TOOMEY AND OTHERS
 
 The shambling old fellows were proceeding very 
 slowly.
 
 TOOMEY AND 
 OTHERS 
 
 BY 
 
 ROBERT SHACKLETON 
 
 ILLUSTRATED 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER S SONS 
 NEW YORK -=> =.=. 1900
 
 Copyright, 1900, by 
 Charles Scribner s Sons 
 
 TROW DIRECTORY 
 PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Page 
 
 How Toomey Willed his Government Job 1 
 A Burial by Friendless Post .... 29 
 Over the River from Blackwell s ... 57 
 
 A Police Court Episode 85 
 
 The Experiment of Frederica .... 93 
 The Misery in Mis Randolph s Knee . 127 
 
 Before the Archbishop 151 
 
 The Promotion of Berkwater . . . .18} 
 
 On Cherry Hill 205 
 
 A Proposal During Shiva 215 
 
 1 702159
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 The shambling old fellows were proceeding 
 very slowly Frontispiece 
 
 Page 
 
 " But he s given you all the money straight 
 
 enough," said Duggan 8 
 
 " But I m only behind because I ve been out 
 of work," protested Duggan 16 
 
 " I think I ll keep it awhile myself," he said. . 24 
 
 William Morrison . . . was now serving 
 
 his second term 37 
 
 A few of the old soldiers . . . looked after 
 
 the little procession 50 
 
 " I guess it s another advertisement," he said. 60 
 
 The two moved to the front of the line. . . 81 
 
 As a child she had danced on the sidewalks. . 100 
 
 The first snow fell 119
 
 viii ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Page 
 
 At the door she gave a backward look. . . . 132 
 The door of that wagon swung open. . . . 148 
 
 While the water surged against the stone re 
 taining w r all 159 
 
 Still she prayed, bowed before the altar. . . 179 
 " It is all a mistake worse than a mistake." 191 
 
 " Yes, I was promoted ! But I told General 
 
 Sherman ! " 202 
 
 He . . . walked straight up to the girl. . 212 
 Their patriarchal faces half in shadow. . . 218 
 She peered between the iron bars of the fence. 230 
 
 Weidberg . . . slunk a little away from 
 her 240 
 
 He took her hand and held it firmly in his. . 253
 
 HOW TOOMEY WILLED HIS 
 GOVERNMENT JOB
 
 HOW TOOMEY WILLED HIS GOV 
 ERNMENT JOB 
 
 " BEING in sound mind and body, do 
 1, hereby resign my position in the 
 Custom-house ; and, being after dying, as 
 I fully believe, and of sound mind and 
 body as aforesaid, do hereby will my job, 
 which I have held so long, to my good 
 friend Dennis Duggan ; and I hope Michael 
 McShea will agree to this, and I hereby 
 ask him to give the job to Duggan, this 
 being my last will." 
 
 It was in broken sentences, for he was 
 very weak, that old Toomey slowly dic 
 tated the document, and it was with evi 
 dent pride in the composition. " You see 
 how careful I am to put that in about be 
 ing in sound body and mind?" he said, 
 as Duggan slowly wrote down the words. 
 " It s points like them that spoils many 
 3
 
 4 HOW TOOMEY WILLED 
 
 a will, Duggan ; but you see I look out 
 for you I look out for you, Dennis." 
 
 "Yes," said Duggan, sighing deeply; 
 and he caught the eye of the comely Mrs. 
 Toomey, so soon to be a widow, and she 
 sighed mournfully in return. " Yes, Too 
 mey, and there s only one point more. It 
 isn t signed yet, and many a will s been 
 lost through not being signed many a 
 will s been lost through that. Will you 
 sign it now, Toomey ? " 
 
 Toomey answered with a touch of irrita 
 tion. " Oh, I m not so near going as that, 
 Dennis. I ve life in me yet, even though 
 my time may be near at hand." 
 
 " The the doctor sobbed Mrs. 
 Toomey. She was thinking of the doctor s 
 prophecy as to the few hours of life re 
 maining to her husband. Now, Toomey 
 never liked to hear Mrs. Toomey sob, and 
 so, to divert her mind from her grief, he 
 said : " Here, Duggan, give me that pen 
 cil, and after I sign it Mary ll sign it as a 
 witness." And so Toomey signed the 
 will, and Mary witnessed it ; and then he 
 signed another will, giving to his wife all 
 of his property " both really and in per-
 
 HIS GOVERNMENT JOB 5 
 
 son," as he expressed it ; and then he lay 
 back wearily, and his face grew ashen pale. 
 Little by little he gasped out : 
 
 " It ll be all right now it ll be all right. 
 There s nobody to dispute the money with 
 you, Mary, but brother Tim s children and 
 my cousins. But you ll file the will at 
 court, and there s $2,300 in the three 
 banks, and you ll get it. And the other 
 will, Duggan, it don t need to be filed in 
 any court, for it concerns a job that s 
 nobody s business but McShea s and 
 mine." 
 
 His earthly business thus concluded, he 
 turned his face toward the open window, 
 and looked out across the tenement street, 
 and listened to the myriad of sounds that 
 floated up to him. And again Duggan 
 dolefully sighed, and again sighed the 
 comely widow that was to be. It was a 
 hot evening in midsummer, following a 
 torrid day ; and Eldridge Street is one of 
 the most densely populated neighborhoods 
 of that most densely crowded portion of 
 New York. Toomey had lived in his 
 simple rooms, on the top floor of his par 
 ticular tenement, for a quarter of a cen-
 
 6 HOW TOOMEY WILLED 
 
 tury, and had grown to love all of the 
 neighborhood sights and sounds. 
 
 " Who s any happier than me ?" he was 
 wont to say. And to-night, as he looked 
 and listened, the thought came to him, 
 more bitterly than at any previous time 
 in the course of his illness, that it was 
 very hard to go away and leave all this. 
 For many classes and conditions go to 
 the making up of the life of the great East 
 Side. There is poverty there, and there 
 is inconceivable crowding, and there is 
 lack of food and air, and there is un 
 speakable misery ; but there is also much 
 of happiness, and there are many who 
 have plenty of money for comforts and 
 gayeties. Squalor and prosperity are con 
 stant neighbors, not only on the same 
 streets, but in the same huge tenements. 
 
 Toomey looked at the scores of people 
 who clung sprawlingly on the iron fire- 
 escapes and balconies that gridironed the 
 fronts of the buildings and gridirons they 
 in very truth still were, as the sun, after 
 baking them to a furious heat, was but a 
 short time set, and the iron was still warm. 
 But the population of the street, men and
 
 HIS GOVERNMENT JOB 7 
 
 women and children, were mostly am 
 bulatory, and moved aimlessly about, and 
 shifted back and forth on the pavement 
 and sidewalks below. The shuffling of 
 feet, the chirring hum of talk, the screams 
 of children as they played together or 
 savagely tore at each other in wrath, came 
 up to Toomey, and he thought again of 
 how sad it was to lose it all. To a stranger 
 the sounds would have been an indistin 
 guishable medley, but the practised ear of 
 Toomey could disassociate each from each. 
 
 He heard the vibrant clink of glasses in 
 the near-by saloon. He heard the sinister 
 clang of the patrol wagon, while it was 
 still two blocks away, but to him it was 
 but one of the many sounds that united 
 to enhance the attractiveness of the street. 
 " I wonder if it s Tim Hogan, and if he s 
 been beating his wife again," he murmured. 
 Above the confused dissonance he caught 
 the distant sounds of a Salvation Army 
 squad, and gently smiled as he listened to 
 the notes of " There s a Land that is Fairer 
 than Day." 
 
 The tune ceased, and he half whispered : 
 " Yes, and that s where I m going. And
 
 HOW TOOMEY WILLED 
 
 I only hope the district leader up there 
 will be as square as Michael McShea, for 
 if he is I ll be all right." He paused a mo- 
 \S\ %; merit. "They re 
 
 ":^>^:>> kneeling now," 
 
 he said. And 
 his wife and 
 Duggan looked 
 at each other 
 and commiser- 
 atingly shook 
 their heads, 
 thus mutely 
 agreeing that 
 poor Toomey 
 was becoming 
 delirious. 
 
 "But he s giv 
 en you all the 
 money straight 
 enough," said 
 Duggan, draw 
 ing close to 
 
 her. " Yes ; and he s given you the job," 
 she responded. 
 
 From the corner of a fire-escape diag 
 onally opposite shone the fitful glow of
 
 HIS GOVERNMENT JOB 9 
 
 a pipe, and Toomey knew that Irene 
 Baumann and her lover were there, that 
 corner of that fire-escape having been 
 adopted as their own, and yielded by the 
 other tenement dwellers through court 
 esy, as they all knew that Irene s mother 
 objected to the girl s going with the 
 young man to the parks or recreation 
 piers. Against the fronts of the buildings 
 huge shadows, cast by the street-lights, gro 
 tesquely flung themselves. The notes of 
 a twangy guitar floated in from a rear 
 tenement. 
 
 Old Toomey s eyes wearily closed. " It s 
 all so good. I hate to leave it. And 
 what will they do without me ? " He 
 was not, however, thinking of his wife as 
 he said this, but of many of the needy to 
 whom he was in the habit of doing little 
 kindnesses; but even in his whispered self- 
 communion he did not mention any names, 
 for he was always reticent about the good 
 that he did. 
 
 Toomey had for twenty-three years held 
 a position in the Custom-house. It was 
 not a place of great consequence. It was 
 only that of a packer and weigher, and
 
 io HOW TOOMEY WILLED 
 
 it had only yielded the sum of $725 a 
 year. But in his own estimation and in 
 that of his friends there was a certain dig 
 nity attaching to the position, more than 
 to that of street-sweeper or assistant jani 
 tor of a public building, for example, and 
 so he had been the object of considerable 
 good-natured envy, which had, of course, 
 been enhanced by the length of time that 
 he had been able to hold the place. There 
 were many who would prize the job, now 
 that he was giving it up. 
 
 " Duggan, I ve willed you a good thing," 
 he whispered, faintly, turning his head 
 from the window. Duggan bent over him 
 in deep concern. " Will there be any 
 trouble about my getting it?" he asked. 
 Toomey tried to shake his head. " How 
 could there be ? " he answered. " McShea s 
 never had anything against me !" 
 
 Duggan tried to make conversation, 
 clumsily feeling this much to be incum 
 bent upon him, after such a gift, even 
 in the presence of soon-coming death. 
 " Who s the Collector of Customs in New 
 York now ? " he asked ; but Toomey 
 answered, with a touch of impatience :
 
 HIS GOVERNMENT JOB 11 
 
 "I don t just remember; I don t 
 know as I ever knew." 
 
 " No, of course not," replied Duggan, 
 soothingly. " Of course not. You never 
 had any reason to. I ll ask McShea, if I 
 ever need to know. He s been district 
 leader for a great many years, hasn t he, 
 Toomey ? And it s many years that you ve 
 held your job under him." 
 
 " A long time, and always gave McShea 
 the fullest satisfaction," sobbed Mrs. Too 
 mey. " But McShea ll get another good 
 man when Duggan takes your place," she 
 added, as she dried her eyes on a hem of 
 her skirt. Toomey, although dying, looked 
 a trifle annoyed, and frowned ever so little, 
 but the other two, looking at each other in 
 mutual commiseration, did not notice it. 
 
 " And who was President of the United 
 States when you first got the job ?" Dug 
 gan continued, still under the impression 
 that the circumstances of such a gift de 
 manded appreciative conversation from 
 him. 
 
 " I don t know ; but McShea was 
 Toomey stopped, and could not complete 
 the sentence.
 
 12 HOW TOOMEY WILLED 
 
 " Yes, yes, poor fellow. You ve served 
 under a good many presidents and a good 
 many collectors. Do you remember who 
 was the Collector of Customs, in this city, 
 when you first got your place ? " 
 
 " No. I never paid any attention 
 to presidents or collectors," the dying man 
 whispered. " My district leader was the 
 only man I ever thought of." 
 
 " And that s just so," put in Mrs.Toomey. 
 " Such things as collectors or presidents 
 never makes no difference. You must al 
 ways remember that, Dennis. It s the 
 district leader that s the one to look out 
 for. Whatever he says, always goes. Keep 
 solid with McShea, Dennis, and you ll 
 
 hold the job as long as " But here she 
 
 again had recourse to the hem of her skirt. 
 Toomey noticed this, and hurriedly strove 
 to create a diversion. "If I was you, Dug- 
 gan, I d get after McShea right off. It 11 
 be all right if he knows I want you to have 
 the job, and have put it in my will, but he 
 may hear of my being sick, and 
 
 His face again grew very white, and he 
 became so weak that it seemed as if death 
 was near at hand. The doctor, who at
 
 HIS GOVERNMENT JOB 13 
 
 that moment arrived, stepped briskly to his 
 bedside, while Duggan, spurred on by the 
 fear of losing his job, hurried off to find 
 McShea. At the foot of the long series of 
 stairways he met the priest. 
 
 Duggan found the district leader in a 
 saloon on the Bowery, below the rooms of 
 the political club of the district. With a 
 great deal of trepidation, for he had always 
 held the great man in awe, he stepped up 
 to him. " Toomey s dying, and he s made 
 this will," he blurted out. 
 
 McShea, leaning against the bar, slowly 
 read the paper that Duggan nervously 
 poked up into his face, and then looked 
 back at Duggan with much of dubiety. 
 McShea was very stout, with grizzled hair, 
 deep-set eyes, bulbous nose, and firm lips. 
 His face at first sight seemed ordinary, 
 but a second glance showed that it ex 
 pressed capacity of an unusual order, and 
 you began to realize how it was that he 
 had been able to hold the position of dis 
 trict leader in his assembly district for 
 nearly thirty years. 
 
 For a district leader, to be successful, 
 must be a man of determination and abil-
 
 14 HOW TOOMEY WILLED 
 
 ity, full of tact and resourcefulness. He 
 is the head of his clan, and his clan is 
 composed of every voter of his party in 
 the district. He sees to it that his tribes 
 men have their full proportion of city jobs, 
 both transient and of the more permanent 
 character. For instance, when a big hotel 
 burns down, and many lives are lost, and 
 the city puts hundreds of laborers at work 
 clearing the ruins in the search for bodies, 
 each district leader in the city if his is 
 the party in charge of the city s politics 
 hurries the unemployed men of his district 
 to the contractor, and the contractor must 
 fairly balance the claims of all, or else he 
 is sure to obtain no further jobs from the 
 city. 
 
 When a voter is sick, the district leader 
 is expected to see to it that he is cared for. 
 When the voter is in need, his need must 
 be relieved, or else an order must be ob 
 tained, transferring the sufferer to the Alms- 
 house or a public hospital. The head of 
 the district clan has all the responsibilities 
 of a tribal chief. And for the many bene 
 fits, actual and potential, of which he 
 stands as the source, he expects an un-
 
 HIS GOVERNMENT JOB 15 
 
 questioning return. The men must vote 
 right at every election, and those who aim 
 to get the most benefits must keep up their 
 membership in the local political club. 
 
 McShea looked at Duggan doubtfully. 
 He set his glass down, and it stood in a 
 beery ring. He slowly wiped his lips on 
 a towel that hung beneath the bar. Sev 
 eral members of the district club, who had 
 been sitting at diny tables, lounged for- 
 
 O O*" ^> 
 
 ward. They cast hostile glances at Dug 
 gan, who nervously asked them all to 
 drink. They promptly did so, and then, 
 putting their glasses down in five beery 
 rings, and wiping five mouths on the hang 
 ing towels, resumed their hostile looks. 
 
 " Duggan wants Toomey s place. 
 You ve all heard he s very sick. Well, 
 Toomey s willed his job to Duggan," said 
 McShea, in curt explanation. There were 
 times when, contrary to his usual habit of 
 deciding alone, he chose to submit ques 
 tions to his retainers, and the matter of 
 Toomey s job he felt to be a fitting one 
 for such a submission. He smiled grimly 
 as he noted the angry clouding of the five 
 countenances. Duggan weakly told the
 
 16 HOW TOOMEY WILLED 
 
 barkeeper to " ask the gentlemen what they 
 would have," but this time they all refused 
 to drink, and scowled upon him in a dark 
 ling circle. 
 
 " We heard that Toomey might die," 
 said McShea, " and there are forty-two 
 members of the club who are applicants 
 for his job." 
 
 " And each of us is a man as has paid 
 his dues square up," put in one of the 
 men. 
 
 " But I m only behind because I ve 
 been out of work," protested Duggan ; 
 " and I ll pay up all my back dues out of 
 my first month s pay." 
 
 The circle sniffed. " When you get 
 the job," said one. The circle laughed, 
 and Duggan flushed with mortification. 
 McShea looked on, judicially contempla 
 tive. " When s Toomey likely to die ?" 
 he asked. 
 
 " The doctor says to-night ll be the last 
 that he ll sure go before morning," re 
 plied Duggan. " And that s why he 
 wanted me to see you at once about his 
 job." 
 
 " That s bad," said McShea. " Poor
 
 But I m only behind because I ve been out of work," 
 protested Duggan.
 
 HIS GOVERNMENT JOB 19 
 
 fellow ! I didn t know he was quite so 
 sick as that. I ll go up and see him to 
 night." 
 
 " But about his job " began Duggan 
 again, persistently. 
 
 The district leader s patience gave way. 
 He had been somewhat embarrassed by 
 the forty-two applications, and the diffi 
 culty of deciding so as to make no ene 
 mies, and he was really annoyed that this 
 will should further complicate the situa 
 tion. He knew that many would believe 
 that Toomey slast will should be respected, 
 and he also knew that there would be in 
 evitable dissatisfaction should the desira 
 ble job be given to Duggan, who had 
 been derelict with his membership and 
 dues. He turned on Duggan sharply. 
 
 " Why didn t you apply to the Presi 
 dent ? Don t you know this is a job in 
 the United States Custom-house? What 
 have I got to do with it, do you suppose ? " 
 
 Duggan looked at him, open-mouthed. 
 
 " You re the district leader, and and 
 Toomey always said 
 
 Still more irritated, McShea interrupted 
 him. " And don t you know that at least
 
 20 HOW TOOMEY WILLED 
 
 the Collector of Customs is the head of his 
 own department here, and that he s got 
 all the say in such matters ? I m the dis 
 trict leader ? Yes ! But what have I got 
 to do with all you fellows, except to keep 
 track of your meetings and the way you 
 vote ? Do you expect me to settle every 
 question that comes up ? Take that will 
 to the Collector, and see if he ll give you 
 the job!" 
 
 Duggan s mouth was open wider than 
 ever, and the jaws of the other five also 
 dropped. The idea, thus propounded by 
 their leader, awed them. They exchanged 
 glances of dumb amazement, and every 
 man spat solemnly into the big wooden 
 cuspidore. Duggan was the first to re 
 cover himself. "Ah, you re just guyin us! 
 There s nobody bigger n the district leader. 
 Whatever you say goes, and there ain t no 
 collector going to say a word. See ? " 
 
 McShea deigned to unbend. " What ll 
 it be ? " he said. And the line, including 
 Duggan, straightened up, and seven el 
 bows simultaneously arose. 
 
 " And now, Duggan, you go back to 
 Toomey. You can tell him that theques-
 
 HIS GOVERNMENT JOB 21 
 
 tion of who gets his job must be left to a 
 vote of the club. There s too many mem 
 bers who have paid their dues and want 
 the job, and who told me so before I 
 heard of his will, to let me decide on .the 
 matter without giving them a chance to 
 be heard." 
 
 " But Toomey thought 
 
 " Never you mind, just now, what 
 Toomey thought ! You go along, and 
 we ll see what can be done." 
 
 " If it s going to be left to us," put in 
 one of the men with a sour grin, " why, 
 you can tell Toomey that I want the job 
 myself." " And me, too ! " cried another, 
 as the swinging screen hit the disappearing 
 Duggan in the back. " And we ve all 
 paid our dues reg lar ! " 
 
 The crestfallen Duggan did not hurry 
 back, and when he reached Toomey s 
 tenement both the doctor and the priest 
 had gone. Toomey, fully prepared for 
 death by bodily and spiritual ministrations, 
 was talking with his wife. He had been 
 told that he was unexpectedly holding his 
 strength, and that there might still be a 
 leeway of half a day or so. This had
 
 22 HOW TOOMEY WILLED 
 
 cheered him, and his eyes were brighter 
 as he glanced out of the window, and he 
 feebly hummed in unison with the guitar 
 that some one was still twanging, out of 
 tune, in the rear tenement. 
 
 " There s the Aarons going to bed on 
 the corner of the roof. It s a wonder, 
 with all their children, that none of them 
 ever falls over the edge! And there s 
 Irene Baumann s young man going. He 
 always goes at half-past nine sharp, for he 
 works in a gas-house and has to be there 
 at ten. And there s the patrol gong again ! 
 I ll bet it s after Tim Hogan this time ! 
 I wonder if the judge ll send him to the 
 Island or let him off with a fine ! " 
 
 His eyes were alight with eagerness, but 
 a broken sob from his wife recalled him to 
 a realization of the fact that in all proba 
 bility he was not going to be on hand to 
 know how the case would be decided. 
 
