with her in ncr arms, tne motnei walked the streets for hours before she found shelter with the Sisters of Mercy on De Sales Avenue. She was exhausted and almost frozen. The child died early this morning as the result of the exposure. The Century Building is owned by J. C. Blair.’ > It is hard to imagine the agony that descended upon Mr. Blair as he read. Minute after minute -passed, and he sat staring at the article, his face ashy white, his hands trembling so that the paper shook like a leaf in the wind. lie felt that he must scream aloud in his anguish ; that he'could not live and bear, hour aftei

h°UE, to have this story haunting him as he knew it must ■ do, however long he might live. A. How long he had sat t there, suffering thus, he never knew— for weeks and monthsJt seemed to him,—before he heard a footstep .in tue hall, close to the door of the library. Hastily he turned the page and forced himself to read the editorials on which his eye alighted. The first, something about the tariff question, was to him but a. jumble of meaningless words; the next was so, too, until a phrase caught his attention, sent a new thrill of horror to his heart and impelled him to re-read it from the beginning. No name was mentioned; it might as well have been, however, so pointed were the references to a prominent citizen, a member of the Catholic Church which claims to follow more closely than any other in the footsteps of the Man Who so tenderly loved the poor; a multi-millionaire, professedly a philanthropist, whose cruelty and insatiate greed were worthy of pagan Rome. ‘ A man of stone.’ Each word burned itself into Mr. Blair’s-mind and heart. Through all the weary days of all the years that followed he was never able to forget them. Mrs. Blair flitted into the library, complaining that she had mislaid her gloves, and flitted out again, singing snatches of a popular song. A, few seconds later a maid entered the room, and went away, leaving Mr. Blair at the mercy of his own thoughts. In - desperation he glanced over the paper in search of something to read, — something that would help him to forget, if only for a minute. The account of a. murder served but to remind him that somewhere, not far away, a little rigid form was lying that night. He turned nervously to the report of a Socialistic speech. It, at least, was safe ground. lie forced himself to. read the trite preamble, the usual tirades against Capital, and was about to pass wearily to something else when, far down ’in the column, these sentences caught his eye • ‘He is one of our most respected citizens. Will this injure his prestige? Not at all, though there is one child less in the world to-day and one more heart-broken mother !’ A quarter of an hour later Mrs. Blair re-entered the library, her arms full of magazines. She thought at first that her husband had fallen asleep : but he stirred slightly as she passed him, and she began to sing again, softly, to herself. She went to the piano and tried two or three new marches which she had bought that morning; then, without turning around, she said happily : ‘John, to-morrow evening we are going to the dinner-dance at the University Club. Had you forgotten?’ Mr. Blair made no reply. ‘lt will be lovely, won’t it? £ have a new gown for the occasion.’ Still Mr. Blair said nothing. Her words he hardly heard. Other words were ringing in his ears, aching in his heart, agonising .in his soul. At noon, through a crowded business street in one of our great cities, a man walked alone, —a thin, sadfaced man, not old but bent, not feeble but slow of gait, as if he were weary, weary all the time. About some people, even in the midst of a throng, _ there clings a certain solitariness; they are never one of the crowd but always distinct from it ; and so it was with him. He seemed to be hardly conscious of the people about him, uninterested in them, one who would be lonely always and everywhere, isolated from his fellows by superior talent, or marked peculiarities, or more than ordinary sorrow. After he had walked for some time he stopped on a corner, there to take a street car. The minutes passed. A number of people gathered, and waited and grew restless, but no car came. Evidently there was trouble somewhere on the line, which causes annoyance at any hour, but is peculiarly aggravating at the busiest time of the day. Two women railed against the company ; their companion laughingly insisted .that there was no hurry: their luncheon would but taste the better if their appetites were keener. Some young boys joked