 " Don t cry, Mary. And don t let me 
 dying make you very unhappy. You ve 
 got all the money and I want you to be 
 sure after a while not to be lonely. 
 There s other good men and maybe 
 after a good while "
 
 HIS GOVERNMENT JOB 23 
 
 "You were always so thoughtful for 
 me," she sobbingly spluttered. " And, if 
 you really mean it, and want me to, I think 
 I ll do as you tell me to ! " 
 
 "Ah! " murmured Toomey. And then 
 he again lay very still, listening to the 
 noises of the street, for in midsummer the 
 East Side never really goes to sleep. The 
 noises were, however, gradually changing 
 in character, and lights were flitting about 
 in the tenements across the way. More 
 and more came the realization of all that 
 he was about to lose, and he answered in 
 monosyllables several questions tearfully 
 put to him by his wife. And then came 
 in the disappointed Duggan. 
 
 " McShea won t let me have the job ! 
 He says there s too many asked for it be 
 fore he knew of your will ! " 
 
 " Won t let me will my own property 
 as I want to ! " exclaimed the dying man. 
 " A job I ve held for over twenty years ! " 
 He sat up in the bed, disregarding Mrs. 
 Toomey s frightened expostulations. 
 
 "No, he won t!" said Duggan. Too 
 mey put one foot over the edge of the bed. 
 " I ll go and see him myself! he said.
 
 24 HOW TOOMEY WILLED 
 
 "But you re dying! You re dying!" 
 wailed his wife. Just then the shrewdly 
 forceful face of Me Shea peered in at the 
 door. He had knocked, but in the excite 
 ment no one had noticed it. The district 
 leader looked from Toomey to his wife, 
 and from her to Duggan. Then he looked 
 hard at Toomey again. Mrs. Toomey and 
 Duggan looked at each other and then 
 back at the dying man. No one spoke, 
 till Toomey himself, putting his other foot 
 over the side of the bed, broke the silence. 
 " I feel so much stronger, that I was just 
 going to go and see you," he said ; " about 
 my government job, you know, and my 
 will." 
 
 McShea s eyes twinkled. " Toomey, 
 it s no use. There s too many after it. If 
 I was you, and feeling as strong as you 
 seem to, I d keep my job, and my wife, 
 and my money ! " 
 
 A stronger wave of sound rolled up. 
 Again the patrol gong sounded. There 
 was the clangor of an ambulance. From 
 the saloon on the corner came confused 
 shouts. Men and women screamed. Peo 
 ple peered over the edges of the roofs, and
 
 HIS GOVERNMENT JOB 27 
 
 windows and fire-escapes became suddenly 
 alive. The sounds became a roar. 
 
 Toomey, in a tingle of excitement, ran 
 to the window, leaned far out, and ex 
 citedly shouted inquiries that nobody 
 heeded or even heard. His wife and Dug- 
 gan tugged at him in vain. McShea looked 
 on in grim amusement. 
 
 Ambulance and patrol wagon went 
 dangerously away. The crowd dispersed. 
 The roar of sound died down. Toomey 
 turned back into the room. Mrs. Toomey 
 sat down, stupefied into silence. Duggan 
 tried not to scowl. The eyes of the dis 
 trict leader twinkled. The almost defunct 
 packer and weigher was for a moment dis 
 concerted, but as he caught the twinkle in 
 his district leader s eyes he braced himself 
 with a grin. 
 
 " If you won t let me will my job, Mc 
 Shea, I think I ll keep it awhile myself," 
 he said.
 
 A BURIAL BY FRIENDLESS POST
 
 A BURIAL BY FRIENDLESS POST 
 
 LEMUEL HALL, exhausted and al 
 most unconscious, lay alone in his 
 little room on the top floor of a rear tene 
 ment on Ludlow Street. His landlord, 
 going to collect his pittance of rent, found 
 him huddled in a corner, with the late 
 rays of the afternoon sun shining upon him 
 with dark obscurity through the dustily 
 opaque glass of the small window. 
 
 The ambulance surgeon said that he was 
 suffering from lack of food, and invigorated 
 him with stimulants. Then Hall explained 
 that he had been unable to earn any money 
 for several weeks, as he was so feeble and 
 so bent with rheumatism that nobody 
 would employ him. He said that he had 
 not tasted food for two days, and added, 
 simply, that he had hoped death would 
 come without his plight being discovered, 
 as the thought of receiving charity was 
 almost unbearable. 
 
 31
 
 32 A BURIAL BY FRIENDLESS POST 
 
 The landlord summoned a policeman 
 and had Hall taken into custody on a 
 charge of vagrancy. He told the officer 
 that the man was penniless and down 
 hearted, and that he feared he would com 
 mit suicide. When taken the next morn 
 ing to Essex Market Court, Hall weakly 
 waited with the crowd of prisoners in the 
 unventilated " pen," and when his name 
 was called, he staggered out in front of the 
 bar. 
 
 " Is that man drunk ? "asked the magis 
 trate, sharply. 
 
 " No, Your Honor, but I understand 
 he s starving." 
 
 A hush fell upon the crowded, stuffy 
 little court-room as the magistrate leaned 
 over his desk and looked down at Hall, 
 who tried, with pitiable ineffectuality, to 
 stand erect and save his pride. 
 
 " He was arrested yesterday, after the 
 adjournment of court, and there s no ap 
 propriation, you know, for the feeding of 
 prisoners till they ve been arraigned and 
 formally remanded," continued the officer. 
 " I didn t hear of his case until a few min 
 utes ago. I understand that the ambu-
 
 A BURIAL BY FRIENDLESS POST 33 
 
 lance surgeon gave him stimulants, but 
 that he hasn t had anything since." 
 
 "What is your business? Have you 
 any family or friends? "said the magistrate, 
 looking at Hall with kindly scrutiny. 
 
 " I I used to be a machinist but I 
 can t get work at at anything. I m will 
 ing to sweep or shovel but I m rheumatic 
 and stiff. I ve no friends " 
 
 The judge handed some money to one of 
 the court officers. " Take this, and go out 
 and get something strong and nourishing 
 for the man," he said, with a brusqueness 
 that was intended to hide the unjudicial 
 character of the act. And at that a ragged 
 fellow, who had just been fined a dollar 
 for drunkenness, and who had stood, after 
 paying his fine, to watch the man who had 
 been found starving, stepped back to the 
 bar and said : 
 
 " Judge, Your Honor, it wuz two dol 
 lars as I was expectin to be foined, an me 
 woife sint in to me that same, an now I ll 
 take it koindly if you ll let me give this 
 extry dollar to 
 
 But Hall interrupted him, hurriedly. 
 "No, no. I thank you but I can t take
 
 34 A BURIAL BY FRIENDLESS POST 
 
 your money." And a woman in a faded 
 shawl and gown, and of an appearance that 
 showed years of toil and hardship, pushed 
 her way to the front, and with a look of 
 set determination seized the would-be gen 
 erous man by the arm, took the dollar 
 from his hand, and pushed him unresist 
 ingly toward the door. 
 
 " Hall, I don t want to commit you to 
 the Workhouse as a vagrant," said the 
 magistrate, kindly. " I feel a sympathy 
 with a man in your condition, for you are 
 evidently intelligent, and you impress me 
 as one who has done his best to make a 
 living. I shall send you where you will 
 be given medical care if you need it, and 
 where you will always be warm and have 
 plenty to eat. I shall see that you are 
 temporarily strengthened before you leave 
 this building, and then you will be taken 
 to the Almshouse." 
 
 "Don t, don t make a pauper of me!" 
 cried Hall. "Let me just creep away 
 somewhere and die ! " But the judge 
 briefly ordered the next case to be called, 
 and two officers removed the limp form of 
 Hall to an ante-room. In the afternoon
 
 A BURIAL BY FRIENDLESS POST 35 
 
 he was taken to Blackwell s Island and 
 entered as an inmate of the Almshouse. 
 
 From the first, in his new home, he was 
 reserved and reticent. The garrulous cu 
 riosity of the old men who crept and hob 
 bled about him and plied him with cun 
 ningly contrived questions as to his past 
 resulted in very little, for of his past he 
 would not speak, further than to say that 
 he had once been fairly prosperous, and 
 had had a family, but that now he had no 
 money and his family were all dead. His 
 comrades grumbled at his balking of their 
 curiosity. 
 
 " What can we talk of, over here, if 
 new-comers won t tell us all about them 
 selves ? " was the burden of their complaint. 
 Yet, in spite of this, Hall soon made him 
 self well liked. 
 
 Inflammatory rheumatism, complicated 
 with complaints that had come through 
 neglect and insufficient food, kept Hall a 
 prisoner within his ward for a considerable 
 part of the time, and frequently caused him 
 excruciating pain, but he was always eager 
 to be out as much as possible. Wearily 
 walking, one day, toward a sunny corner
 
 36 A BURIAL BY FRIENDLESS POST 
 
 overlooking the East River and its swirling 
 tide, he saw a couple of others hobbling 
 toward the same spot, and, reaching it, he 
 found a score of crippled and palsied and 
 feeble men holding what seemed to be a 
 meeting, with a blind man acting as chair 
 man. Several of the men had but an arm 
 apiece ; others had lost a leg ; all were 
 weak or disabled. Dressed in the Alms- 
 house suits, with cap and jacket and trou 
 sers of the same cheap cloth, which was 
 neither a gray nor a brown, but an indis 
 tinguishable mixture of both, according as 
 the wind and sun had weather-stained 
 them, the men had anything but a mili 
 tary aspect ; and yet there was something 
 about them that told Hall that they were 
 meeting as old soldiers. 
 
 He hobbled away, feeling that he ought 
 not to intrude upon a private meeting, but 
 his curiosity was great in regard to what he 
 had seen, and he soon learned that he had 
 come upon a meeting of Friendless Post, 
 which met, in some part of the grounds or 
 in a corner of one of the buildings, almost 
 daily. Most frequently, they met at the 
 spot where he had come upon them. He
 
 A BURIAL BY FRIENDLESS POST 37 
 
 was pained to learn that, among the twenty- 
 eight hundred inmates of the pauper insti 
 tution, were thus a score or so of men who 
 had helped to fight the battles of their 
 country. 
 
 The men were not a part of the Grand 
 Army of the Republic. It never occurred 
 to them that 
 they could be 
 admitted, and, 
 indeed, they 
 would have 
 shrunk from ask 
 ing for recogni 
 tion as a pauper 
 Post. The name 
 of Friendless 
 Post had been 
 given them by a 
 newspaper man, 
 
 and had been at once adopted by the 
 veterans themselves and all on the Island. 
 They once a year elected a leader, and 
 William Morrison, a blind man, was now 
 serving his second term. 
 
 Gradually, Hall became acquainted with 
 a few of the members; and, introducing
 
 38 A BURIAL BY FRIENDLESS POST 
 
 the subject of their war experiences, found 
 that with the slightest encouragement they 
 became interminably garrulous. By show 
 ing himself a good listener he aroused a 
 strong friendship in the breasts of the with 
 ered old fellows; and so, one day, as he 
 again went by apparent chance near the 
 spot where the veterans were meeting, he 
 was greeted with shrill and crackly cries 
 of welcome. 
 
 " Come over here ! Sit down and talk 
 with us ! We ll tell you all about the 
 war!" 
 
 Hall limped over to them, and after 
 punctiliously formal introductions got 
 down, with squirms of pain for his rheu 
 matism was quite bad that day on one of 
 the planks beside them. Three of the most 
 helpless, who had been carried to the spot 
 by their comrades, occupied a bench to 
 gether. A couple of other benches, for 
 the more feeble, served with a few planks 
 and the grass itself for seats for the rest 
 of the Post. The men were vying with 
 each other in tales of various campaigns, 
 and although the stories had been told 
 dozens of times they were listened to at-
 
 A BURIAL BY FRIENDLESS POST 39 
 
 tentively, for each man knew that the only 
 way to secure attention for himself, when 
 he came to tell his own oft-repeated tales 
 of camp and march and battle, was to 
 show interest in the adventures of the 
 others. 
 
 Frequently, after that, did Hall join the 
 garrulous gathering, and he always listened 
 with close attention. Sometimes the old 
 fellows condoled with him that he had not 
 been able to be a soldier himself, and he 
 always responded that it would indeed 
 have been something to be proud of. And 
 one day, when old Jube Marriott was tell 
 ing a prosing tale, he could not recollect 
 the name of the river just north of Alla- 
 toona Pass, and stammeringly hesitated in 
 his story. 
 
 " The Etowah," said Hall. " The river 
 that Johnston didn t want to cross till he 
 could fight Sherman s left wing at Cass- 
 ville, you know." 
 
 A silence fell upon the group, and Mar 
 riott was too much taken by surprise to 
 continue his tale. " I didn t know you d 
 ever been in Georgia," he said. 
 
 " Oh, yes," said Hall, looking with em-
 
 40 A BURIAL BY FRIENDLESS POST 
 
 barrassment over the water, while he felt, 
 rather than saw, the glances of amazement 
 that the men exchanged. Within a few 
 minutes he said that he would have to be 
 going, and the others were still too sur 
 prised to make more than a half-hearted 
 effort to detain him. Then they held a 
 council of war, as they termed it, and after 
 a deal of discussion and solemn supposi 
 tion, Aleck Hanny said : 
 
 " Comrades, there ain t but one explana 
 tion. This man Hall was a Confedrit, a 
 Rebel, an that s why he knows about these 
 things, an it s why he was always so blame 
 careful not to let us think he knowed a 
 thing." 
 
 "Yes," said the others. " Hall was a 
 Confederate." 
 
 " But," said Blind Morrison, gently, 
 " we must remember, comrades, that the 
 war is over, and that each side thought 
 itself right. Don t let any of us treat him 
 any different. We must have him meet 
 with us just as he s been doing. And we 
 must not let him think we have discovered 
 his secret, for that would probably keep 
 him away from us, and I am sure, from the
 
 A BURIAL BY FRIENDLESS POST 41 
 
 sound of his voice when I have heard 
 him speak, that he has enjoyed being with 
 us. Let us be brave soldiers, and do noth 
 ing that would seem to be still fighting 
 him." 
 
 It was not only that the veterans always 
 listened to their blind leader with respect, 
 but that in this case his words also ap 
 pealed to their rough sense of chivalry, 
 and so, when Hall absented himself for 
 several days from the meetings, Hanny and 
 Marriott sought him out, told him they all 
 missed him, and the three hobbled and 
 limped together to the meeting-place. 
 There, however, although the veterans, by 
 dint of intense self-control, refrained from 
 asking direct questions as to Hall s army 
 life, they could not keep from hovering on 
 the verge of the forbidden ground by 
 forming inquiries in regard to distances, 
 places, and campaigns in the South, and 
 whenever Hall answered the questions, 
 which they put to him with a labored effort 
 to be natural, they furtively exchanged 
 glances of intelligence. " I have been in 
 the South, and of course know a good 
 deal about it," he said, lamely.
 
 42 A BURIAL BY FRIENDLESS POST 
 
 For a week the old soldiers were able 
 to keep from letting Hall know of their 
 discovery, but they made up for their self- 
 denial by prosing endlessly on the subject 
 in their own wards and when Hall was 
 not with them. And one day slow-witted 
 Fred Ohlens blurted out, but from igno 
 rance rather than design : 
 
 " Don t you Rebs feel that it was best, 
 after all, for us Unions to have whipped 
 you ? " 
 
 " What ! " exclaimed Hall. " Did you 
 take me for a Confederate ? " He gasped, 
 and looked around the group, and saw 
 that every man was indeed of that opin 
 ion. " I was not a Confederate ! No ! 
 I was But he stopped, twisted him 
 
 self as nearly erect as his rheumatism, 
 which had of late been growing worse, 
 would permit, and went slowly away, with 
 not a single voice to call him back. 
 
 " Then he must have been a deserter!" 
 That was the stern verdict rendered against 
 him, and not even Blind Morrison had a 
 word to say in his defence. 
 
 Hall did not reappear at the meetings, 
 nor did any member of Friendless Post
 
 A BURIAL BY FRIENDLESS POST 43 
 
 suggest that he be sent for. He was often 
 spoken of, and, taking their tone from 
 Morrison, the men gradually came to re 
 fer to him with pity, although not one 
 would have consented that he again meet 
 with them. For two weeks none saw him, 
 for his ward was quite a distance from 
 those of the members of the Post, and 
 there was nothing strange, amid the great 
 population and the various buildings of 
 the institution, thata man should for many 
 days chance not to be seen. But one day 
 Marriott had news. 
 
 " Lemuel Hall s in the hospital ward. 
 He hasn t been out of bed for a week, and 
 the doctor says he s dying." A silence fell 
 upon the group. " Comrade Hanny," 
 said Morrison, at length, " will you please 
 lead me to the sick ward ? " 
 
 Hanny was semi-paralyzed and had but 
 one leg, but he had long been a close friend 
 of Morrison s, and was almost always the 
 one who acted as the blind man s guide. 
 Friendless Post watched in silence as the 
 two companions started, arm in arm, toward 
 the building to which the sick man had 
 been taken. The doorkeeper allowed
 
 44 A BURIAL BY FRIENDLESS POST 
 
 them to pass, and they went haltingly 
 down the cot-lined aisle, with hollow-eyed 
 men intently watching them. Lemuel Hall 
 saw them coming, and a light of eagerness 
 came into his eyes. 
 
 " Comrade for you were our comrade 
 once," said Morrison, " is there anything 
 we can do for you ? " 
 
 " No. But it is good of you to come. 
 Otherwise, I should have died without a 
 friend to speak to me." He was very fee 
 ble, and his words came with difficulty. 
 
 " And I wanted you to know," went on 
 Morrison, clumsily striving to ease the dy 
 ing man s mind, "that all of us feel sure 
 that, whatever your reason was for for 
 leaving the army as you did, you must have 
 had some very strong temptation I mean 
 that all of us think you were an honest sol 
 dier at heart, and wouldn t act so again if 
 you had it to do over and if another old 
 soldier, who gave his own eyesight for his 
 country, can do or say anything that will 
 help you, he wants to do it." 
 
 Hall s face grew very white. " They 
 think me a deserter," he whispered, but 
 more to himself than to them. Then he
 
 A BURIAL BY FRIENDLESS POST 45 
 
 feebly tried, but in vain, to get his stiffened 
 hand into his bosom. 
 
 "There s a paper there; take it," he 
 gasped. " I had thought that I would die 
 with it, and ask the nurse to tell no one 
 about it, but just have it buried with 
 me. I I it was my pride. I was too 
 proud to say, when I was a pauper, that 
 I had been a soldier. It was a mistake 
 but I didn t wan t to disgrace the old 
 flag." 
 
 He choked, and seemed very weary. 
 Morrison gently felt in his bosom, and 
 drew forth a folded paper. He knew what 
 it must be, but he passed it to Hanny to 
 read. And Hanny, with his old eyes 
 watery from emotion as well as from age, 
 spelled slowly out, word by word, in an 
 awed and hushed tone, while Hall lay very 
 silent and with a look of serene peace upon 
 his face, the document that formally certi 
 fied that Lemuel Hall had been a member 
 of the Eighty-seventh Pennsylvania Regi 
 ment, from the outbreak of the Civil War 
 until his honorable discharge at its very 
 close. 
 
 He concluded, but Hall lay very still,
 
 46 A BURIAL BY FRIENDLESS POST 
 
 and with that same look of peaceful se 
 renity upon his face. " Comrade, we mis 
 understood you," said Morrison. "You 
 were a brave man." 
 
 Hall did not reply. His expression did 
 not change. Hanny cleared his misty eyes 
 and, looking closely at the still face, ut 
 tered a low cry. Morrison bent swiftly 
 forward and laid his hand on Lemuel 
 Hall s heart, but there was no responsive 
 beat. A nurse was summoned, and she 
 gently laid a white cloth over the dead 
 man s face. 
 
 The next day a group of men, gray and 
 withered, dodderingly stumbled from the 
 Protestant chapel, bearing between them a 
 cheap coffin, covered with an American 
 flag. The faces of the men were solemn 
 with importance, and also from a sense of 
 pride in the burden that they bore. One 
 of the Almshouse clerks stepped forward 
 to save the coffin from a threatened fall, 
 but they refused his aid as if he had tried 
 to steady the Ark of the Covenant. The 
 bearers were six, and all had the stooping, 
 halting listlessness, that comes from weak 
 ness, and from day after day of nothing for
 
 47 
 
 the hands to do and almost nothing to 
 occupy the mind. 
 
 Behind them came the firing-squad ; six 
 more men, each of whom carried a gun, 
 and each of whom wore a long blue over 
 coat, such as were worn by inmates sent on 
 errands, in winter-time; and which, on oc 
 casions like the present, were privileged to 
 answer for military coats. Behind the fir 
 ing-squad, who awkwardly formed on 
 either side of the bearers in the little sunny 
 spot beside the chapel, came another shriv 
 elled and wrinkled few, rubbing their fee 
 ble eyes as they emerged from the gloom 
 of the interior into the bright sunlight. 
 
 It was a proud privilege of the handful 
 of old soldiers to bury, with military cere 
 mony, such of their number as died on the 
 Island, and thus it was that Lemuel Hall 
 was to be honored in death so far as 
 Friendless Post could honor him. 
 
 "Attention!" cried William Morrison, 
 who, most erect of the entire group, stood 
 with bared head and shoulders thrown 
 back, and a look of grave earnestness upon 
 his face. He knew that the men were 
 ready, for the shambling, stumbling shuffle
 
 48 A BURIAL BY FRIENDLESS POST 
 of the veterans had ceased, the guns had 
 
 * o 
 
 been awkwardly dropped at rest, and he 
 had heard the butts strike the ground, 
 while a little chorus of coughing and of 
 
 O O 
 
 clearing of throats, which was quite invol 
 untary on the part of the old fellows, bore 
 testimony to their self-consciousness and 
 also to the fact that they were waiting for 
 the start. 
 
 " Forward, march ! " cried Morrison, and 
 away from the chapel and down the road 
 way, shaded from the heat of the sun by 
 overhanging branches, the shambling, qua 
 vering procession went. Beside them the 
 swift tide swept and gurgled, and upon 
 the surface of the roughened East River 
 the sunlight refulgently glistened. 
 
 Profoundly wrapped up in the sense of 
 playing an important part, the veterans 
 were oblivious to the fact that the cere 
 mony they were performing was attracting 
 but little appreciative attention. Groups 
 of Almshouse inmates stood aad watched 
 them pass; some, indeed, with admiration 
 at so brave a show, but most with care 
 less indifference. A few employees and 
 guards also watched them, and some even
 
 A BURIAL BY FRIENDLESS POST 49 
 
 smiled at the poor old fellows clumsiness, 
 while on the faces of but very few was there 
 any expression of interest or sympathy. 
 
 Blind Morrison marched bravely at the 
 head of the desolate group, with Aleck 
 Hanny awkwardly stumping along beside 
 him, and now and then guiding him by a 
 word or touch. The firing squad, proud 
 est and most self-conscious of the party, 
 strutted pitifully, stiff with wounds and 
 feebleness and rheumatism, holding their 
 guns in erratically varied positions, and 
 unconsciously shifting them, to ease their 
 hands and shoulders, as they marched, 
 and thus pointing the muzzles in eccen 
 trically new directions. But the guns 
 were not loaded. The blank cartridges 
 that were to be fired were not to be put 
 in till the squad should stand beside the 
 grave, for otherwise there would have 
 been six individual salutes, accidentally 
 fired at startlingly unexpected intervals, 
 before the firing party had gotten a hun 
 dred yards from the chapel. 
 
 The coffin bearers grew red in the face 
 and staggered weakly, but none asked to 
 be relieved of the burden of which all were
 
 50 A BURIAL BY FRIENDLESS POST 
 
 so proud. A few of the old soldiers, too 
 crippled or feeble to accompany the fu 
 neral party, looked after the little proces 
 sion with wistful longing. Some, too, of 
 the regular Almshouse inmates, in addi 
 tion to those who stood in groups along 
 the roadway, looked lazily after the veter 
 ans from the windows of their wards or 
 from doorways, but the majority of the 
 hundreds of men and women who made 
 their home there were absolutely uninter 
 ested, and sat unmoved upon the benches, 
 or lay sprawled upon the grass, sluggishly 
 gazing, as was their occupation for hour 
 after hour and day after day, at the hurry 
 ing tide and the passing boats, in dormant 
 apathy. 
 
 At the storehouse dock lay the steamer 
 that had just unloaded its morning cargo 
 of criminals, paupers and sick, for the pub 
 lic hospitals, the Almshouse, and the penal 
 institutions of that island of varied misery. 
 The captain was impatient, for he saw that 
 the shambling old fellows were proceeding 
 very slowly. They were not only desirous 
 to prolong the glory of their march, but 
 hoped also that they would not reach the
 
 A few of the old soldiers . . . looked after the little 
 procession.
 
 A BURIAL BY FRIENDLESS POST 53 
 
 dock with their dead comrade till the 
 criminals had been inarched away. Yet 
 they did not dare actually to loiter, for 
 they knew, from previous experience, how 
 harshly they would be berated for such 
 temerity. They had once been told, in 
 deed, that they ought to have the privilege 
 of soldiers funerals taken away from them 
 for actually presuming to compel the boat 
 to wait four minutes. To-day they had 
 underestimated, a little, the time within 
 which the boat would be ready for them. 
 
 "Hurry up there! What are you so 
 slow about ? " cried the captain, roughly, 
 and Blind Morrison, in his eagerness to 
 respond, tripped over a stone, and would 
 have fallen had not Hanny quickly caught 
 him. The entire party then increased their 
 pace, while the mate, obedient to the cap 
 tain s command, ran out to meet them and 
 hurry them along. It was with a cowed 
 and humble air that the veterans reached 
 the dock, and shuffled, without order, 
 aboard the steamer. A line of Workhouse 
 prisoners, about to march off in custody of 
 their guards, forgot their own plight and 
 jeered at the discomfited men, while the
 
 54 A BURIAL BY FRIENDLESS POST 
 
 fifteen convicts who formed the crew of 
 the steamer grinned appreciatively in re 
 turn. 
 
 " Step lively, there ! Just take that up 
 in front with the other bodies ! " 
 
 Friendless Post went to the forward 
 end of the boat, bearing the body with 
 them, but they did not put it down beside 
 the other coffins that were there piled up, 
 for the others held pauper bodies from the 
 Morgue, that were to be given burial in 
 Potter s Field, while it was the pride of 
 Friendless Post that the soldier dead es 
 caped that fate, one of the G. A. R. 
 Posts, of New York, having purchased a 
 plot of ground on Hart s Island, near, in 
 deed, to the Potter s Field, yet entirely 
 separate from it, and given it to the vet 
 erans of the Almshouse for use as a sol 
 diers cemetery. 
 
 To that dreary island, in Long Island 
 Sound, where New York City annually 
 buries over two thousand pauper or un 
 known dead, the steamer puffed its lei 
 surely way, and the soldiers were hurried 
 ashore with their burden. At the little 
 plot of land where, though paupers in life,
 
 A BURIAL BY FRIENDLESS POST 55 
 
 they could at least lie in free soil in death, 
 the company took on an aspect of curious 
 dignity, and even the mate, who had gone 
 after them to hurry their proceedings, 
 took off his hat as he neared them and 
 stood silent as he watched. 
 
 A friendly keeper, who had accom 
 panied the party, loaded the muskets, the 
 tottering firing-squad lined up beside the 
 open grave, and the service for the dead 
 was slowly monotoned. Blind Morrison, 
 whose arm was held tight by Hanny to 
 keep him from stumbling into the open 
 grave, stood sombrely bowed, and tears 
 crept down his wrinkled cheeks. The 
 chaplain concluded the brief service. The 
 firing-squad, with a reawakening of self- 
 conscious glory, braced themselves with 
 tense importance, and Hanny whispered 
 to Morrison when all was ready. 
 
 " Fire ! " said Morrison, loudly. 
 
 There came a scattering response, for 
 the old and palsied fingers were too much 
 affected by the nervousness of the supreme 
 moment to give a concerted volley. Point 
 ed down, or up, or toward either side, the 
 guns flashed out their salute over the grave
 
 56 A BURIAL BY FRIENDLESS POST 
 
 of the dead soldier, and Morrison stood in 
 stiff rigidity till the sixth shot had sounded. 
 Then, spurred on by the mate, and with 
 out semblance of order, Friendless Post 
 shambled stragglingly back to the boat.
 
 OVER THE RIVER FROM BLACK- 
 WELL S
 
 OVER THE RIVER FROM BLACK- 
 WELL S 
 
 THE deaf man who once in a while 
 went over to the blind men s ward, in 
 the Almshouse, to read the papers aloud, 
 was slowly plodding through the task. 
 
 He had no judgment in regard to his 
 reading. He was, indeed, barely more 
 than able to read at all. He would begin 
 at the top of a column, at random, any 
 where in the paper, and read slowly 
 through to the bottom, taking in every 
 thing impartially. Whether the columns 
 were of editorial matter, or advertisements, 
 or home news, or foreign despatches, he 
 did not care. 
 
 His reading to the blind men was largely 
 from kindness of heart, and largely from 
 vanity. 
 
 "They re so glad to have me do it," he 
 would say. " And they don t get up and 
 59
 
 60 OVER THE RIVER 
 
 walk away, and they don t come and read 
 over my shoulder if I m getting along a 
 little slow, and they don t bother me with 
 questions. Or if they do, I don t hear 
 them," he would add, with a grin. 
 
 He was, indeed, almost totally deaf. 
 To-day he had read the advertisements of 
 half a dozen dry-goods houses, and had 
 then begun the description of a half-page 
 picture. 
 
 " I guess it s another advertisement," he 
 said, after looking at it for some moments 
 in doubt. " Probably a new style of pants 
 or hat is coming in fashion. It shows a 
 tall man, pretty thin, with a big hat on, 
 and pants that s tied under his shoes to 
 keep them from slipping off. One foot s 
 on a place with the name Cuba on, and 
 the other s touching Phil Philip Pines. 
 And he s a-straddling all over the United 
 States to get to Philip. Guess it means 
 the things will be good to use in all kinds 
 of places, but I don t see the name of any 
 store." 
 
 Blind Morrison punched him gently with 
 his stick. " It s meant for Uncle Sam ! " 
 he shouted.
 
 FROM BLACKWELL S 63 
 
 " Hey ? " said the deaf man. 
 
 " It s meant for Uncle Sam ! " And 
 then Morrison put his lips against one ear, 
 and another of the blind men put his lips 
 to the other, and they shouted in unison. 
 
 " It s Uncle Sam !" 
 
 The deaf man was irritated. He caught 
 only the last word. 
 
 " Sam ? " he said, querulously. " Sam, 
 do you say ? What s his other name ? 
 And how do you happen to be so sure 
 about it ? Hey ? " 
 
 The blind men humbly bent their heads, 
 just like men who can see. The deaf 
 reader glanced back at the page, and sniffed 
 angrily. 
 
 " It says Philip, here, anyhow, and there 
 ain t any Sam ! And who s reading this 
 paper ? Is it me or you ? That s what 
 I d like to know ! " 
 
 Half a dozen of the men gently tapped 
 him with their sticks, in a way that he 
 knew meant an appeal for patience, and 
 after several minutes of sniffing, and of 
 grumbling threats never to read again to 
 them, while the poor fellows listened in 
 dread, he resumed his task, and began an
 
 64 OVER THE RIVER 
 
 account of the bringing back, to New 
 York, of the bodies of those members of 
 one of the local regiments who had been 
 killed in the war in Cuba. 
 
 " The bodies of the dead sol 
 diers will arrive at New York 
 on Sunday and will be escorted 
 to the armory by the regiment 
 
 Morrison listened with absorbed atten 
 tion. While the struggle in Cuba had been 
 in progress he had never been able to feel 
 much interest in it. As a veteran of the 
 Civil War, and the informal leader of the 
 handful of old soldiers who lived at the 
 Almshouse, he had underrated the war 
 with Spain, with its little armies, its few 
 fights, none of which, in his mind, attained 
 to the dignity of a battle, and its small 
 losses. 
 
 But of late his ideas had gradually 
 changed. He had come to somewhat of 
 an understanding of the significance of the 
 struggle, somewhat of a realization of the 
 world-wide importance of the conquests 
 that his nation had made. 
 
 And so Morrison s admiration for the 
 New Army and Navy had steadily grown :
 
 FROM BLACKWELL S 65 
 
 but he thought of it all as the " Army," 
 that word covering both services, to his 
 mind. He regretted that he had so long 
 belittled and ignored the war, and felt that 
 he must now, as an old veteran and the 
 leader of Friendless Post, make all the 
 amends in his power. He was beginning 
 to grasp the meaning of the word " Ex 
 pansion." 
 
 The reader droned slowly on. " The 
 line of march will be up Broad 
 way and Fifth avenue. At the 
 armory the bodies will lie in 
 state." 
 
 An idea flashed suddenly upon Morri 
 son s mind. Would it not be a proud privi 
 lege for him to be present at Sunday s 
 ceremony ? Was it not a solemn duty as 
 well ? All of his neglect and indifference 
 were forgotten. The desire to do honor 
 to the soldiers of the New Army surged 
 over him like a wave. 
 
 The deaf man went ploddingly on, and, 
 as he read, Morrison was picturing to him 
 self the death of the soldiers from fever 
 and bullets on the Cuban hills. He was 
 thinking of the continued struggle of the
 
 66 OVER THE RIVER 
 
 regiments in the jungles and swamps of 
 the Philippines. And he thought of the 
 banks of the Chattahoochee, the sweep 
 of the army through the rice swamps of 
 the Carolinas. Yes, it was all the same. 
 These men of the New Army were risk 
 ing their lives just as he and his comrades 
 had done in the years that were gone. 
 
 He listened till the last word of the ac 
 count was read. The deaf man next gave 
 the description of a big fire, went from 
 that to a political meeting, read a humor 
 ous account of a runaway, and finished the 
 page with a medley of advertisements. 
 But of all this Morrison heard nothing. 
 His mind was filled with thoughts of the 
 glory of the New Army ; of the honor 
 paid to the flag abroad ; of how the world 
 had awakened to new respect for the 
 strength of the Republic, as displayed in 
 the Spanish War. 
 
 The reading at length concluded, and 
 the paper folded up with noisy crinklings, 
 the deaf man coughed and hemmed till 
 he had been thanked over and over again. 
 He beamed upon the humble men. He 
 bristled with importance.
 
 FROM BLACKWELL S 67 
 
 " It s a great good thing to be able to 
 read," he said. He was thinking only 
 of his own abilities and advantages. He 
 did not mean to hurt the blind men. 
 And, indeed, they were so accustomed to 
 scorn and carelessness that the feelings 
 of most of them had become well cal 
 loused. 
 
 Morrison tapped his way from ward to 
 ward to find his friend and comrade, Aleck 
 Hanny. 
 
 " Oh, man ! It s all come over me with 
 a rush ! There s a funeral on Sunday a 
 funeral of the New Army ! " 
 
 "In New York -and will there be 
 marching?" asked Hanny. 
 
 "Yes. They ll march. And it s dead 
 soldiers brought home from Cuba. And 
 I must go, Hanny! I must go! You ll 
 go with me, Hanny?" 
 
 From its tone of excitement, the voice 
 had sunk to a pitifully pleading sound. 
 "You ll go with me, Hanny?" And 
 Hanny comforted him. 
 
 " Yes, yes. I ll go. Of course I ll go. 
 Did I ever desert you, Morrison ? " 
 
 " No. You ve been a good friend ; but
 
 68 OVER THE RIVER 
 
 I wanted to go so much, and I was afraid 
 that maybe " 
 
 " Yes, yes. Of course. But now you 
 know it ll be all right," said Hanny, still 
 speaking very soothingly. 
 
 " Will there be any trouble about our 
 getting passes to go ashore on Sunday, do 
 you think ? " asked Morrison, with a new 
 touch of fear. 
 
 " Oh, no," replied Hanny. " We ll get 
 them easy enough." 
 
 " Let s go and get them now," insisted 
 Morrison. " Maybe there will be so 
 many ask for that day that they won t let 
 us." 
 
 So the two went together to the office, 
 and the desired passes were given them. 
 Not till the coveted bit of paper was actu 
 ally in Morrison s ringers did the fear that 
 he might be disappointed vanish. 
 
 His eagerness to be with the New Army 
 grew steadily more intense. His being 
 blind locked his emotions into narrower 
 channels, but this alone was far from ex 
 plaining the intensity of his desire. He 
 talked of nothing but the war with Spain 
 and in the Philippines. " Seems as if
 
 FROM BLACKWELL S 69 
 
 Morrison has just heard that there s been 
 some fighting," was the general comment. 
 
 He sat by the water-side with Hanny, 
 and a few other members of Friendless 
 Post, as the veterans were called, and they 
 sang old war-songs and cheered each pass 
 ing ship. The others caught the infection 
 of excitement from the blind man. When 
 meal-time came, Morrison let himself be 
 led to join the waiting men, where scores 
 stood patiently in line while other scores 
 ate; but when his turn at the table came 
 he could scarcely swallow anything. He 
 was too excited to be hungry, and the 
 thick soup, the lumps of meat, the cheap, 
 thin tea, were tasteless to him. He 
 thought only of the New Army. 
 
 Night came, but he could not sleep. 
 He, usually so quiet and self-controlled, 
 tossed and tumbled on his narrow cot, in 
 the big bare ward. He sang army songs, 
 and even tried to give vocalic utterance to 
 a funeral dirge, from what he remembered 
 of how a band had played it, years be 
 fore. At this, even the long-suffering of 
 his blind companions gave way, and a 
 sleepy keeper cursed him till he lay still.
 
 70 OVER THE RIVER 
 
 The keeper reported him, the next day, 
 for disorder in his ward, and as a punish 
 ment his leave of absence was revoked. 
 When Hanny learned of this he was deep 
 ly indignant, and stumped off to expostu 
 late, but his interference resulted only in 
 the revocation of his own leave as well. 
 
 The men were terribly disappointed ; 
 Morrison, from a sense of personal loss 
 which he would have been quite unable to 
 explain, and Hanny from his sense of loy 
 alty to Morrison and his appreciation of 
 his comrade s distress. Morrison s enthu 
 siasm had changed to sombre bitterness. 
 
 " I d risk my life to go over there," he 
 said, at length, in half-aloud soliloquy. 
 For several minutes, Hanny did not re 
 spond. The remark of Morrison was crys 
 tallizing in his mind an idea that already 
 had taken shape there. Yet he hesitated 
 about expressing it, and when he did his 
 voice quivered a little, although he tried 
 to make it big and strong. 
 
 C5 O 
 
 " Let s go over, anyhow," he said. 
 " Go over ! What do you mean ? How 
 can we do it ? " cried Morrison. 
 
 " Float ! " was Hanny s laconic reply.
 
 FROM BLACKWELL S 71 
 
 " But I m blind, and you re paralyzed 
 and got only one leg ! " 
 
 " We ll do it ! " said Hanny, his voice 
 getting every moment braver. " Friendless 
 Post never had as good a leader as you, 
 and, besides that well, I feel if there s 
 anything I can do for you, I m ready to do 
 it. And I m not the only old soldier here 
 that feels the same way, though maybe 
 you never suspected it. We can get away. 
 We ll make a raft. We re trusted, you 
 know, to go around pretty free, an after 
 supper we ll come back here, an fix it up. 
 I ve got it all planned." 
 
 After supper, Hanny led Morrison out 
 from the buildings, instead of taking him, 
 as usual, to the blind ward, and so con 
 trived it that they were able to keep out 
 of sight of the guards till nightfall. The 
 discipline is not strict there, as such a thing 
 as an escape from the Almshouse is not 
 looked for. A guard, indeed, did come 
 upon the two fellows, but they sat very 
 quiet, and he contented himself with gruff 
 ly ordering them to go to their wards. 
 
 With eager haste Hanny worked to 
 make a simple raft. Two boards, about
 
 72 OVER THE RIVER 
 
 fifteen feet in length, that had carelessly 
 been left by carpenters, after a repair job, 
 and which had been carried here by Friend 
 less Post to serve as seats, were dragged to 
 the edge of the river, and bound together 
 with stout cord that Hanny had secured 
 on the plea of needing it for repairs to his 
 cot. 
 
 Morrison was exhilarated. He was eager 
 to help Hanny push and tug. When 
 forced to wait, idly, while Hanny worked, 
 he was in a fever of impatience. The cool 
 night-wind struck his face, and his spirit 
 exulted. A dash of rain came, but he 
 barely noticed it. When the raft was 
 ready, together they lifted it to the very 
 edge of the retaining wall, and one end was 
 dropped into the water with a splash. An 
 other moment, and the entire raft was in, 
 and held against the wall by the exertion 
 of all of Hanny s strength, as he leaned 
 down to it, and the dark water tugged and 
 strained. 
 
 " Now, Morrison, quick ! Get down, 
 and fix yourself at that end ! Twist your 
 legs under the boards, and hold tight ! " 
 
 Morrison showed an alert certainty in
 
 FROM BLACKWELL S 73 
 
 his movements that was astonishing. He 
 crept over the edge like a cat, and felt his 
 way to his place. " I m ready," he said. 
 
 " Here take this piece of wood. You 
 can paddle with it, and change sides as I 
 tell you. I ve got another like it for this 
 end. Don t get washed off and here 
 goes ! An if it s good-by for us well, 
 good-by ! " 
 
 He gave the raft a vigorous push toward 
 mid-stream. The raft heaved and swayed. 
 Before the middle of the river was reached 
 the current was on them in almost its full 
 strength, and every moment it grew worse, 
 for the tide was changing. Blackwell s 
 Island is but a little below Hell Gate, and 
 the river boils and whirls in fury. 
 
 For a while the men paddled frantically, 
 but soon they flung the pieces of wood 
 aside and twisted their arms about the 
 raft. They clung in desperation. Toward 
 the Metropolitan Hospital they were car 
 ried by an eddying current, and now Mor 
 rison s end was the front, and now Han- 
 ny s, while the next moment the raft 
 would float broadside or circle round and 
 round. A fiercer current bore them back.
 