■ - # ■ • ••jt. ' * • ■•• •• - - -.•1.>.boisterously about the delay, claiming to be disturbed lest they should be late for their Latin class such a calamity would break their hearts, they said. ' Several business men paced'back and forth in a:fever .of impatience, aggravated by the frequency with which they consulted their watches. Only the thin, sad-looking man appeared unaware of the delay, or at least indifferent to it. Quietly and patiently he waited, listening unsmiling to the sallies of the boys, and mildly observing the others as they waxed loud in the expression of their wrath. Presently a worn woman, poorly but neatly dressed, came down the street toward the restless group stationed on the corner. She walked very slowly ; for beside her limped a little boy whose pallid face told a long story of much suffering crowded into a few years. He was holding fast to his mother’s hand, listening to what she said with a smile, boyish, and yet so sad and patient that it was painful to see on the face of a young child. As they drew near all watched them, silent for the moment. The women, ashamed, ceased complaining; the men, irritable over a trifling delay, envied the child his placid slowness : the young boys stopped their joking to look reverently at the little cripple, and were silent’ long after he had passed. The thin man did not take his eyes off the pair from the moment they came in sight: and when they had gone half a square beyond him, just when at last a car was approaching, he obeyed a. sudden impulse and buried after them. . Easily overtaking them, *he raised his hat, and said to the mother, not without a trace of embarrassment : ‘ Pardon me ! My name is Blair. I should like to — to speak to you for a- few minutes.’ The woman was surprised,— this was evident; but she said nothing, only waited quietly for him to explain himself. In the instant that he paused Mr. Blair saw that, shabbily as she was dresei, there was an unmistakable air of refinement about her, and later when she spoke it was as one gently born and reared. The child smiled up into his face in the .friendliest possible way. _ ‘lt is about your little boy,’ Mr. Blair began bluntly. ‘He does not seem to be strong, and—and I am interested in children, in delicate children especially. I might say that there is nothing else that interests me very much. I wonder if anything could be done for this boy. Perhaps a specialist could do something for him. You must not mind my asking ; and you would let me help, wouldn’t you ?’ ‘ You are very kind,’ the woman said a little stiffly, surprised, touched by his interest in her child, and offended by his offer, all at the same time. ‘ I have never taken assistance from any one, though I've been a widow for five years and poor,very poor. But somehow I I don’t think I should much mind your helping ,me in this. It would be -for Jimmie, and you are fond of children, I see that. But, Mr. Blair, I fear nothing can be done. The doctors have tried. They say there is only one man in the whole world who could do him the least good and he lives in Germany — Berlin. Even he might not succeed, and it would cost a fortune to go to him. There would be travelling expenses and board to pay, as well as the doctor’s bill 1 But thank you, Mr. Blair, thank you very much. Jimmie, thank the gentleman for his kindness.’ Jimmie did so by slipping his small hand into Mr. Blair’s, and saying brightly, though not without a trace of wistfulness: 1 You mustn’t mind about me. I don’t mind much myself, except when mamma feels badly about me and when the other fellows play baseball or skate on the pond near our house. It’s a dandy pond ; big, with lots of pollywogs in it in summer.’ Mr. Blair was silent for some moments, gazing into the little upturned face -for an instant; then he quickly looked away as if the sight pained him. "If you will permit me,’ he said, turning to the mother, ‘ I should be glad to send you and Jimmie to this German specialist. . It doesn’t mater what the cost may be : and there is a chance, you say. 5 The woman hesitated. Her pride revolted at the idea of accepting help from this stranger, kind as’ he

was on the other hand her mother love pleaded that the boy be given the opportunity, and mother love is strong indeed. • ; ‘And I could play baseball, couldn’t I, mamma?’ the boy cried, looking from Mr. Blair to his mother and back at him again. Still the mother did not decide. ‘ I have never taken charity, but you are very good. You put it so nicely that I don’t mind much, though an hour ago I should have resented the offer of help from any one. Dr. Smith is a specialist; he treats only children. He has seen Jimmie several times, and has been kind to him. Would— know it’s asking a great deal, — but would you kindly come with us to his office ? We are on our way there. It isn’t far: only three or four squares.’ ‘ I know Dr. Smith well. I have known him for years. Yes, I will go with you. I will gladly go with you.’ Half an hour later Mr. Blair, light of pocket and less heavy-hearted, said good-bye to the happiest mother and child in all that great city, and walked slowly back to the corner where he had first seen them. The noon hour was now long past and there were fewer people on the streets, and when he boarded the car he found it almost empty. He was indistinctly conscious that in the seat behind the one he chose there sat a Franciscan nun and a woman whom he had often seen in church. Miss Seymour was her name, he knew. He did not give them a passing thought at first ; but soon the car stopped and gave no evidence that it would ever move again. A waggon loaded with coal had broken down o oo on the track, and two men were working in a leisurely fashion to clear the debris out of the way, with every prospect that it would take considerable time. With the car at rest, Mr. Blair could hear every word spoken in the seat behind his. ‘ I was told that the cars were delayed about noon, and here is more trouble,’ Miss Seymour complained. The nun said nothing to this. 1 I understand that there is a great deal of sickness just now. There always is at this time of the year. You must be overcrowded, Sister, — overworked, too, no doubt.’ ‘ Oh, no, not overworked ! But every bed in the hospital is taken. We have even put extra cots in a few of the wards. W r e hate to turn any patient away. The children’s room is particularly crowded. Yesterday we were obliged to refuse five little ones. 1 hope they were able to make place for them at St. Luke’s.’ ‘ It’s too bad, too bad ! Oh, if I had a million dollars! But no doubt I’d waste it if I had!’ Miss Seymour sard, beginning sadly and ending with a little laugh. ‘ You are too generous now, Miss Seymour; I know that. We are often afraid you rob yourself for us and our poor people.’ Then, after a pause, during which conversation was made impossible by an automobile horn, she went on, ‘I must tell you about Mother’s “daydream,” —that is what she calls it. We all tease her a great deal about it. She wants to build a wing for children. She has had plans drawn up. It is to be very big, —some day. If we had it we could fill it in a "week and keep it full the whole year round. The only thing lacking is the money,, but we tell her that is rather important!’ ‘lt would be lovely! Has she any fund for it?’ Miss Seymour inquired. . ‘ Not one cent so far. That is why she calls it her daydream. But she thinks she will get this wing sooner or later. Our Lord will take care of His little ones, she says.’ At this juncture Mr. Blair rose and left the car. ‘How impatient men are!’ Miss Seymour remarked. ‘ They seem to be in a hurry all the time.’ She would have been mystified could she have seen that instead of either walking or hailing a taxi-cab to take him to his destination, Mr. Blair got on a cargoing in an opposite direction; that he rode for quite half an hour and left it at last before the gate of St. Francis’ Hospital, At the door he asked to see the Mother Superior, and while he waited for her, paced

back and forth .the length of the small room, lost in thought. When she came he had hardly introduced himself before, he characteristically plunged abruptly into an explanation of the reason for his visit, — a reason which, long vaguely present in his mind, had in the preceding hour taken definite form. He was so happy that for the first time in years he spoke lightly, almost playfully. • - . • ■ I hear, Mother, that you have a daydream.’ And without pausing to explain where and how he had learned of it, he added, still smiling: ‘ I, too, have one. I have had it for several years, but it was shapeless until this afternoon.’ " • . The little rosy-faced nun looked up at him in frank perplexity. ‘ Let me explain. I am talking riddles. On the car, half an hour or more ago, I overheard one of your Sisters tell a friend that you wish to build a wing to servo as a hospital for children. "The community call it your “daydream,” she said. Now I want to do something of the kind; it has been the desire .of my heart for a long time, andand will you allow me to do this ?’ The Mother smiled at him. ‘ You are very good, very kind,’ she said. ' ‘ I should bo delighted to start a fund with whatever you can give. To do all would be too much, far too much, for one man. Only millionaires could afford it, and, unfortunately, they are rare. It would cost perhaps fifty thousand dollars to build as I wish.’ Mr. Blair frowned. s ‘ You think I am extravagant,’ she said, timidly. ‘ I hope not. St. Francis would not like that. It will all be very plain, very simple.’ ‘ My daydream is on a bigger scale than yours, Mother. It would cost more than a hundred and fifty thousand dollars.’ When at last she understood what it was he offered to do, the Mother’s eyes filled with tears. She longed to tell him all that was in her heart: how, for many years she had prayed for this; how discouraged she had sometimes grown, how she had persevered, trying to hope. ~ ' , ‘You are too good, too good!’ she cried, with a lit lie sob that made the words eloquent. ‘ Oh, to think that the poor little children are to have a place for themselves at last ! But are you certain you can afford all this?’ ‘Quite certain. I wish it meant a sacrifice. It doesn’t. I have no children; my wife is dead, so it is easy for me. Besides, lam but paying a debt. l—owe more than I can ever hope to pay.’ The nun, young though she was and childlike in her simplicity, was old in her dealings with every phase of human sorrow. She saw deep, and she saw quickly into aching hearts. She looked up at Mr. Blair with tender, pitiful eyes. ‘ This will pay all your debt, Mr. Blair, however great it may be. .God is good and merciful.’ He believed her as implicitly as a child would have done, and went away consoled at last, no longer a man of stone. Are Maria. . .