 74 OVER THE RIVER 
 
 The river churned more wildly. The 
 waves washed over the men, deluging and 
 almost choking them. The white caps of 
 the waves were tossed into their faces in 
 showers. 
 
 A big steamer, with its decks crowded 
 with passengers, swept by, and they heard 
 the music of a band and the laughter of 
 the men and women. They cried out to 
 gether, but their hoarse wail was unheard. 
 The swell of the steamer piled the waves 
 still higher. The long boards dipped and 
 swung in vicious jerks, for the current was 
 not only swift but full of whirls and ed 
 dies, and again great waves rolled over the 
 men and again they choked for breath as 
 they emerged. 
 
 Another steamer passed, and Hanny 
 gave a cry. " I m off !" he screamed. For 
 the tugging current had finally so be 
 numbed his arms that he could barely 
 clasp the boards; and an eddying wrench, 
 that came with the strength as of hands of 
 steel, had dragged him from his hold. 
 
 Morrison heard him, and grappled for 
 htm with a desperate grasp. The swirling 
 boards swung the two men together, and
 
 FROM BLACKWELL S 75 
 
 with a cry of joy the blind man seized his 
 friend and dragged him back to the raft. 
 The cords parted. The heaving waves 
 threw one board upon the other. But the 
 wiry strength of Morrison exerted itself in 
 a supreme effort, and his legs and arms 
 took the place of cords, and held the 
 boards together for a few moments till 
 Hanny, his own strength restored by the 
 imminence of his peril, also grasped them 
 round about with his arms. 
 
 From the first Hanny had been distract 
 edly praying, and vowing all sorts of vows 
 if his life would but be spared, and now 
 the vowing and the praying recommenced. 
 Between his prayers he shouted encourage 
 ment to his companion, but Morrison was 
 very silent and scarcely spoke. 
 
 Below Blackwell s Island the raft was 
 swiftly spun close to the Long Island City 
 shore, and the violence of the current 
 rapidly disappeared. Hanny tried to get 
 his bearings. He saw the smoke and the 
 li^ht of mills and refineries. A great 
 
 o " 
 
 glare shot up from a chimney, and for a 
 few moments he saw a wide expanse of 
 water, and the lines of docks, and great
 
 76 OVER THE RIVER 
 
 ferry-boats, and the outlines of the huge 
 buildings on the Island, that they were 
 fast leaving behind them. A period of 
 relief followed. The current grew less 
 and less rapid. The raft was carried 
 diagonally across the river, toward the 
 New York side. Opposite Twenty-third 
 street a ferry-boat almost ran into it. The 
 men called out, and a deck-hand heard 
 them and peered over the edge. Proba 
 bly, however, he did not see them. They 
 were too tired, and too much overcome by 
 the reaction after the strain of deadly 
 peril, to call out again, although several 
 other boats passed close to them. As 
 they neared the rounding point at Grand 
 Street, Hanny saw that they were gradu 
 ally nearing shore. His energy reawoke. 
 
 " Paddle with your arms, Morrison ! 
 I ll kick with my leg and steer with my 
 crutch ! " he cried. 
 
 Until now, his crutch had been tightly 
 bound at his side, he having taken this 
 precaution before embarking on the raft at 
 the Island. The boards were slowly pro 
 pelled into a slip. The tide was high, and 
 Hanny looked for a spot where they could
 
 FROM BLACKWELL S 77 
 
 most easily clamber to the top of the dock. 
 The blind man went up first. Then he 
 turned and reached for his companion s 
 arm. Hanny, almost exhausted, was 
 drawn up, and the two men sat there 
 shivering and trembling, now that the 
 danger was past. 
 
 Morrison was the first to realize the 
 necessity of moving. The dock was black 
 and deserted. But they went toward the 
 nearest lights, and in a few minutes Hanny 
 learned where they were. He had a little 
 money, saved from a small sum a relative 
 had sent him, and he was generously will 
 ing to spend it. He led Morrison to where 
 they could get a warming drink. The 
 saloon-keeper looked at them in surprise, 
 but asked no questions. They went to a 
 fifteen-cent Bowery lodging-house, leaving 
 a dripping trail along the sidewalks, and 
 both were so fatigued that they were soon 
 asleep, in spite of the hardness of their 
 bunks and the turmoil of their thoughts. 
 
 The forenoon of the next day they spent 
 at the dingy public room of the lodging- 
 house, only going out to get breakfast at a 
 St. Andrew s stand. They had a bun and
 
 78 OVER THE RIVER 
 
 a cup of coffee apiece, and Hanny paid 
 four cents in all. At noon, at the same 
 stand, they each drank two cups of coffee, 
 and each of them also ate two buns and a 
 dish of pork and beans. For this, Hanny 
 paid ten cents. Then the men went slowly 
 to Washington Square and sat down on a 
 bench in the shadow of Washington Arch. 
 
 " We re by an arch made by the man 
 who made the Declaration of Independ 
 ence," said Hanny. " He s the man that 
 made us all free, you know." 
 
 Morrison did not notice the shuffle and 
 murmur of the gathering crowd, for his 
 ears were strained to catch the first notes 
 of the music of the New Army. The 
 throng ranged itself along both sides of 
 the road by which the procession would 
 approach the Arch. At length the wail 
 ing funeral dirge struck Morrison s ear. 
 
 o o 
 
 " They re coming ! " he cried ; and groups 
 about him turned toward him in surprise, 
 so full of solemn joy was the sound of his 
 words. 
 
 " Take my arm, Hanny." And the two 
 moved to the front of the line, for the peo 
 ple fell aside to give the old men place.
 
 FROM BLACKWELL S 79 
 
 Morrison forgot his fatigue and stiffness. 
 His old muscles grew very tense, and he 
 stood very vigilant and straight. Hanny 
 braced himself on his crutch, and stood as 
 erect as he could beside him. The notes 
 of the dirge grew louder and stronger, as 
 the head of the procession left Broadway 
 and moved across the Square. 
 
 A hush fell upon the spectators. Be 
 tween throngs of bare-headed men, and 
 women in whose eyes shone tears, the 
 regiment slowly marched. Morrison stood 
 rigidly at salute. " The Dead March from 
 Saul" sounded solemnly. A few people 
 looked wonderingly at the weeping blind 
 man. 
 
 " The New Army ! " he whispered. 
 " The New Army ! " 
 
 " Many of em s yellow-faced, and 
 many s peaked and thin," said Hanny. 
 
 " Yes, yes," said Morrison. "And when 
 any of them come to the Island, Friend 
 less Post will be proud of them, and make 
 them welcome." 
 
 Into Fifth Avenue the regiment turned. 
 The band ceased. There was but the 
 muffled beat of the drums, and as the line
 
 8o OVER THE RIVER 
 
 passed on the sounds became inaudible, 
 even to Morrison s ears. But he heard a 
 beating that was more to him the slow 
 foot-falls of the soldiers, with now and then 
 a gentle clink of steel. There was a break 
 in the foot-falls, marking a gap in the line. 
 A profounder silence fell upon the crowd. 
 
 " It s the colors ! " whispered Morrison. 
 "And they re draped in black ! I know 
 I know ! " 
 
 Another battalion followed, and then 
 came the slow rumbling of wheels. " The 
 coffins are on caissons," said Hanny. 
 
 " I hear them I know I know ! And 
 there are flags around them, too ! Poor 
 fellows poor fellows! But ar n t the 
 people proud of them, Hanny ? Ar n t 
 they proud ? " 
 
 The last caisson rumbled by. Morrison 
 and Hanny fell in hesitatingly, at the rear 
 of the line. So slowly did the procession 
 move that the blind man and the cripple 
 could keep up with it. Fearful that at 
 any momenta policeman might order them 
 aside, but exulting with every step that 
 they were allowed to follow, the old veter 
 ans passed under the Washington Arch,
 
 FROM BLACKWELL S 
 
 81 
 
 and up the great avenue of wealth. It 
 
 would have been easy to fancy that the 
 
 blind man and the cripple were boding 
 
 ghosts of the past, following ill-omenedly 
 
 after the soldiers of the present, had it not 
 
 been for the 
 
 happiness 
 
 that shone 
 
 on Hanny s 
 
 face and the 
 
 rapt joy that 
 
 transfigured 
 
 Morrison s. 
 
 A great 
 crowd was 
 gathered at 
 the regimen 
 tal armory, 
 and there, 
 too, there was 
 a profound 
 silence, as the 
 soldiers passed in and the caissons rum 
 bled up to the entrance. Hanny had be 
 come bold. He led Morrison to the door. 
 " We re old soldiers," he said. 
 
 The sentinel was thin and pale. The
 
 82 OVER THE RIVER 
 
 campaign had left its marks on him. He 
 looked at the old veterans, saluted, and let 
 them pass. " I may come to that myself," 
 he thought. 
 
 Morrison and Hanny sat on a pile of 
 accoutrements at one side of the armory. 
 Hanny looked on with a happiness that 
 was largely owing to his being permitted 
 to enter such a place while the public were 
 still held at the door. Morrison listened 
 to every sound with awed intentness, and 
 was living over again the days of his own 
 army life. The tramping of the soldiers 
 over the great wooden floor, the low-voiced 
 orders, and the clattering fall of the butts 
 on the boards, thrilled through and 
 through him. At length the doors were 
 thrown open, and he listened to the soft 
 shuffle of the people passing by, as the 
 bodies lay in state. 
 
 One of the soldiers, recognizing that 
 they were veterans, led the old fellows to 
 the armory kitchen, and saw that they 
 were fed. At length the time came that 
 they dared stay no longer, and they left 
 the armory and made their way to the 
 ferry landing.
 
 FROM BLACKWELL S 83 
 
 It was hours, that night, before the two 
 men, tired though they were, could get to 
 sleep. Their brains were in a whirl, and 
 over and over again they revolved the 
 events of the past two days. 
 
 " I m proud of my country ! " That was 
 what Morrison most frequently whispered 
 to himself, while the other blind men slept 
 around him. 
 
 " I m proud of my country ! I m proud 
 I m an American ! I m proud of the New 
 Army ! And if a blind man s life could 
 help any, I d be glad to give it." 
 
 With a smile on his lips, he dropped off 
 into a doze, but in a little while awoke 
 again, his mind still in a tumult of excite 
 ment and joy. 
 
 " Hurrah for America! " he exclaimed, 
 aloud, before he realized where he was. 
 
 " Silence in the ward, there ! " growled 
 the sleepy attendant.
 
 A POLICE COURT EPISODE
 
 A POLICE COURT EPISODE 
 
 IT was in one of the New York police 
 courts, and it was as if the little waif 
 had dropped in from another world to 
 look upon the city s sin and misery, which 
 flowed through the court in a stream of 
 wretched humanity. The boy was eight 
 years old, and for three years had lived 
 with the Shakers of Canaan Four Corners. 
 His mother, who had left him there, had 
 recently written, begging that he be re 
 turned to her, and the good Shakers had, 
 with some misgivings, complied. The el 
 ders had bidden him a grave good-by, the 
 sisters had cried over him a little, and the 
 few children of the little settlement had 
 looked on in round-eyed wonder, as their 
 playmate in the solemn games of the quiet 
 place set forth on his journey into the 
 strange world of which they had heard the 
 brethren and sisters speak with such awe 
 and fear. 
 
 87
 
 88 A POLICE COURT EPISODE 
 
 The boy s mother wrote that she would 
 be at the Grand Central Station to meet 
 him, but she was not there, and after some 
 hours of futile waiting, he was taken in 
 charge by a policeman, and delivered to 
 the care of a children s society, who in turn 
 sent him to the court, for the formal orders 
 of the magistrate. The little fellow sat be 
 tween the officer of the society and a re 
 porter, and from time to time he spoke of 
 his life at the Shaker village, and told his 
 companions how the scenes enacted before 
 his eyes in the court appeared to him. 
 His voice was soft, and his features were 
 refined. He was dressed in a neat suit of 
 gray, of Shaker cut. 
 
 " Eldress Marion made it for me," he 
 said ; and his eyes brightened as he spoke 
 of her. " But everyone at theShaker vil 
 lage is always well dressed," he added, 
 looking in a puzzled way at the rags and 
 filth of a couple of prisoners, who at that 
 moment were led to the bar. " I I think 
 I don t quite understand it. Don t the 
 sisters see to mending clothes here ? " 
 
 His face again brightened as he spoke of 
 the house in which he lived. " A house
 
 A POLICE COURT EPISODE 89 
 
 as big as this ! But there aren t as many 
 brethren and sisters there as there are in 
 this one room. And the men and the 
 women never walk away touching each 
 other, as they do here. I never saw even 
 an elder take hold of a sister s arm. And 
 they never go down the same stairs," he 
 added, as he watched a policeman lead a 
 woman to the prison stairway. 
 
 A girl in tawdry finery walked to the 
 bar, and wept, and hung her head, ringed 
 in, as she was, by a row of pitiless eyes, 
 that regarded her without a touch of sym 
 pathy. The boy looked on with pained 
 wonder. The sharp voice of the judge, 
 the clamor of frequent disputes between 
 prisoners and witnesses, the buzzing, 
 droning undertone of sound, the close, 
 foul air, all troubled him. But he was 
 happy again, as he told how, on the top 
 of each great Shaker building, is a little 
 tower with a big bell, and how the peo 
 ple gather when they hear the clanging 
 strokes. His voice had a touch of awe as 
 he spoke of the religious services, and de 
 scribed how, in swaying lines, the brethren 
 and sisters moved about the room, gather-
 
 90 A POLICE COURT EPISODE 
 
 ing a blessing in their upturned palms, and 
 how they sweetly sang together 
 
 But he quivered and stopped, as from 
 the "pen," just out of sight, came the 
 drunken song of a woman. His eyes filled 
 with tears, he stirred restlessly, and his 
 voice faltered, as he asked, as he had asked 
 before, where we thought his mother was, 
 and why she had not come to meet him. 
 We got him to talk about her and to tell 
 us how she looked. She was pretty, he 
 said, and did not dress at all like the 
 sisters of the Shaker community. He re 
 membered that she used to cry a good 
 deal, and sometimes she would sing to 
 him to get him to sleep ; " and sometimes 
 there were tears in her voice, and then I 
 would cry ; and then she would pick me 
 up in her arms, and kiss me, and try to 
 make me happy again. And once in a 
 while there was singing or quarrelling in 
 the next room, after mother had left me, 
 thinking I was asleep, but I did not like 
 that singing so much." 
 
 The drunken song stopped, to be suc 
 ceeded by drunken yells; and the boy 
 shuddered. But the cries soon ceased,
 
 A POLICE COURT EPISODE 91 
 
 and he was led to speak again of the 
 pleasant life at the Shaker settlement. 
 He told of the great fields of grain, and 
 how he used to trudge after the reapers. 
 " And there were eight calves, and a 
 big black heifer, too ! " He forgot the 
 misery and sin about him, and his face 
 was eagerly aglow. " And you just go to 
 Bridge Hill, and you see a white gate; and 
 it was at that gate that I saw mother for 
 the last time, when she went away after 
 leaving me with the good folks." 
 
 The drunken woman who had been 
 singing was led into the court, and with 
 shambling jauntiness stepped to the bar. 
 Her dress, although of good quality, was 
 draggly, and it was clear that she had been 
 in the gutter. She leered knowingly at 
 the judge. The boy s hand spasmodically 
 clutched the reporter s arm. The little 
 fellow was gasping convulsively. 
 
 " Mother ! " he screamed. 
 
 The woman turned toward him. For a 
 moment she was dazed, and then, like a 
 flash, full comprehension came to her. Her 
 face grew horribly white and drawn. 
 
 " My God ! " she cried.
 
 THE EXPERIMENT OF FREDERICA
 
 THE EXPERIMENT OF FREDERICA 
 
 PREDERICA BLUHME was twelve 
 1 years old before she saw actual dark 
 ness. Then it frightened her, being so 
 unexpected, and she cried out in fear. 
 
 She had been reared on the teeming 
 East Side. The rooms, on the top floor 
 of the big tenement, just off Grand Street, 
 were four in number and small. The 
 tenement was one story higher than its 
 immediate neighbors, and at all hours of 
 the night the uncurtained windows of the 
 Bluhmes rooms looked forth upon a cer 
 tain degree of brightness. From every 
 side there was the glow of lamps or gas or 
 electricity. The street was brilliant; the 
 court-yard, with a little light on a pole, 
 was but murkily half-shadowed ; from the 
 side windows, there was a bright glow in 
 the air; the hall was dimly lit throughout 
 the night. 
 
 95
 
 96 THE EXPERIMENT OF FREDERICA 
 
 Thus it came about that Frederica had 
 never seen the full black of night. When 
 she first saw it, it was at a Fresh Air 
 Home in the Croton River country at the 
 northern edge of Westchester County, and 
 she had keenly enjoyed the day to which 
 the dark night shut in with such a sombre 
 finish. She had at times in the past been 
 taken to Central Park or the Bronx ; once 
 her parents had even taken her and her 
 two brothers on an outing for a day into 
 New Jersey ; but of the real country she 
 had known nothing. 
 
 As an attendant at a Sunday school 
 whose managers were interested in a fresh- 
 air movement, and as a child of parents 
 who, though not poor, did not feel able to 
 send their children to the country to board 
 during part of the hot weather, Frederica 
 was chosen as one of the hundreds of for 
 tunate ones to be sent to the Home. The 
 first day was a wild delight. There was 
 the excitement of going to the train, then 
 the long railroad ride of an hour and a 
 half a ride that she hoped would never 
 end, so filled with amazement was she, 
 as mile after mile slipped by. She had
 
 THE EXPERIMENT OF FREDERICA 97 
 
 never supposed there was so much coun 
 try. 
 
 Then came the entrancing ride in the 
 big bus, with a score of other children, 
 boys and girls, each one yelling at the top 
 of his voice; and then the getting out at 
 the huge building of the Home; and the 
 big dinner, and the hours of frantically 
 dashing across fields, and wading in the 
 brook, and climbing trees, and gathering 
 armfuls of weeds and grasses and flowers ; 
 and then, all wearied and out of breath, 
 the answering rush to the supper call of 
 the big bell, and then prayers and bed. 
 
 Frederica s bed was a narrow cot, close 
 to a window, and the girl, tired though 
 she was, did not immediately fall asleep. 
 The lights were extinguished, but for a 
 while, outside of the window, there was 
 the shadowy after-glow of the day. Fred- 
 erica crept to the window, leaned with 
 her arms on the sill, and looked out. The 
 glow faded into a beautiful dimness, her 
 tired little head dropped on her arms, and 
 she fell asleep. 
 
 When she woke it was with a start, and 
 she felt sore and stiff. There was a pitchy
 
 98 THE EXPERIMENT OF FREDERICA 
 
 darkness. It was one of those black nights 
 in which the hand cannot be seen an inch 
 in front of the face. And not only was 
 there the awful darkness. The air was 
 filled with sounds for which her New 
 York life had not prepared her. There 
 were the chirring of crickets, the croaking 
 of multitudinous frogs, the sawing note of 
 the katydids, the hoarse cry of the tree- 
 toad, the malignant note of the screech- 
 owl. 
 
 To Frederica it was all a frightful night 
 mare. She shudderingly drew back from 
 the window, and then her fear found voice 
 in screams. The matron came and soothed 
 her, and made a light, and talked with 
 her, but it was not till morning that the 
 little girl was fully composed. 
 
 In spite of the fright, the second day 
 brought a renewal of the joys of the coun 
 try. The trees, the running water, the wild 
 freedom of it all, the apples actually grow 
 ing on the trees ! And the feeding of chick 
 ens, and the milking! Those were never- 
 ending delights. And most astonishing of 
 all was the fact that the brook that ran 
 through the fields flowed into Plum Creek,
 
 THE EXPERIMENT OF FREDERICA 99 
 
 and that Plum Creek flowed into the Cro- 
 ton River, and that Croton River emptied 
 into a great lake, from which its water 
 was sent in huge pipes to New York City ! 
 When Frederica was told all this it was 
 almost too much of a marvel to believe. 
 Was it really true that the water which 
 flowed right past her there might flow 
 through the faucet into her own tenement 
 home ? It was so strange that the idea 
 made her gasp. When, at the end of two 
 weeks, she was taken back to her city 
 home, she was full of the marvel of coun 
 try joys and of the miracle of the city s 
 water. 
 
 The next year, Frederica was sent for 
 another two weeks to the country, but 
 after that the preference was given to 
 younger children, and for some years she 
 saw no more of the country than could be 
 viewed from the decks of excursion steam 
 ers as they sailed up the Sound or on the 
 Shrewsbury River. 
 
 As the members of the family grew 
 older, and the two brothers secured work, 
 the circumstances of the household grew 
 brighter, and there was much of gayety
 
 loo THE EXPERIMENT OF FREDERICA 
 
 and of little pleasures, for the father and 
 mother knew the value of keeping the 
 children happy at home. But there were 
 no vacations in the country, and year by 
 year Frederica s love and longing for the 
 country increased. She grew to likable 
 young womanhood. There was a demure 
 shyness about her expression, combined 
 with an effervescently droll tendency to 
 fun, that made her peculiarly attractive. 
 Her brown eyes were honest and deep. 
 Her thick hair, golden-tinted, was coiled 
 around the crown of her head like a coro 
 net. When, once in a while, she let it 
 hang, twin-braided, down her back, and 
 smiled demurely, while joy laughed from 
 her eyes, she was quaintly pretty indeed. 
 
 Hers was a sensitive soul, but she was 
 strong and brave as well, did faithfully her 
 share of the duties of the household, and 
 was both gay and helpful. Her nature 
 had in it a vivid love for music and danc 
 ing. As a child, she had danced, on the 
 sidewalks, as did the other tenement chil 
 dren, to the music of the street pianos as 
 they made their rounds ; and there was a 
 verve and grace about her motions that
 
 THE EXPERIMENT OF FREDERICA 103 
 
 distinguished her dancing from that of 
 others beside her. As she grew older, she 
 was in great demand at parties and picnics. 
 Her parents did not try to check her im 
 pulses, but they unremittingly watched 
 her development and the character of 
 her companions. The brothers frequently 
 brought friends home with them, and this, 
 too, broadened Frederica s acquaintance 
 with young men. 
 
 Both of her parents possessed a homely 
 shrewdness. They inculcated on the girl 
 a policy of frankness and showed her that 
 they were in sympathy with her life and 
 joys. They were both from the happy 
 Rhine country, and often, when their 
 children were out, they would lovingly 
 talk over the days of their own youth; the 
 vine-clad hills, and the sweeping breadth 
 of water, and the sparkle and gayety of 
 their life, which was like the sparkle and 
 gayety of their genial wines; of flower 
 garlands, and of dances where round and 
 round great circles wheeled, hand in 
 hand. 
 
 " Our Frederica would love the Rhine 
 country, eh, my Lena ? "
 
 104 THE EXPERIMENT OF FREDERICA 
 
 " Indeed, yes, my Diedrich ! " 
 
 And the two would smile fondly at each 
 other, and think again of the dancing and 
 happiness of their youth, and of the green- 
 bordered river and the old cast es, though 
 they were not antiquarians, and the two 
 old ruins near their home had been, to 
 them, merely places to which the young 
 people of their neighborhood would troop, 
 for a day s outing. 
 
 " But, Diedrich, what I am anxious 
 about is that our Frederica shall get as 
 good a husband as your Lena did ! " 
 
 Whereupon Diedrich would flush with 
 pleasure, and drop into German words and 
 idioms, long disused. 
 
 " Ja, ja ! She will a good husband get ! 
 Frederica the dancing likes ja ! but she 
 the good sense also has ! Das ist so, 
 meine Lena!" 
 
 With her brothers, or with friends, 
 Frederica often went out ; to gay parties, 
 to dances, to the recreation piers, to moon 
 light or Sunday excursions on some 
 steamer. Her life was full of pleasure ; 
 and what she most liked was the constant 
 meeting with people that she knew ; mani-
 
 THE EXPERIMENT OF FREDERICA 105 
 
 festing, in this, the gregariousness of her 
 temperament. 
 
 She even liked the mingling with the 
 customers, some of whom she knew but by 
 sight, in the little grocery store on the 
 ground floor of the tenement. The pro 
 prietor of the store was Philip Mehling, 
 and he was shrewd, saving, and economical. 
 He was a good-looking young fellow, quite 
 reserved, and mistakenly thought, by some, 
 to be a trifle slow. Even when in gay com 
 pany he seldom danced, yet was genial, in 
 his quiet, self-centred way, and had many 
 friends. His closest companion was George 
 Barth, a bright young fellow who loved 
 dancing and music as much as did Fred- 
 erica herself. Barth knew the Bluhmes 
 well, and was often Frederica s companion 
 and escort. He would often chide Philip 
 on his quietness, and on his inattention to 
 girls and to the gayeties of life. 
 
 "There you are, living in the little room 
 at the back of your store ! Spending so 
 much of your time alone ! And what do 
 you eat ? And how do you take care of 
 yourself ? You ve got money enough, and 
 ought to look around for a wife ! "
 
 io6 THE EXPERIMENT OF FREDERICA 
 
 It was with surprise that Barth finally 
 discovered that Mehling was in love, and 
 with Frederica for he was in love with 
 the girl himself. 
 
 It became apparent that, among her 
 many suitors, her choice lay between those 
 two. The young men remained as close 
 friends as ever. They said to each other 
 that what they wanted was that Frederica 
 should be happy. Their rivalry made no 
 discord. Each worked toward the same 
 goal, and Barth was far the more confident. 
 He saw to it that Frederica s life was a 
 round of happiness. Music, parties, excur 
 sions, candy, dancing and all his atten 
 tions were offered with such ease that it was 
 a pleasure to be with him. 
 
 But once in awhile the slower Mehling, 
 on evenings when she was not engaged 
 away from home, sat and talked with her. 
 He, like her parents, was from the Rhine 
 country, and he spoke of the fields and the 
 flowers, of the meadows wet with dew, of 
 the vine-clad cottages. But he also talked 
 of what was more interesting to her. For 
 a time, after coming to this country, he 
 had lived with a relative, on a farm in
 
 THE EXPERIMENT OF FREDERICA 107 
 
 central New York ; and he told her of the 
 lowing cattle, the ploughing of the fields, 
 the springing up of the grain, the corn 
 huskings, and of the great turkeys, leading 
 their broods about. And he made her 
 talk of her own brief experiences in the 
 country. 
 
 "Oh! How I love it all!" she would 
 exclaim, with shining eyes. 
 
 With a shrewdness, and a knowledge 
 of woman s nature, of which Barth would 
 never have suspected him, Mehling gradu 
 ally began to turn the talks from his own 
 past experiences, and her reminiscences, to 
 suggestions of the future. Without too 
 boldly making his advances, he yet man 
 aged to draw comparisons between life in 
 crowded New York and life where there 
 were open fields, and he spoke of farm 
 houses in which a single room was equal 
 in area to that of an entire tenement flat. 
 And he noted how the girl s eyes glowed. 
 
 Gradually, he thought it all out. He 
 himself had come to dislike some of the 
 conditions of crowded life in New York. 
 Would he feel satisfied to give up his little 
 business, go into the country, and become
 
 io8 THE EXPERIMENT OF FREDERICA 
 
 a farmer ? He feared that Frederica 
 would choose Barth, but thought her 
 affection was not so firmly fixed but that, 
 with life in the country thrown into his 
 own scale, he might, after all, still win 
 her. He made his decisive advance with 
 carefully planned abruptness, after a more 
 than usually enthusiastic interchange of 
 ideas regarding the country. 
 
 " I am thinking of making a great 
 change, Frederica." 
 
 " A change ? " she said. 
 
 "Yes. I am going to give up my store 
 give up my life in the city and go away 
 to where I can live in freedom and in the 
 midst of beauty. I am going to be a farm 
 er, Frederica ! " 
 
 " Oh! How fine that will be ! How- 
 glorious ! " she exclaimed, tremulous with 
 the thought of the happiness that was to 
 be his. " And will you write and tell me 
 all about the things you see and do there ? 
 And where is it going to be ? And how 
 soon are you going to leave us? We shall 
 all be so sorry ! But how happy you will 
 be!" 
 
 " I do not want to go alone, Frederica,"
 
 THE EXPERIMENT OF FREDERICA 109 
 
 he said, gently. " I do not know how soon 
 I shall go, or where I shall go. If the 
 woman that I love will go with me, she 
 shall decide. I shall go as soon as she will 
 go with me. I shall go to some place 
 she can love. Frederica dear Frederica 
 will you not go with me ? Will you not 
 make me happy ? Will you be a farmer s 
 wife, Frederica ? " 
 
 And Frederica, with flushed face and 
 eyes glowing with happiness, said that she 
 would go. Her parents, when it was an 
 nounced to them, were greatly pleased. 
 Barth was much disappointed, but spoke 
 to Mehling in a manly way of his victory, 
 and warmly congratulated him. 
 
 The wedding took place in a hall on 
 Grand Street, and the half-dozen carriages 
 that contained the nearest relatives, and 
 closest friends, and the groomsman and 
 bridesmaids, were a glow of color and of 
 flowers. They were duly stared at, with 
 open-mouthed admiration at so brave a 
 show, and followed by a throng of scream 
 ing children. The hall was crowded, the 
 ceremony was breathlessly watched (es 
 pecially by the young women), and then
 
 I io THE EXPERIMENT OF FREDERICA 
 
 there were music and dancing and a glori 
 ous supper. 
 
 Finding that Philip really meant her to 
 choose the district in which their home was 
 to be, Frederica, in a flutter of delight, 
 fixed upon the Croton country, for it was 
 with that section that her dearest fancies 
 lay. Accompanied by Frederica he took 
 a flying trip to the region, after some cor 
 respondence with real-estate agents, and 
 together they picked out a beautiful place, 
 that was shortly to be sold under foreclos 
 ure. Frederica was delighted, and Mehling 
 soon found himself the owner of the house 
 and farm at a price much less than he had 
 anticipated. 
 
 It was at a charming spot that the house 
 was located, between Round Top and 
 Watermelon Hill. The house stood well 
 back from the road, and from its porch 
 there was a magnificent view. There was 
 all the effect of a mountainous country, 
 among those Croton hills, and for miles and 
 miles the eye could sweep over height be 
 yond height, till the last hill was lost in 
 blue and purple haze. There were rolling 
 hills, wooded crests, wide expanses of al-
 
 THE EXPERIMENT OF FREDERICA in 
 
 ternate field and forest, while nearer by 
 were the homely fields of grain and vegeta 
 bles, intercrossed with low walls of stone. 
 Frederica had no words of praise ; she was 
 stunned with happiness ; she could only 
 turn to her husband, and throw her arms 
 around him in a transport of joy. 
 
 Over the porch clambered a great trum 
 pet vine, with deep-throated blossoms, in 
 clusters of splendid orange. A " bread of 
 heaven" tree an ailantus stood in front 
 of the porch, and in full blossom it was 
 another wonder and glory. Other trees 
 stood near by, and there were huge flower 
 ing shrubs, and there were beds of flowers. 
 Each sunset was a new beauty ; the won 
 derful variety made Frederica speechless 
 with awe, while great stripes and glows of 
 varied crimson tints faded into the opaline 
 hues of the sky. And after the sunset, the 
 air was bright with myriads of fire-flies, 
 while far above all twinkled the silent 
 stars. 
 
 And there were the cattle, and the chick 
 ens, and a turkey with its brood of little 
 ones ; Frederica almost feared that she was 
 in a wonderful dream. And then Philip
 
 112 THE EXPERIMENT OF FREDERICA 
 
 drove her, one day, to the Fresh Air Home 
 where she had felt her first taste of country 
 joy, and she watched the little children 
 playing and running about, just as she 
 had run about, years before. 
 
 " O Philip ! You have been so good 
 to me ! " 
 
 He looked at her fondly. " And I was 
 afraid you would choose Barth," he said. 
 
 She smiled with roguish happiness. " I 
 think I might have done so if it hadn t 
 been that you liked the country as much 
 as I did ! " she cried. 
 
 He felt an uncomfortable sting, and then 
 laughed nervously. She did not notice it. 
 
 Before long although she did not con 
 fess this to her husband one thing began 
 to trouble her. She wished the house 
 were on the main road, instead of a private 
 lane, because she could never see anyone 
 passing. She learned, after a time, that 
 even if she could see them all she would 
 see but few, for it was a lonely road. 
 
 The first visitor came to the house when 
 they had been there six weeks. It was 
 George Barth, who had been so cordially 
 invited, by both, that he had taken the run
 
 THE EXPERIMENT OF FREDERICA 113 
 
 up there. Her parents had expected to 
 make a visit before this, but to them it was 
 a serious task, to be long and solemnly 
 schemed for. 
 
 The visit of Barth was full of life. 
 Mehling himself, during much of the time, 
 was necessarily busy with farm work, but 
 he noticed that his friend devoted himself 
 to making Frederica happy, and that a cer 
 tain sadness that he had fancied had grad 
 ually come over her, was disappearing. 
 He watched her anxiously. Yes. The in 
 tangible weariness, the growing forlornness, 
 that he had tried to believe were but fancies 
 on his part, had all been there, for now he 
 saw that they were going away, and that 
 day by day Frederica was more bright and 
 glowing. 
 
 Each evening the three sat together and 
 talked of the past and of the future, and 
 alternated jokes and pleasantries and seri 
 ous discussion. Frederica could not hear 
 too much of all that was going on in New 
 York, and she laughed till the tears came 
 as their visitor told tale after tale of the 
 gay happenings there. Mehling, eclipsed 
 by his friend s ebullience, was, for the most
 
 H4 THE EXPERIMENT OF FREDERICA 
 
 part, rather silent. Once in a while an 
 almost lowering expression flitted over his 
 face, and he shifted uneasily. 
 
 There was not the slightest doubt of his 
 wife ; but he began to wonder, with mel 
 ancholy self-questioning, whether he was 
 the man who could give her the greatest 
 happiness. Had there been a mistake ? 
 He glowered at the floor, listening to their 
 mutual laughter, and the sound came to 
 him with a sinister tang. 
 
 " What are you so silent for ? " cried the 
 gay voice of Barth. " Tell me more of 
 what you do up here! Do you like the 
 neighbors?" He turned brightly to Fred- 
 erica. " What kind of people are they, 
 and how do you get on with them ?" 
 
 Frederica faltered, ever so little, and 
 glanced at her husband, who said, with a 
 grave discomfort that his friend could not 
 but notice : 
 
 " We know little of them as yet. We 
 in fact they seem like very nice people. 
 But we have come as entire strangers, and 
 it will be a little slow to get acquainted, 
 very well, with many of them." 
 
 The failure of even a single one of the
 
 THE EXPERIMENT OF FREDERICA 115 
 
 neighborhood residents to call was a bitter 
 point with both husband and wife, al 
 though they seldom spoke of it. The hus 
 band, occupied with farm work, of which 
 he had much to learn, and going back and 
 forth over his fields, or busy in consultation 
 with his hired man, who knew farming 
 well, did not feel the matter as did his wife. 
 And, too, the self-centred quietness of his 
 disposition tended additionally to make 
 him feel the neglect more as a slight than 
 a deprivation. He was more angry than 
 sorry. What more ought a man to wish 
 for, so he often said to himself, than the 
 wife of his choice and a home in that 
 charming country ? For day by day a love 
 for the country grew upon him. 
 
 He never suspected that Frederica s pas 
 sionate love for the country could decrease, 
 and therefore it was that he ascribed her 
 growing gloom, and then its temporary re 
 moval, to another than the true .cause. 
 
 He did not know how she hungered for 
 pleasant company. She had driven with 
 him, a few times, to the nearest town, a 
 tiny bit of a place, three miles away, but 
 had keenly felt that the few people whom
 
 ii6 THE EXPERIMENT OF FREDERICA 
 
 she saw looked on her with chill disre 
 gard. That none of them wanted to speak 
 in a friendly way became only too appar 
 ent, and she stopped going. 
 
 Some of the families of the neighbor 
 hood were descendants of ancestors who 
 had lived there before the Revolution. 
 Such people would not dream of associat 
 ing with newcomers who so evidently 
 were not of high social standing. Other 
 families were wealthy and exclusive. Still 
 others were poor, but exclusive. Others 
 were not exclusive, but were too poor to 
 essay the presumption of calling on people 
 who were evidently well-to-do. 
 
 In some way probably through remarks 
 of the hired man, who was a free-talking 
 fellow, and who had tried indefatigably to 
 draw out the husband the impression fil 
 tered through the strata of country society 
 that the Mehlings were from a tenement 
 district in New York and that the wife 
 had danced a great deal. This fixed their 
 status. A dancing-woman from the tene 
 ments! The very ones who danced often- 
 est and latest at the local gatherings were 
 the bitterest in shunning them.
 
 THE EXPERIMENT OF FREDERICA 117 
 
 And one man, who was sixty-five years 
 old, but who had been to New York but 
 once in his entire life, declared, with an 
 unequivocal conviction that compelled at 
 tentive consideration, that the big city was 
 not a good place : he had seen many bad 
 women there, who danced, so he felt sure, 
 and lived in the tenements, and he thought 
 it a bad sign a very bad sign indeed. 
 
 At the time of the visit of Barth, the 
 Mehlings had come to realize how com 
 pletely they were to be cut off. To Fred- 
 erica, it meant the absence of what had 
 been as of the very essence of life the 
 comradeship of pleasant people. Earth s 
 visit was therefore an unmixed joy to her, 
 and when he said that he must return to 
 New York, she urged him to remain, with 
 a fervid insistence that chilled her husband, 
 who bitterly noticed it, to the heart. When 
 he went away, her eyes followed him with 
 a longing that her husband, sadly medita 
 tive, observed with a painful sorrow. 
 
 In the middle of the night following 
 Earth s departure, Frederica awoke with a 
 shiver of fear. The night was pitchy dark. 
 She listened, tense and frightened. The
 
 iiS THE EXPERIMENT OF FREDERICA 
 
 air was filled with the chirring of crickets, 
 the croaking of multitudinous frogs, the 
 mingled notes of tree-toads and katydids 
 and owls. She shuddered with the fear 
 that overwhelmed her, and then could re 
 strain herself no longer, and shrieked aloud. 
 Her husband awoke, and soothed her, and 
 made anxious questioning as to the cause 
 of her fright. 
 
 " I feel lonely lonely so lonely ! " was 
 all that Frederica could say. 
 
 The next morning he said nothing about 
 her hysterical outbreak. He thought 
 that he understood it, and he was too big- 
 hearted, too loyal and loving, to upbraid 
 her or tax her with a change of heart. She, 
 poor thing, ascribed his silence to either a 
 lack of feeling or a lack of interest in what 
 most deeply concerned her. She was too 
 proud and too ashamed to try to talk with 
 him about it. She could not tell him that 
 she could not look at the brook, swirling 
 rapidly through their fields, without think 
 ing that the water was destined to go to 
 dear New York ! And what though it 
 was to be imprisoned with other water, in 
 a great reservoir, and then made to run
 
 THE EXPERIMENT OF FREDERICA 119 
 
 through a small pipe and out of a narrow 
 faucet ! It was going to New York, and 
 away from that solitary farm ! 
 
 The breach be 
 tween the husband 
 and wife, impalpable 
 at first and then 
 steadily widening, 
 began gradually to 
 affect their natures. 
 A dourness crept in 
 to his, gloom into 
 hers, and neither 
 spoke the words that 
 would have tended 
 toward a reuniting. 
 
 Storms came, and 
 Frederica shuddered as the 
 wind blew, and the rain beat on 
 the windows, and the lightning 
 flashed. The first snow fell, and 
 there were miles of dreary 
 whiteness visible from her 
 chamber window. Other snow 
 storms quickly followed, for it 
 was an unprecedentedly early 
 winter, and there were huge
 
 120 THE EXPERIMENT OF FREDERICA 
 
 drifts piled in the lane that led out to the 
 road. The lonely terror of it all so increased 
 that Frederica s nerves finally began to give 
 way, and, in spite of her protests that she 
 was not sick, Philip sent for the doctor to 
 come and see her. He was a kindly 
 man, with a homely wisdom that was at 
 tractive. He talked pleasantly with the 
 couple, and found that he liked them ; and 
 he appreciated their loneliness, though 
 they did not complain of it. He called 
 again, the next day. 
 
 " Have you ever tried to transplant 
 young trees, that have grown up in the 
 thickness of a grove ? " he asked of Mehl- 
 ing. "No? Well, it is one of the most dif 
 ficult of problems to make a tree grow up 
 strong and healthy, when set out alone, af 
 ter it has attained its strength and character 
 in the midst of thick-crowded numbers." 
 
 Mehling did not understand him, but, 
 being asked to tell something of Frederica, 
 in the hope that the doctor could gain im 
 pressions of value in treating her curious 
 case, he spoke of his wife s profound affec 
 tion for the country; he told how she had 
 longed for it for years, and how she had at
 
 THE EXPERIMENT OF FREDERICA 121 
 
 length gained what she so desired. When 
 the doctor talked with Frederica, he 
 noticed that she spoke listlessly of her 
 home and its surroundings, and gave no 
 hint that she found any particular happi 
 ness in them. " I remember how I used to 
 love the country," she said. 
 
 The doctor saw there was a coolness be 
 tween the two. He saw that the husband 
 was touched with sorrowful mistrust. He 
 saw, or fancied he saw, that the wife 
 believed her husband to be unsympathetic 
 and that she was concealing something 
 
 o o 
 
 from him. And they were both so honest 
 and true ! 
 
 Gatherings of the people were frequent, 
 but no invitation came to the Mehlings. 
 Now and then gay parties would go by, 
 on " straw rides," and the shouts and the 
 singing would come as a pang to both 
 husband and wife. At the store and the 
 post-office Mehling overheard talk of sup 
 pers and dances. All was gay and cheer 
 ful, but it was not for them. One day, 
 Mehling and the doctor met on the road, 
 and the doctor said, abruptly : 
 
 " Young man, are you sure you are
 
 122 THE EXPERIMENT OF FREDERICA 
 
 doing what you can for your wife s happi 
 ness ? " 
 
 Mehling was painfully taken aback. He 
 knew, though, that the doctor meant well 
 by him. 
 
 " I gave up my business in New York 
 for no other reason than to bring her to 
 the country, that she so longed for," he 
 answered, slowly. 
 
 " I did not know it, sir. I honor you. 
 Well, I need not tell you, then, that love 
 means a willingness to make sacrifices. 
 And need I say, he added, with a quiz 
 zical smile, "that a woman always claims 
 or at least exercises the privilege of 
 changing her mind ?" 
 
 Mehling grew deadly pale. " That s 
 what I feared," he said, huskily. " What 
 do you think a man can do, sir ? " 
 
 " Are you willing to make another great 
 sacrifice ?" 
 
 " Yes. I can give her up, if it is best 
 for her," replied Mehling, in a low tone. 
 
 " Give her up ! What does the man 
 mean ? " cried the doctor, testily. " What 
 do you want to get rid of her for ? I 
 thought you wanted to make her happy!"
 
 THE EXPERIMENT OF FREDERICA 123 
 
 Mehling was bewildered, but the tone 
 in the doctor s voice made him clutch 
 anew at hope. 
 
 "Tell me what you mean! Tell me! 
 I have loved her so much that perhaps I 
 have been blind ! Isn t it that she s tired 
 of me would rather have 
 
 "Tired of you! Not that I have no 
 ticed," said the doctor, dryly. " But she s 
 tired of something else! Oh, yes; I know 
 it was the dearest wish of her heart, and 
 all that, but women love to change their 
 minds. She s lonely, man ! " he almost 
 roared, for he was eager to force Mehling 
 into belief. "She s lonely! Can t you 
 see it ? She needs lots of life ! She needs 
 to see people all the time to see things 
 going on ! Don t I know ? Can t I see 
 it ? Now, make your sacrifice ! Of course, 
 it will be hard ; you will lose money by 
 these changes ; but she s worth losing 
 money for, young man. She s worth it ! 
 And what is life for, if it isn t to get the 
 greatest happiness you can with your 
 money ? Take your wife back to the city ! 
 Let her see the crowds and hear the noise 
 again ! "
 
 124 THE EXPERIMENT OF FREDERICA 
 
 Mehling went home in a glow of hope. 
 He entered the house, and was appalled 
 by the pitiful loneliness that looked at 
 him from his wife s eyes. He spoke to 
 her, for the first time in many weeks, with 
 a tone in which was absolute confidence as 
 well as love, and then he felt a poignant 
 reproach for his previous blindness as he 
 saw the light leap into her eyes. He drew 
 her to him, and they sat down together, 
 and he said, very gently : 
 
 " I am thinking of making a great 
 change, Frederica." 
 
 "A change ? " she said. 
 
 " Yes. I am going to give up my farm 
 give up my life in the country " (he 
 was speaking very rapidly now, for he 
 watched the glow of happiness deepening 
 in her face) ; " I am going to take you 
 back to the city, where you can live again 
 in little rooms, and on a crowded street, 
 but where you will be happy. Yes, Fred- 
 erica, you will again live in a tenement ! " 
 
 " O Philip ! And you are going to 
 do all this just to please me just to 
 please me ! " There was a solemn wonder 
 in her voice.
 
 THE EXPERIMENT OF FREDERICA 125 
 
 " I am going to make my Frederica 
 happy," he said. 
 
 " And you are going to do it all for me ! 
 And I I oh, Philip, I was afraid you 
 didn t care !" 
 
 " Not care, Frederica ?" 
 
 " Oh, oh, oh ! And you gave up your 
 store just to make me happy, and now you 
 will give up your farm ? It is too much, 
 Philip ! I don t deserve it ! I don t ! " 
 
 She buried her head on his shoulder, 
 and laughed and cried in a flurry of joy. 
 
 "You deserve everything in the world, 
 Frederica. And if you get tired of the 
 city, back we ll come to the country. And 
 I m going to try to get the same store 
 again, for it was there we first saw each 
 other. And I believe it was never any 
 body but 
 
 " Of course it wasn t ! " 
 
 " And you ll have it all again ! The 
 noise, and the crowds and and we ll 
 notice the dirt and the smells, after this, 
 too, Frederica! Do you remember the 
 dirt and the smells ? " 
 
 " Do I ? " she exclaimed, laughing 
 through her tears. "Yes. And I m just
 
 126 THE EXPERIMENT OF FREDERICA 
 
 going to love everything ! But but will 
 you bring me back here once in a while 
 for a visit, Philip ? " 
 
 " Yes. And we ll visit all the best fami 
 lies, and return their calls," he said, so 
 gravely that she shrieked with laughter.
 
 THE MISERY IN MIS RANDOLPH S 
 KNEE
 
 THE MISERY IN MIS RANDOLPH S 
 KNEE 
 
 A LARGE and very black woman, with 
 a face creased into so many valleys 
 and ridges that it looked like a map in re 
 lief of a round island of very uneven surface, 
 was glaring with defiance at a man who sat 
 across from her in the Lexington Avenue 
 car that I had just taken at Thirtieth 
 Street. I recognized the man at once as 
 one of the foremost surgeons of the city, 
 and I noticed that he was ill at ease and 
 embarrassed under the snappy glare and 
 the tilting tosses of anger. That the 
 woman was evidently respectable and not 
 intoxicated was what made it, doubtless, 
 impossible for the man entirely to ignore 
 her manifestations. 
 
 I recognized the woman, too. She was 
 " Mis Randolph," a laundress, whom I 
 had known for over a year as a faithful and 
 129
 
 130 THE MISERY IN 
 
 hard-working woman. She was a widow, 
 her husband, a shiftless fellow whom she 
 had worshipped and labored for, having 
 died shortly after she began doing my 
 weekly work. She had not mourned him 
 long, in spite of her erstwhile worship, and 
 the "misery in her knee" was all that made 
 a black spot, so to speak, in her existence. 
 
 This " misery " gave her a pronounced 
 limp, and at times, especially when a 
 change of weather impended, caused her 
 acute suffering. 
 
 " It s going to be falling weathah, shu , n 
 she would declare. " My bayrummetah 
 says so, and so it will sholy be." 
 
 Whenever I suggested that a doctor 
 might be of benefit, she shook her head 
 with mournful decision, saying that no doc 
 tors could help her any more than they 
 had, as she had tried them and knew. 
 Once I remarked that hospital treatment 
 might cure her, but she exclaimed, with a 
 sudden fright that surprised me : 
 
 " No, suh ! No, suh ! No doctah, an 
 no sawjun s going to saw Mis Randolph s 
 knee ! " 
 
 She delighted in giving herself the full
 
 MIS RANDOLPH S KNEE 131 
 
 designation of " Mis Randolph," and was 
 keenly pleased when others did the same, 
 instead of calling her by her plain first 
 name. 
 
 "I m Virginiah fine folks! Harry and 
 me ain t no common colo d pussons ! Our 
 folks was all Randolphs big white folks 
 and they owned houses as big as the 
 city hall and their land it went for miles 
 and miles and they had lots and lots o 
 common colo d pussons to work for them, 
 and fine folks like me and Harry to take 
 keer of the inside of the house ! " 
 
 But Mrs. Randolph in the street-car was 
 a different person from Mrs. Randolph as I 
 had ever before known her. Her wonted 
 good humor had all vanished, and she was 
 the personification of threatening wrath. 
 More surprising still, her lameness had en 
 tirely departed! At Twenty-fourth Street 
 she signalled to the conductor, with great 
 dignity, to stop the car, stood very stiffly 
 erect fora moment, glaring down at the sur 
 geon, gave a final tilt and toss of defiance, 
 and then stalked majestically from the car 
 without the slightest limp. She was far too 
 occupied with the surgeon to recognize me
 
 132 
 
 THE MISERY IN 
 
 or to glance at any of the amused passen 
 gers. At the door she gave a backward 
 look, a victorious sniff, and, stepping from 
 the platform, marched stiffly away, still 
 
 without a sign of lameness, and darting 
 Parthian glances over her shoulder with 
 the same look of triumph. 
 
 On the following Thursday she came to 
 my rooms, as usual, and I noticed that
 
 MIS RANDOLPH S KNEE 133 
 
 there was a full return of her customary 
 limp. In fact, she moaned and complained 
 about the "misery" even more than usual, 
 and said that a big storm must certainly 
 be at hand or else she had somehow hurt 
 her knee. 
 
 " And you must feel it the more keenly 
 through its coming back after you had just 
 gotten entirely rid of the lameness," I 
 said. 
 
 She looked at me with inquiring won 
 der. " Got rid of it, suh ! No. The mis 
 ery hain t left me, nohow, and won t never 
 leave me till Mis Randolph is daid." 
 
 " But in the street-car, on last Sunday, 
 I noticed that you did not limp at all," I 
 responded. 
 
 " Was you in that kah, suh ? " she cried. 
 And then she chuckled gleefully. " Deed, 
 my misery hain t left me, and it was just 
 force o charactah that made me do that ! 
 It hurt me, and the misery is hurting me 
 to-day just from what I did. But I was 
 bound not to let that Hessian see me limp! 
 Did you see him, just sitting across from 
 me in that kah ? I made him feel discom- 
 fortable, too, with looking at him so scorn-
 
 134 THE MISERY IN 
 
 ful ! I m a Randolph of Virginiah and it 
 comes natural to look scornful at a Hes 
 sian. And I wouldn t let him see me 
 limp ! No, suh ! That Hessian ! " 
 
 Whenever Mrs. Randolph wished to ex 
 press the very extreme of contempt or dis 
 like toward anybody, she was wont to call 
 him a " Hessian." She could give no ex 
 planation of the word, except that it had 
 been a common term of opprobrium in 
 Virginia, and that she had learned it, when 
 a child, as a natural and common word. 
 It interested me as being, apparently, a 
 transmitted survival of the Revolutionary 
 hatred of the Hessian soldiery. 
 
 " That Hessian see me limp ! I wouldn t 
 let him nohow ! That Hessian he once 
 tried to cut off Mis Randolph s laig ! " 
 
 " Indeed ! And how did you manage to 
 escape having it done ? " 
 
 " I escaped just through force o char- 
 actah," she said, with dignity. "I just 
 walked to the boat, and I hadn t got no 
 pass, but I just recommembered that I was 
 a Randolph of Virginiah, and I got away 
 from the island all right. It was just force 
 o Randolph charactah ! "
 
 MIS RANDOLPH S KNEE 135 
 
 The reference to the island and the pass 
 told me that there was just one place where 
 the adventure had occurred. " You never 
 told me, before, that you were on Black- 
 well s Island," I said. 
 
 A look of deepest chagrin came over her 
 face, and the ridges dolorously unfolded, 
 lengthening the customary round island 
 until it seemed like a map of Africa. 
 
 " That s what comes of talking free. 
 Seems as if when my fool mouth opens 
 the words runs out just like wattah a-run- 
 ning from a faucet. Yes, suh. I was on 
 the Island two years ago ; but o course I 
 never told you, for I was feared you would 
 think Mis Randolph d been and done 
 somefin . And now my fool tongue s been 
 and told it. But it wasn t for any wrong, 
 nohow ! " 
 
 I reassured Mrs. Randolph by saying 
 that I was well aware that there were not 
 less than from six to eight thousand peo 
 ple on the Island, and that they were 
 scattered among quite a number of insti 
 tutions, including two large hospitals, and 
 that, therefore, in spite of the fact that, in 
 popular parlance, the words "the Island "
 
 136 THE MISERY IN 
 
 were understood to mean the Workhouse, 
 she need not have been afraid that I should 
 think that Blackwell s contained nothing 
 but the Workhouse and the hospital wards 
 connected with that correctional institu 
 tion. 
 
 " I presume that you were a patient at 
 either the Metropolitan or the City Hos 
 pital," I said. 
 
 " Yes. That was just it. I was at the 
 City Hospital," she replied, with a sigh of 
 relief, as the creases drew back into their 
 natural ridges. 
 
 " The misery in my knee was bad very 
 bad and I had to give up my work ; and 
 Harry he was my husband, you know 
 he was just earning a little, and the doctah 
 he told me to go to the hospital. He say, 
 Mis Randolph, you just go. And I say, 
 Huccome I go to the hospital, doctah, 
 when you ve done took all the money I 
 had ? Yes. All the money I had I has 
 paid to you. And with that he laughed, 
 and he laughed, and then he say, Well, 
 then I must get you in the hospital with 
 out paying nothing. And he laughed 
 again, and say, Sholy, Mis Randolph, I
 
 MIS RANDOLPH S KNEE 137 
 
 must get you in the hospital plumb free. 
 And I ll tell em you re real lame, and 
 they ll send an amb lance for you. 
 
 " And I tells all the neighbors what 
 come in to see me, including Mis Brown, 
 who was just a common colo d pusson, 
 spite of her giving herself airs because her 
 husband work as assistant to the janitor of 
 one of them big, new twenty-story build 
 ings downtown, and I says to Mis Brown 
 and all the other neighbors that I was 
 going to have the amb lance come to the 
 street for me special, and that the great 
 city of New York was a-going to try to 
 cure the misery in this knee. 
 
 " And so, one day there come a-ringing 
 and a-clanging in the street it was Thomp 
 son Street where I lived then, suh and 
 the amb lance drove right up to the door of 
 the tenement, and there was a big excite 
 ment. Seemed as if the street was all alive 
 with fine colo d folks, and common colo d 
 pussons like Mis Brown, and at every 
 window there was haids a-sticking out. 
 
 "And I feels real proud. I has Harry 
 take me down to the amb lance, a-leading 
 and a-supporting me, and me just a-moan-
 
 ing and a-groaning about the misery in my 
 knee, and all the rest they so envious and 
 so jealous that they almost ready to kill 
 me ! Oh, it was a grand day for Mis 
 Randolph ! And I bows to all I can see, 
 real condescending like, and I says to Mis 
 Brown, with a toss of my haid : You 
 didn t believe me when I said I was 
 a-going to be sent for special with the 
 amb lance and drove away to the hospital, 
 but you just see that they thinks a good 
 deal of Mis Randolph. I ain t no 
 common no-account colo d pusson, Mis 
 Brown ! 
 
 "And she know what I mean, and she 
 look at me with her face twisted as if she 
 had green persimmons in her mouth, and 
 then she say, just as thin and mean as sour 
 plum juice: But you won t come back 
 a-driving, lessen in a daid-wagon. And 
 then she snicker right out. 
 
 " And I says, just like a Virginian Ran 
 dolph ought to talk to common folks: 
 Deed, Mis Brown; I ll come back 
 a-riding just as grand as I goes away. 
 
 " But the good Lawd knows just why I 
 said that same. It come out of my mouth
 
 MIS RANDOLPH S KNEE 139 
 
 before I stopped to think. Just like the 
 faucet, as I said befo . But I wasn t going 
 to take it back, for I always speak real big 
 to that jealous Mis Brown, and then I 
 was drove away all grand and dignifidy, 
 and everybody they laugh at Mis Brown 
 and everybody they think that Mis Ran 
 dolph is big folks shu. 
 
 " Oh, that was a grand day, suh a 
 grand day! Tain t often the good Lawd 
 he gives even Virginiah fine folks such a 
 day as that ! But they was a better day 
 a-coming ! Yes; there was a better and 
 a grander day a-coming ! 
 
 " Well, they took me across on a big 
 steamah, and to the hospital, and there 
 the big doctahs they all come and they 
 look and they look at my knee and they all 
 try to cure the misery in it. They wraps 
 it, and they puts poultices and liniments on 
 it, and they ties it and they unties it, and 
 they twists it round and round like as if 
 twas nothing but a brake on a street-kah. 
 Then they shakes their haids all solemn 
 like, and after trying for a good many days 
 they says, We must wait and show this 
 to the big sawjun.
 
 " And I asks the nurse who is the big 
 sawjun who is to look at Mis Randolph s 
 laig, and she say, flip like, He s the saw 
 jun that saws people s laigs clean off. 
 And I say, Fo the Lawd, I hopes that 
 sawjun won t look at Mis Randolph s knee. 
 The misery s bad, but it would be wusser 
 to have no knee to have the misery in. 
 
 " In a few days I heahs one of the doc- 
 tahs say to the nurse that the big sawjun 
 was a-coming into the ward. And in a 
 few minutes in he come, all grand like, 
 and they take him right over to Mis Ran 
 dolph s baid as if there ain t nobody in the 
 hospital so important as me. 
 
 " And he was the same Hessian that 
 was in the kah, suh ! The very same big 
 Hessian ! And he have me carried to a 
 room where they was bottles and things 
 all round, and where they lays me out on 
 a big flat piece of glass, and there he 
 twists and turns my laig, and shakes his 
 haid real solemn, like the preacher do 
 when he prays for the sinner that he 
 knows the Lawd won t save. And he 
 say, The misery in Mis Randolph s 
 knee am very bad. But he look just
 
 MIS RANDOLPH S KNEE 141 
 
 so foolish solemn as a ovvel. Then he 
 say, Very curious case. Must look into 
 this myself. Then he stand with two 
 doctahs at the side of the room, and the 
 three they jerk their haids and nod just 
 like three fat Virginiah buzzards a-waiting 
 for somefin to die. 
 
 " Of course, I feels real proud that the 
 misery in my knee is so important to the 
 big men, and I didn t know the sawjun 
 was a Hessian till after I was carried back 
 to my own baid. But while I lies there, I 
 hears him tell the nurse, Yes, at ten to 
 morrow morning. And they both look 
 at Mis Randolph, and it all come to me 
 plain as if I had heard every word. 
 
 " I don t say anything right away, for 
 first I waits and makes a plan, thinking it 
 all out careful. And long bout three 
 o clock I speaks to the nurse as she comes 
 near me, and I say, Oh, this misery am 
 real bad ; I can t stand it much longer ! 
 And I groans and kicks up like. And I 
 say, Is it ten o clock in the morning that 
 the big sawjun is a-coming to saw it off? 
 And she say, Yes. And then she ask, 
 quick like, But huccome you to know
 
 142 THE MISERY IN 
 
 that? But I just groan and say, Oh, 
 how this misery hurts me ! 
 
 " Pretty soon she go away, and I have 
 my plan all fixed. I knows I can t afford 
 to have my laig cut off, for then I couldn t 
 work for Harry no more when they sends 
 me home. And I didn t want it off nohow. 
 Do me a heap sight more good on. Well, 
 my clothes they hang in a closet at the end 
 of the room, and when the nurse goes 
 away, before five, as I knowed she did 
 every afternoon, for bout half an hour, to 
 meet a clerk from the office, I gets up and 
 goes to the closet and gets the clothes. 
 Some of the other women they look at me, 
 lazy like, and wondering, but they don t 
 say nothing. I goes quick, though the 
 misery hurts me real bad, and then I goes 
 out into the hall, and down the last stair 
 on the side to a ds where the boat lands. 
 Not the big steamah that took me there 
 but a little one that goes straight across 
 the river every hour. I had seen it from 
 the window, and watched it, pretty nigh 
 every day, having little to do there you 
 know, suh, and I knowed all about it from 
 others in the ward.
 
 MIS RANDOLPH S KNEE 143 
 
 " I didn t know just how I could do it, 
 for I knowed I ought to have a pass, but I 
 just recommembered that I was a Ran 
 dolph of Virginiah and that I musn t dis 
 grace the family by being beat. And I 
 also recommembered my laigand the Hes 
 sian. So I slipped out of the end door, 
 and went down to the boat real stately, 
 and there was a line of people, each with 
 a ticket in his hand, just as if twas the 
 theatre. 
 
 "And all at once I wanted to shout 
 Hallelujah, for I saw the captain of the 
 boat, and I knowed him, for I had washed 
 and ironed for him and his wife before the 
 misery made me give up work. And so I 
 held my haid high and didn t look at the 
 man that stood by the plank the people 
 walked on. I just looked over his haid, 
 and I nodded to the captain, and I says, 
 Howdy, and then I steps over the side 
 of the boat, to a ds where the captain stood, 
 and I nod and speak to him while the man 
 say, Pass, your pass! And I pretends 
 not to hear the man, but speaks right up to 
 the captain, very grand, recommembering I 
 was a Randolph, and I says that I would
 
 144 THE MISERY IN 
 
 like to have his work again to do, as I have 
 been cured and sent away from the hos 
 pital. And he say that he is real glad to 
 hear it, and the man taking up passes sees 
 that the captain knows me for shu , and 
 so kept on busy with the folks that come 
 after me. 
 
 " I was afraid to let the captain see that 
 my laig still hurt, for he might have said, 
 Mis Randolph, you re not cured, and 
 must go right back. And T was afraid 
 that they would come a-running and a- 
 chasing after me from the hospital. But 
 no one come, and the boat it took me over. 
 I got a nickel from the captain to ride 
 downtown, and I took the Second Avenue 
 trolley, and I got off at Bleecker Street and 
 the Bowery. 
 
 " But the misery in my knee was so 
 much worse, from all I had made the knee 
 do, that it seemed as if I couldn t walk a 
 step nohow. I leaned against a big pack 
 ing box and wondered how I was ever 
 going to get to Thompson Street. And 
 when the hurt got worse, and Irecommem- 
 bered Mis Brown, and how aggravating 
 she would be, I almost asked a policeman
 
 MIS RANDOLPH S KNEE 145 
 
 to send me back to the Island. But I 
 thought of that Hessian and my laig and 
 I felt too mad. 
 
 " I prayed and prayed more than I ever 
 did at church, and then the help it come ! 
 It was after six o clock, and there was only 
 people a-hurrying home, and along came 
 a wagon a covered wagon, shaped like a 
 hearse, with bells and looking-glasses 
 ringing and shining, and with plumes on 
 the horses and on the wagon too. It looked 
 some like a band-wagon but more like a 
 daid-wagon, except for the ringing bells. 
 And the driver was Ben Johnson, and I 
 knowed him, for he was near kin. 
 
 " And I stepped out into the street and 
 I said, Ben Johnson, you just stop. And 
 he stopped quick, right surprised. And I 
 said, Ben, you must drive me home. The 
 misery in my knee s so bad I can t walk. 
 And he said, I m real sorry, but deed I 
 can t. I m taking this wagon to the 
 stables, and they d discharge me. This 
 wagon belongs to a big flower-store, and 
 I m the regular driver, he said, real big. 
 It s surprising, suh, how stuck up some 
 colo d pussons gets bout themselves. I
 
 146 THE MISERY IN 
 
 always used to say to Harry, We mus n t 
 forget, Harry, we are Randolphs of Vir- 
 giniah, but we mus n t let ourselves ever 
 get stuck up. 
 
 " Well, I looks Ben Johnson square in 
 the eye, and I say, Ben Johnson, you are 
 close kin of mine, for you are second cousin 
 to my Aunt Liza. And you are a-courting 
 of Miss Jen, and I knows her well, and 
 I knows as well as you that she s got 
 money in the bank. And if you don t 
 take me I ll tell Miss Jen just how mean 
 a man Ben Johnson is. He looked at 
 me real sober, at that, and so I speak to 
 him again, very dignifidy. Ben Johnson, 
 I know you don t d lib r etly do mean 
 things, and so you re going to drive me 
 home. And if you don t want me on the 
 seat I can just climb inside. 
 
 " At that he laughed right out, and said 
 that he couldn t let that be done on the 
 open street. But you may recommember, 
 suh, that there s an alley there, twisting 
 back out of sight, and so I told him to 
 drive right in there. And he did. Then 
 he opens the back door quick, and in I 
 crawls, and he jumps back again to the
 
 MIS RANDOLPH S KNEE 147 
 
 seat and drives away, while I hears some 
 low-down man a-laughing fit to kill. And 
 the inside of that wagon was as full of the 
 smell of flowers as a Virginian hill-side in 
 the springtime. 
 
 " Through a crack at the front I told 
 Ben to drive real slow on Thompson 
 Street, for I wanted to surprise Mis Brown. 
 And I found another little hole, where I 
 could look through, and when we drove 
 so slow down Thompson Street the people 
 they all looked out of the windows and 
 stood around the stoops, wondering about 
 the grand wagon, and if it was really going 
 to stop somewhere. And Ben, he sit and 
 drive just so solemn as a undertakah. 
 
 " And Mis Brown, I see her come out, 
 and I hear her say, What s this, what s 
 this ? as the wagon stop right in front of 
 the house where Harry and me lived, and 
 Mis Brown too. And Ben Johnson he 
 say, real mou nful, It s Mis Randolph, 
 and I ve brung her back again. Won t 
 someone go up and tell her husband to 
 come? 
 
 " And Mis Brown she grin real aggra 
 vating, showing all her teef, and she cry
 
 148 
 
 THE MISERY IN 
 
 out to Mis Minetty, I told Mis Ran 
 dolph she could only come back a-riding 
 in the daid-wagon, and in the daid-wagon 
 she have come ! 
 
 "And that made me mad, and from the 
 
 inside of the wagon I called back to her, 
 Just wait a minute and I ll come out, and 
 show Mis Brown who s daid ! And my 
 voice must have sounded dreadful hollow, 
 for Mis Brown she just screech and screech, 
 and before she could run away the door of
 
 MIS RANDOLPH S KNEE 149 
 
 that wagon swung open with me a-pressing 
 on it, and out my feet went and hung there 
 a-wiggling, and Mis Brown she just let out 
 another screech and then flopped down in 
 her-steriks. 
 
 " Oh, it was a grand day, suh ! A grand, 
 grand day ! Never was such a triumph 
 happen on Thompson Street ! And all the 
 people they thought Mis Randolph the 
 triumphantest pusson in the whole big 
 city. It was sholy a grand day ! 
 
 " And the misery in my knee wa n t 
 never so bad after that neither. Seems 
 like as if the doctahs on the Island must 
 have helped it pretty consid ble after all, 
 with their twistings and linimentings. It s 
 still a bayrummetah for the weathah, and 
 it often discomfortably hurts, but tain t 
 nigh so bad as twas. 
 
 " But, oh ! the glory of the ride in the 
 amb lance ! And, oh ! the bigger triumph 
 of the return that gave Mis Brown her- 
 steriks ! And do you think Mis Randolph 
 would have let that Hessian see her limp, 
 aftah he wanted to saw her laig clean off ! 
 That Hessian ! "
 
 BEFORE THE ARCHBISHOP
 
 BEFORE THE ARCHBISHOP 
 
 MAGGIE THORLEY was as cheerful 
 a young woman as any of the thou 
 sands who, like her, lived in the packed 
 district of the lower East Side. Her par 
 ents had died when she was but seven 
 teen years old, leaving her the care of her 
 sister Annie, two years younger. By hard 
 work she had succeeded, with the aid of 
 $60 in savings, left by her father, in bring 
 ing herself and Annie safely to woman 
 hood. 
 
 The girls had been given some school 
 ing, both were good-looking and attractive, 
 and Maggie was fortunate enough to get a 
 responsible position in a Grand Street store, 
 and after a while to secure for Annie a 
 clerkship on Fourteenth Street. They thus 
 escaped the fate of many of the girls of 
 their acquaintance, who were compelled, 
 for a pittance, to work from sunrise until
 
 154 BEFORE THE ARCHBISHOP 
 
 long after sunset for the sweat-shops of 
 the neighborhood. 
 
 For a long time, indeed, Maggie chose 
 to do sewing at night, in her room, and 
 also on holidays, to earn a little extra 
 money for frocks and ribbons for Annie 
 and herself, but when her own wages were 
 raised and Annie was fairly established in 
 her clerkship she thought it unnecessary 
 to continue the sewing. With the $3.25 
 a week that she was paid, and the $2.75 of 
 Annie s, the two sisters, by dint of economy, 
 were able to live in a comfortable way, in 
 their two-room home, on the third floor, 
 rear, of the seven-story tenement-house to 
 which they had moved as their fortunes 
 brightened. 
 
 The larger room served as kitchen, din 
 ing-room, sitting-room, and parlor, and it 
 looked upon a stone-paved court, on the 
 farther side of which towered another huge 
 tenement, also teeming from basement to 
 roof with crowded human life. In this 
 room were three wooden chairs, a stove, 
 and a table, while on the walls were pinned 
 colored pictures which were deemed none 
 the worse for garishly advertising the mer-
 
 BEFORE THE ARCHBISHOP 155 
 
 its of various soaps and teas. Everything, 
 though cheap and simple, was immacu 
 lately neat. From this opened the other 
 room if room it could be called which 
 was only a dark closet, with barely enough 
 of space to hold the bed. It was without 
 light, and even without ventilation, except 
 for a square hole opening into a narrow 
 air-shaft. 
 
 It s a good deal to pay $7.50 a month 
 for rent," said Maggie to her friend, Kittie 
 Kinsella, "but there s $12 put away in the 
 Bowery Bank, in Annie s name, and I can 
 do extra sewing again, at any time, if we 
 need it. And together we earn $6 a week, 
 so we can afford to have a nice place to 
 live. And I must think of Annie s chances, 
 for I want her to be sure and get a good 
 beau like yours, you know 
 
 She smiled, and tucked Kittie s arm 
 closer within her own. Kittie, whose fa 
 ther was a fireman, earning $2.50 a day, 
 was being courted by a motorman on the 
 Third Avenue line, and she blushed and 
 giggled. 
 
 " Yes," continued Maggie, " I feel that 
 we ought to live in style, or the young fel-
 
 156 BEFORE THE ARCHBISHOP 
 
 lows won t be near so likely to come court 
 ing. And I ve got to be a mother to An 
 nie, and think of her chances of getting a 
 good husband. It s only on the third floor 
 that we live, you know, and it s real tony, 
 instead of having to climb so many stairs, 
 and I just thought the fellows maybe 
 wouldn t want to climb any higher. Of 
 course, if they got to know Annie real well 
 they would, but I mean at the first, you 
 know, and it s so much in making a good 
 hit at the start. And we live in as fash 
 ionable a house as any on the street ! " she 
 added, with pride. 
 
 " And how old is Annie getting to be ? " 
 asked Kittie. 
 
 " She s just eighteen, and that s two 
 years younger than I am. It was my birth 
 day last Friday." 
 
 "And how about yourself?" said Kittie, 
 with a sly pressure of the arm interlocked 
 with her own. " It s wise men they d be 
 if they came for that." 
 
 " Oh, it s sister Annie I must think about 
 first. She s such a dear, good girl that it s 
 what I d want to do even if father and 
 mother hadn t told me special to look after
 
 BEFORE THE ARCHBISHOP 157 
 her. There ll be time enough to think 
 
 o 
 
 about myself later." 
 
 " Well, I don t know about that," said 
 her friend, cautiously. " It s all right to 
 think about Annie, but a girl must think 
 about herself too, or chances ll slip. Well, 
 this is my stairway ; good-night, dear." 
 
 Although Kittie had riot noticed it, 
 Maggie had herself blushed a little when 
 her own chances had been mentioned. 
 Maggie had, in truth, worked and planned 
 and sacrificed unselfishly, since the death 
 of her parents, for the sake of her sister, 
 but of late thoughts of love had come into 
 her own heart. Dan Barrett, a young car 
 penter, who lived on the fourth floor of the 
 same big tenement -house, had already 
 looked in on the girls several times, and it 
 was plain that he found pleasure in doing 
 so. He had quickly become acquainted 
 with them through the fact that his mother, 
 since the day of the sisters entrance into 
 the tenement, had taken a bustling interest 
 in them. She liked them very much, and 
 the liking increased as she came to know 
 them better. She had for quite a while 
 past been hoping for the appearance of a
 
 158 BEFORE THE ARCHBISHOP 
 
 girl who would make the right wife for her 
 son, whom she wished safely married, and 
 she thought that with the coming of the 
 Thorley sisters she had made the desired 
 discovery. 
 
 " They re the right kind, Dan," she said. 
 " Both of them s good, and though the 
 younger one has got softer hands than the 
 other, and though her eyes are brighter 
 and there ain t no crow s-feet begun to 
 show, yet I misdoubt it s Maggie as has 
 worked the hardest, and stayed up nights 
 the latest, and worried the most, and that s 
 why she s not quite so pretty. But she s 
 pretty yet, Dan. And a girl that gets her 
 hands hard with honest work, and gets her 
 eyes tired sewing while her sister sleeps, is 
 the right kind for a man to tie up to. Not 
 but what Annie seems a nice girl, too, 
 though." 
 
 Dan s own judgment followed that of 
 his mother in so far as thinking both of 
 the sisters very nice, and he took real 
 pleasure in sitting and chatting with them. 
 Once he took them to an ice-cream room 
 on Third Avenue, twice he walked with 
 them to the Battery, and sat with them on
 
 BEFORE THE ARCHBISHOP 
 
 59 
 
 a bench to hear the band play, while the 
 water surged against the stone retaining 
 wall, and boats glided by in ghostly pro 
 cession, and once he took them for an even 
 
 ing s ride on an excursion-steamer, and 
 their joy had been complete. 
 
 " Which sister is it ? " asked the tene 
 ment-dwellers, among themselves. Maggie, 
 for her part, felt a shy belief that it was 
 she, for she knew that Dan had been the
 
 160 BEFORE THE ARCHBISHOP 
 
 more attentive to her, and had been 
 prompt in little courtesies. And then, 
 too, had he not told her how much he 
 admired her singing! It never occurred 
 to her that the wearied eyes and incipient 
 wrinkles that had come through her unself 
 ish care for her sister could militate against 
 her, and, indeed, the eyes were daily 
 brightening and the signs of wrinkles were 
 beginning to vanish. It never occurred to 
 her that Dan s attentions were possibly 
 owing to the fact that she was Annie s 
 older sister and therefore her guardian, 
 whom it might be well to propitiate, and 
 that it was possible that they were made 
 as a means of tactically concealing his real 
 feelings until he should fully make up his 
 own mind. 
 
 It was the evening of a July day, and 
 Maggie was singing happily to herself as 
 she thought of how handsome Dan had 
 looked, and with what happy cordiality he 
 had spoken, as she passed him, at the foot 
 of the stairs, an hour before. She was 
 cleaning, with gasoline, a pair of her sis 
 ter s gloves, and when Annie, after what 
 seemed a long absence, considering that
 
 BEFORE THE ARCHBISHOP 161 
 
 she had only gone to a near-by grocer s for 
 sugar, finally came back, her singing did 
 not cease. Daylight had almost vanished, 
 but Maggie, sitting by the window, had 
 not noticed the gradual change. She did 
 not notice that Annie seemed elated, for 
 she herself was dreamily thinking of happi 
 ness and Dan. Annie wanted to speak, 
 but with a happy smile and a blush that 
 was unseen in the darkness, checked her 
 self. Then she said, but a little stiffly, on 
 account of her effort to make her voice 
 sound quite natural : 
 
 " I m going to go out in a little while 
 with Dan. He s going to call for me, to 
 take me over to the Atlantic Garden. It ll 
 be all right, won t it ? " 
 
 " Yes, dear." The voice was very calm. 
 No one could suspect that there had come 
 a sudden wrench on Maggie s heart-strings. 
 What did it mean ? This was the first 
 time that Dan had asked one of the sisters 
 to go out with him without asking the 
 other also. Maggie sat very still, and let 
 Annie s gloves lie in the basin in her lap. 
 Annie busied herself nervously about the 
 room.
 
 162 BEFORE THE ARCHBISHOP 
 
 " And and he was talking with me 
 down at the door and I think maybe 
 he s got something special to ask me." 
 
 "Why, Annie, is that so? How nice, 
 dear!" 
 
 But Annie s quick ear detected a false 
 note in the words. " I do believe you re 
 not glad to hear it ! You don t think I d 
 ever consent to leave you all alone, do 
 you, whatever Dan wanted ? You re the 
 dearest and best sister that a girl ever had ! 
 And now let me look at you, you dear, 
 dear Maggie ! " 
 
 She pirouetted gayly, and, striking a 
 match, held it toward Maggie s face, and 
 in that moment there came a fierce upflar- 
 ing of the gasoline. With a cry of pain, 
 and with her hands pressed to her eyes, 
 Maggie sprang from her chair, and neigh 
 bors came running to the room as the sis 
 ters uttered scream on scream. Some ran 
 to turn in an alarm, while others remained 
 and fought out the fire that had quickly 
 begun to blaze on the floor and up the 
 window. 
 
 Dan himself, the first to arrive, cared for 
 poor Maggie, extinguished the fire in her
 
 BEFORE THE ARCHBISHOP 163 
 
 clothing, and then dashed downstairs for 
 a doctor. Meeting a policeman who came 
 running up, he panted : " Fire s out ! Send 
 an ambulance call, quick ! Woman s badly 
 burned ! " 
 
 But the policeman first continued on his 
 way upstairs, and the more leisurely for 
 having been told that the fire was out. 
 Not till he had taken a look at Maggie s 
 face, and heard her moans of anguish, did he 
 retrace his steps and send in an ambulance 
 call. No one had done it before him, for all 
 knew that the hospital would not respond 
 to the call, unless made by a policeman. 
 
 The girl was taken to Gouverneur Hos 
 pital, where nothing could be done for her 
 except to alleviate the dreadful pain. The 
 next day she was transferred to Bellevue, 
 where the resident hospital staff and the 
 grave visiting surgeons looked at her and 
 said that she would never be able to see 
 again. It was not for some weeks that 
 this decision was finally reached, and mean 
 while Maggie was in a state of frantic sus 
 pense, not alone from the dread of blind 
 ness, but also from fear as to what would 
 become of her sister.
 
 164 BEFORE THE ARCHBISHOP 
 
 Annie called at the hospital but seldom. 
 It interfered with her work, which had 
 necessarily become of more vital impor 
 tance than before, and besides, the condi 
 tion of Maggie was for some time so criti 
 cal as to make the doctors forbid any but 
 rare visits from anyone. Rent day came, 
 and it took all the ready money to pay it. 
 Then, to purchase some delicacies for the 
 sufferer, Annie drew a little money from 
 the bank, and Maggie s anxiety was in 
 creased. 
 
 " Don t buy me anything else," she in 
 sisted. " You must take care of every 
 cent. And what are you going to do for 
 a home if if I never 
 
 " Don t talk so, Maggie. Of course 
 you ll be with me again after a while." 
 
 " But for the present, then ? Will one 
 of the girls go in with you ? I don t want 
 you to live alone. And will you have to 
 go to a cheaper place ? Are you making 
 any arrangements ?" 
 
 " No, I haven t made any arrangements 
 yet, but I ve been talking it over with 
 with Mrs. Barrett, and I ll do something 
 pretty soon."
 
 BEFORE THE ARCHBISHOP 165 
 
 One Sunday, three weeks after the ac 
 cident, Annie tiptoed softly to her sister s 
 cot. " Somebody s come with me," she 
 whispered. " It s Dan. And he wants 
 me to tell you that we re going to be mar 
 ried on Thursday of next week." 
 
 Maggie sighed chokingly, and tears 
 streamed from her sightless eyes as she 
 groped tremulously for the hands of each. 
 " I m so glad ; I sha n t need to worry about 
 you now, dear. Dan ll be good to you, I 
 know. And you re getting a good wife, 
 Dan, if it is her sister that says it, God 
 bless you, both of you ! " They did not 
 stay long, and went away very quietly, 
 without talking with Maggie of their plans 
 for the future. The blind girl wept for 
 hours. 
 
 After a while she was removed to the 
 Metropolitan Hospital, on Blackwell s 
 Island, and in a few more weeks, as she 
 had neither money nor influence to secure 
 admittance to a blind asylum, she was 
 transferred to the Almshouse, and became 
 an inmate of the women s blind ward. 
 There, the sluggish, grinding monotony 
 of her daily life, in the company of the
 
 166 BEFORE THE ARCHBISHOP 
 
 score of other pauper women who shared 
 the ward with her, soon brought on a dark 
 despondency. 
 
 Against the immitigable fate that had 
 come upon her she cried out from the 
 depths of a poignant bitterness. The vis 
 its of her sister became much rarer than 
 before, although there was no longer the 
 mandate of a doctor to keep her away. 
 " I m so busy just starting housekeeping 
 so many things to see to," was the ex 
 cuse at first, but before long there came to 
 be no excuse at all. Neither did Annie, 
 except on rare occasions, carry with her 
 any little delicacy to lighten the monotony 
 of Almshouse fare. " You know, you told 
 me not to, and Dan and me have got to 
 be economical or we can t save." Visits 
 made Annie feel so gloomy that the mere 
 thought of the Island was depressing, and 
 she would seize upon the slightest obstacle 
 as a reason for not going there. Dan made 
 no pretence whatever of caring to visit 
 Maggie. 
 
 That it was eight full steps and a short 
 one from her cot to the table ; that it was 
 fourteen steps from the cot to the door ;
 
 BEFORE THE ARCHBISHOP 167 
 
 that beyond the door she dare not go 
 without a guide or till repeated and care 
 ful experiments should make the venture 
 safe, were the first prime facts that Maggie 
 had to learn. Up and down, up and down 
 the ward she would slowly pace, feeling 
 her way with the beat of her stick upon 
 the floor; a grewsome tapping that was 
 echoed and re-echoed by the sticks of the 
 other blind women, her companions. 
 
 The snarling eagerness with which the 
 sluttery women answered the curt call to 
 meals, their greedy ravening when the 
 coarse food was within their reach, the 
 gross sounds, the rough, gnarling curses 
 from both spiller and spilled-upon when 
 soup was overturned, immeasurably sick 
 ened her. The quarrelling, the cries of 
 hopelessness, and the fits of weeping al 
 most maddened her, and then would come 
 long silences, pregnant with misery, and 
 strident laughter, more awful than the 
 curses or the weeping. Some had learned 
 to accept their fate with seared stoicism. 
 Others were glad that another and still 
 more miserable one, because younger, had 
 been added to their number. Some there
 
 168 BEFORE THE ARCHBISHOP 
 
 were who bore their doom with resignation, 
 who went about with sad quietude, and 
 who strove to soften Maggie s misery 
 with comforting words ; but for her there 
 was no comfort. 
 
 Some of the women sewed or knitted, 
 but most did nothing but lie upon their 
 narrow cots, or sit on their little round 
 stools, or go tappingly to the door, to 
 stand, or sit on a bench, in the sunshine, 
 and to smoke or rub snuff, if some friend 
 had sent them a few pennies, while they 
 exchanged vacuous gossip with each other, 
 and their coarse-hooded heads nodded cun 
 ningly. Maggie, although she had been 
 a fine seamstress, had no heart to learn 
 blind-work, although Annie had left her 
 a ball of yarn and a couple of knitting 
 needles. " It ll help to keep your mind 
 occupied, now that you re alone so much," 
 she had murmured. 
 
 One day Maggie, sitting idly on her low 
 stool, broke into a song, a ballad that she 
 had frequently sung in those days that 
 now seemed so long, long ago. It was 
 "Sweet Rosie O Grady," and, as she sang, 
 the girl remembered that it had been a
 
 BEFORE THE ARCHBISHOP 169 
 
 favorite of Dan s, and that he had praised 
 her singing of it. There were tears in her 
 voice, and the happy words were given 
 with a quivering sadness that touched 
 strange chords in the hearts of the women, 
 while the blind men, at the door of their 
 ward, next door, paused from their eternal 
 prosing about nothings, and listened in 
 solemn quiet. And there was another lis 
 tener. The priest, the kindly Jesuit who 
 ministered to the souls of the inmates of 
 the institutions on the northern end of the 
 Island, caught the sounds as he was passing 
 by, and stood and listened attentively. 
 
 " For I love Rosie O Grady, 
 And Rosie O Grady loves me," 
 
 came the words, thrilling with dirge-like 
 sadness, and then there was quiet. The 
 blind girl did not sing again, and in the 
 hush of waiting expectancy the priest 
 entered the ward. He knew, without ask 
 ing, which was the singer, for toward her 
 every sightless face was bent. 
 
 " My daughter, I heard you singing as I 
 passed. Would you not like to be one of 
 the chapel choir ? "
 
 170 BEFORE THE ARCHBISHOP 
 
 " But, father, can I sing well enough for 
 that ?" was her incredulous response, while 
 a thrill of joy shot through her at the pros 
 pect of a brightening of her life. 
 
 "Yes, for you have a good voice. The 
 woman who took the soprano part died a 
 month ago, and I need someone to take 
 her place. I know you will need teaching, 
 of course, and I shall teach you." 
 
 Maggie threw herself with hungry eager 
 ness into the task of learning to sing the 
 solemn Catholic chants. Her quick mem 
 ory served her well in learning the words 
 of the grand old hymns, and the grave 
 beauty of the music spoke directly to her 
 heart. 
 
 The day on which she sang for the first 
 time in the choir was one of tense excite 
 ment to her. An old man, who had known 
 how to play the melodeon in his youth, 
 and who through a spinal injury received 
 in a railroad accident had been forced to 
 go to the Almshouse to end his days, was 
 the organist. The alto part was taken by 
 a young woman who, twisted with rheu 
 matism and able to walk only with the aid 
 of a pair of crutches, was at the same time
 
 BEFORE THE ARCHBISHOP 171 
 
 the victim of an asthma that at times 
 forced a cruelly incongruous wheeze into 
 an otherwise fairly good voice. The tenor 
 was a blind man who had sung on street 
 corners to the accompaniment of a dron 
 ing little organ. The basso had but one 
 eye, while his voice, owing to an affection 
 of the throat, was alternately of a tremen 
 dous volume and of a thin squeakiness. 
 
 On the day that Maggie Thorley first 
 sang there were a few among the large 
 congregation who noticed that there was 
 a new singer, and they nodded and nudged 
 each other, but most of the people stolidly 
 took the change without any knowledge 
 that it had occurred. The priest spoke to 
 the choir as the congregation slowly stum 
 bled and shuffled from the chapel. 
 
 " The service of Confirmation will be 
 held in a month, and it will be the first 
 time in several years. The Archbishop of 
 New York will conduct the service, my 
 children, and I know that you will do your 
 best. I shall give you all the practice I 
 can between now and the day of the 
 service." 
 
 He spoke to Maggie Thorley after the
 
 172 BEFORE THE ARCHBISHOP 
 
 others had gone. " You sang very finely. 
 You did very well indeed. I am glad that 
 you are one of the choir, and 1 am sure 
 that the Archbishop will be much better 
 impressed." The flash of joy on her 
 young face moved him. " Poor things ! 
 How a little well-earned praise lightens 
 their lot ! " he murmured to himself, and 
 then said : " I did not say this before the 
 others, for they, too, have done their best, 
 and I would not hurt their feelings, but I 
 may say to you that you are the finest 
 singer that the choir, within my experience, 
 has had." 
 
 That night, as Maggie, lying sleeplessly 
 on her cot, went over and over the words 
 that the priest had said, an idea, full of 
 trembling hope, suddenly flashed upon her. 
 " The Archbishop will be impressed ! The 
 Archbishop will be impressed ! Did not the 
 priest say so ? " At first she harbored the 
 new ambition with timorous doubt, but af 
 ter a while it remained insistently with her. 
 
 " The Archbishop is coming, and will 
 hear the music. The priest tells me I sing 
 well, and Dan always told me I had a fine 
 voice. Why can I not sing so well before
 
 BEFORE THE ARCHBISHOP 173 
 
 the Archbishop that he will notice me and 
 be pleased ? Then, through the good priest, 
 will not the Archbishop let me get a place 
 to sing in a New York church ? Then I 
 should be near Annie again. Maybe, as I 
 would of course be earning some money, 
 Dan and she would let me live with them. 
 And I should never, never have to think 
 of this Island again ! " 
 
 During the next month she devoted her 
 self to the practice of music with an inten 
 sity that amazed and puzzled the priest. 
 She did not make a confidant of him, for 
 while she did not fear that he would ridi 
 cule her ambition, she dreaded that at least 
 he might try to check it, and that he would 
 speak of the uselessness of making such an 
 attempt as she had determined upon. It 
 would be time enough to tell him of her 
 hopes after the Archbishop should have 
 heard her. She felt sure that, at the fate 
 ful service, she would far outdo her previ 
 ous efforts. Was she not improving every 
 day? 
 
 She sang while seated beside her cot. 
 She sometimes sang on the bench beside 
 the door. Often, she awoke in the night
 
 174 BEFORE THE ARCHBISHOP 
 
 and softly hummed the tunes. Once in a 
 while she was cursed for making a noise. 
 At other times she was laughed at. But 
 her voice was so pathetically sweet that a 
 check rarely came to her. And as day af 
 ter day passed by, the hope that she would 
 succeed before the Archbishop became 
 more and more of a certainty. 
 
 The fateful day arrived. She was her 
 self to be one of those to receive Confirma 
 tion, as her parents had neglected to have 
 the rite performed when she was young. 
 Like the numerous other Almshouse 
 women who were to be of the Confirma 
 tion class, she was given a white veil and a 
 kerchief of white to wear over her coarse 
 gown of blue serge. 
 
 The bell in the little green-slatted cu 
 pola, on the top of the weather-beaten 
 building, rang forth its summons to the 
 worshippers, but long before this the chapel 
 was almost full, so early had the institu 
 tion inmates began to gather. The blind 
 had been led. The infirm had been carried 
 on stretchers or in chairs. Many had hob 
 bled and crept, with frequent rests. Many 
 had been helped by their less disabled
 
 BEFORE THE ARCHBISHOP 175 
 
 companions. Ambulances and hospital 
 wagons had borne some. The people were 
 not altogether from the various buildings 
 that collectively make up the Almshouse, 
 for a number came from the Metropolitan 
 Hospital, and some Workhouse prisoners 
 swung down, in marching lines, in the care 
 of keepers. 
 
 The tin vessels, just inside the en 
 trances, for the holy water, were soon 
 dipped empty, for the Almshouse dwellers 
 like a generous quantity of whatever prom 
 ises to do them good, and the lame man 
 whose duty it was to keep the vessels filled 
 had forgotten about them while he was 
 open-mouthedly intent on watching for 
 the coming of the Archbishop. It was pit 
 iful to see the poor creatures groping in 
 the dry vessels for the water that they could 
 not find. 
 
 The organist, thrilling with pride that 
 he with difficulty repressed, had thoughts 
 only for the time that he could sound the 
 first notes, and he was oblivious to the 
 four singers, who, he was firmly convinced, 
 had very little to do with the real music, 
 after all. But the one-eyed basso not only
 
 176 BEFORE THE ARCHBISHOP 
 
 watched closely the entire scene of the 
 Archbishop s entrance, but whisperingly 
 kept the blind tenor and soprano informed 
 of all that was passing. 
 
 Glorious and brilliant, in cope and sur 
 plice and stole of cloth of gold, and with a 
 golden mitre upon his head, and in his hand 
 a golden crozier, the Archbishop stood be 
 fore those miserable twelve hundred peo 
 ple, who packed the chapel to the very 
 doors, and in the silence that fell upon the 
 assembly he could hear the piteous appeals 
 of still others, outside, who were begging 
 to be allowed to go in. 
 
 The organ pealed ; the choir sang ; the 
 coarse-clad men and women bowed their 
 heads. On the women s side there were 
 rows on rows of hoods of brownish-gray, 
 with a sprinkling of the white veils of 
 those who were to be confirmed. On the 
 side of the men a similar effect was pro 
 duced by the many heads of white among 
 the grizzled and brown and black. 
 
 The choir sang, and never was singing 
 more sad. The organist, in the overplus 
 of his enthusiasm, made the old organ blare, 
 from time to time, with laborious respira-
 
 BEFORE THE ARCHBISHOP 177 
 
 tions. The tenor, eager and excited, piped 
 high-pitchedly out of tune. The alto 
 could not keep the wheezes from some 
 times creeping in. The basso droned val 
 iantly, but could not always hold his 
 breaking voice in check. With blind face 
 upraised, Maggie Thorley sang, and as she 
 sang she thought of freedom and escape, 
 and of the other life that this singing was 
 to bring to her. Mercifully, she was too 
 ignorant of really fine music, and too much 
 wrapped up in herself, to realize how poor 
 was the choir s singing. Wonderful it was, 
 considering who the singers were, and the 
 disadvantages under which they labored, 
 but pitiably destitute of beauty from any 
 other stand-point. Maggie, indeed, sang 
 well, but in the inharmonious discordance 
 her part escaped attention. The choir sat 
 down in a proud flutter. 
 
 "How does the Archbishop look?" 
 whispered Maggie. 
 
 " He looks as if there were tears in his 
 eyes," replied the one-eyed man. 
 
 Into the big square room, with its white 
 washed walls, the hot sun streamed, 
 through the bare windows, turning into
 
 178 BEFORE THE ARCHBISHOP 
 
 yellow insignificance the many lights that 
 blazed on the altar. The incense from the 
 swinging censers tickled the noses of the 
 feeble old folks in the front pews, and they 
 coughed and sneezed in thrilled and guilty 
 enjoyment. The sun s rays threw into 
 bright relief the series of colored pictures on 
 the walls, representing scenes connected 
 with the crucifixion : "Jesus carries the 
 Cross," " Jesus falls the first time," "Jesus 
 falls the second time," " Jesus falls the 
 third time," "Veronica wipes the face of 
 Jesus." The group of old soldiers, veterans 
 of the Civil War, made an impressive 
 group, where they sat together near the 
 middle of the room. 
 
 The Archbishop rose again, and there 
 was infinite pity in his face as his eyes swept 
 over the rows and rows of unfortunates, 
 packed close in the long and narrow pews, 
 stiff and straight-backed, of yellow wood. 
 In the splendor of his apparel, that in the 
 minds of the tensely awe-struck congrega 
 tion transformed the bare chapel into some 
 thing that approached the glory of Heaven, 
 he spoke of the poverty of Jesus, of how 
 he had no place to lay his head, of how the
 
 BEFORE THE ARCHBISHOP 
 
 179 
 
 fowls of the air and the beasts of the field 
 were better housed ; and as he spoke, so 
 gently and sympathetically, of how Jesus 
 had deliberately chosen poverty for his lot, 
 men and women bowed their heads and 
 many quietly wept. 
 
 Again and again did the choir sing, but 
 
 the raucous bass, the shrilling tenor, the 
 wheezing alto and the croaking organ grew 
 gradually worse. Maggie s clear voice was 
 vibrant with the sorrow and hope that 
 stirred her. 
 
 " Stabat Mater dolorosa, 
 Juxta crucem lachrymosa, 
 Dum pendebat Filius."
 
 :8o BEFORE THE ARCHBISHOP 
 
 She did not know what the words 
 meant, but the Archbishop felt, as she sang 
 them, that they thrilled with unspeakable 
 emotion. 
 
 Maggie herself, as one to receive the ad 
 ministered rite, was at length led from her 
 place in the gallery, down the steep stair 
 way, and between the crowded pews to the 
 front of the big room, where, burning and 
 shivering from the fever of hope and fear, 
 she knelt on the steps of the altar. Other 
 men and other women knelt beside her, and 
 from one to another the Archbishop slowly 
 passed, touching them with his own hands, 
 placing upon their brows the consecrated 
 oil, and praying over each with loving 
 gentleness. Maggie felt his touch, she 
 listened to the formal words of the cere 
 mony as in a dream, and then he passed to 
 the next one, and her head dropped for 
 ward into her hands as she prayed in an 
 agony of supplication. 
 
 All at length was over. The choir, with 
 out the voice of Maggie to aid them, sang 
 again. There was the solemn chiming of 
 the Elevation of the Host. There was 
 the benediction. There was the scraping,
 
 BEFORE THE ARCHBISHOP 181 
 
 shuffling, murmuring medley that marked 
 the slow out-passing of the congregation. 
 Yet still Maggie waited, still she prayed, 
 bowed before the altar, and with her face 
 still covered with her hands. She was not 
 noticed, for there was a sprinkling of 
 others, also waiting, some in the pews 
 and some on the altar-steps, and they 
 watched with wistfulness as the flaring 
 candles were one by one extinguished. 
 
 The Archbishop and the Jesuit came 
 out from behind the altar, stood for a few 
 moments, and then passed slowly by 
 where Maggie knelt. Neither of them 
 noticed or recognized her. 
 
 "Your choir interested me greatly," said 
 the Archbishop, and Maggie well knew 
 that it was his voice, for she had listened 
 with strained eagerness to every word ut 
 tered in the service by the great dignitary 
 whose favor was to mean so much to her. 
 As he spoke of the choir she almost 
 shrieked with delirious joy. 
 
 " They have worked hard," said the 
 priest. " I am glad that they interested 
 you." 
 
 "But I never heard anything so pitiful,"
 
 182 BEFORE THE ARCHBISHOP 
 
 continued the Archbishop. His voice was 
 very low, but Maggie was listening with 
 an intensity that could not miss a syllable. 
 
 "Poor things! How hard you must 
 have worked in training them! But it 
 was so unutterably sad. It was painful to 
 listen to them." 
 
 They passed on. Maggie s head sank 
 lower. She could no longer even pray.
 
 THE PROMOTION OF BERKWATER
 
 THE PROMOTION OF BERKWATER 
 
 THE story of Berkwater was one that 
 impressed me by its striking inci 
 dents. 
 
 He was a veteran of the Civil War, and 
 yet no one, witnessing his trembling incer 
 titude, his humbleness, as he crept about 
 Blackwell s, could have guessed that he 
 had ever been a soldier. To think of his 
 having been an officer would have seemed 
 grotesquely absurd. 
 
 His story came to me oddly enough, 
 and without any effort on my part a bit 
 here, a bit there, a fact, an inference, a 
 word and at length the final link that 
 clasped the whole together. There was a 
 certain fascination in watching the unex 
 pected development of the chain of cir 
 cumstances. 
 
 Berkwater is dead now. And it is an 
 additional feature of the strange story that 
 185
 
 186 THE PROMOTION OF BERKWATER 
 
 he and Elinor Linndale died on the same 
 day. He was not old when he died. He 
 was but a little more than sixty. But 
 for so many years he had gone decrepitly 
 about, forever maundering about having 
 told Sherman something just what, he 
 was quite unable to explain that he had 
 come to be looked upon as an old, old man. 
 
 At the beginning of the Civil War, 
 Berkwater s home was in Chicago. He 
 was a man of good family, a rising lawyer, 
 affable, popular, and had a host of friends. 
 In the second year of the war he secured 
 a lieutenant s commission in an Illinois 
 regiment, and went to the front, eager for 
 fame and glory. 
 
 And yet, dearer to him than the highest 
 glory was the love of Elinor Linndale. 
 She was the daughter of a wealthy mer 
 chant. She was brilliantly attractive, and 
 Berkwater, with a certain shyness that 
 seemed foreign to his character for he 
 appeared to be dashing and bold paid 
 court to her. Believing, at length, that 
 she had begun to care for him in return, 
 he decided to risk his fate before leaving, 
 with his regiment, for the war.
 
 THE PROMOTION OF BERKWATER 187 
 
 But when, resplendent in his new uni 
 form, and with pride and love and hope 
 glowing in his face, he actually stood 
 before her, he feared to venture. How 
 could he be so vain as to think that this 
 charming girl cared for him above all the 
 world ? What had he done to show his 
 worthiness ? No. He must first win 
 fame. Then he would come and try to 
 win her. 
 
 And so he could only say, lamely, and 
 with a flushing face, as he held her hand 
 for a moment at parting : 
 
 " I have something very, very particular 
 to say to you. I cannot say it now, as I 
 had hoped to. But on my first furlough 
 I shall ask you to listen to me, and I can 
 only hope that you will listen with favor." 
 
 And with that he was gone, and both 
 of them believed that it was only modesty 
 or shyness, and not fear, that made him 
 hesitate. 
 
 His military career began auspiciously. 
 By the charm of his personality, combined 
 with commendable though by no means 
 brilliant service, he won the good-will of 
 his superior officers, and was advanced to
 
 i88 THE PROMOTION OF BERKWATER 
 
 the rank of captain, and then to that of 
 major. 
 
 At Chickamauga came a brilliant oppor 
 tunity. His regiment had been stub 
 bornly fighting, near the old mill that, 
 close-hemmed by trees, stood by the creek 
 across which much of the battle surged 
 back and forth. Hard pressed by a body 
 of the enemy, who were pouring a deadly 
 fire from behind a barricade of logs, and 
 making the position of the regiment intol 
 erable, Berkwater led a flank attack upon 
 them with desperate bravery. The little 
 body of men that followed his wild rush 
 dashed, with him, over the hostile barri 
 cade, and killed or scattered the enemy 
 who had fought from behind it. 
 
 Not only was it an act of supreme 
 bravery, to thus lead men on such a for 
 lorn hope, but the effect of the dash was 
 to allow a large body of Federal troops to 
 retire in safety from a position that would 
 have meant annihilation. 
 
 Berkwater trembled, in the reaction 
 that followed his deed, and his face was 
 very white as his colonel galloped up and 
 shouted : " Splendidly done, major ! "
 
 THE PROMOTION OF BERKWATER 189 
 
 And his face was very pale, and he was 
 very silent, when afterward he received 
 the compliments of his brother officers. 
 His men were warm in his praise, and his 
 reputation for daring spread through the 
 corps. 
 
 Berkwater s colonel was, like himself, a 
 Chicago man, and he not only was well 
 acquainted with the Linndales, but knew, 
 also, that Berkwater was a suitor of El 
 inor s. He felt great pride in his brave 
 and handsome major, and as soon as possi 
 ble secured him a furlough. 
 
 " You haven t asked for it, but I don t 
 know of anyone who better deserves it, 
 or who would take pleasanter advantage 
 of it," he said, cordially. 
 
 Berkwater could not decline the fur 
 lough, thus warmly offered. As a matter 
 of fact, he was by no means ready to go to 
 Chicago. He was not ready to speak to 
 Elinor. And yet, should he decline the 
 furlough, he knew that the Linndales 
 would be very likely to hear of it, through 
 their friend, the colonel, and in that case 
 there could be but one explanation in 
 Elinor s mind. And so, with apparent
 
 190 THE PROMOTION OF BERKWATER 
 
 pleasure, he accepted the furlough, and 
 started for home. 
 
 Berkwater knew that in Elinor s charac 
 ter pride was the strongest factor. He 
 knew how profound was her nature, and 
 of what a depth of love she was capable, 
 but that strongest of all was her pride. 
 
 The war had intensely aroused her, and 
 she watched every phase of the great 
 struggle with absorbed interest. She felt 
 a pride in the successes of the army, and a 
 still deeper and keener pride in the career 
 of Allen Berkwater, for she knew that he 
 loved her, and that she loved him in 
 return. She entered into the work of the 
 Sanitary Commission, and unweariedly 
 devoted herself to it ; and watched, mean 
 while, the reports that told of Berkwater s 
 progress. She learned of his splendid con 
 duct at Chickamauga, and glowed with 
 pride and joy. She knew what she would 
 tell him when he should return, on his 
 first furlough, and ask her 
 
 But when he stood before her, she could 
 scarcely realize that it was really he. This 
 man, with his eyes sunken, his face hag 
 gard and drawn, and with an aspect that
 
 THE PROMOTION OF BERKWATER 191 
 
 was stern as with some strange resolve ! 
 The explanation came with sharp abrupt 
 ness, after the first few words of talk and 
 greeting. 
 
 " You think me brave. I have won 
 
 praise for my conduct at Chickamauga. 
 But it is all a mistake worse than a mis 
 take ! Nobody has suspected my secret, 
 but it is due to you that you know it. I 
 was a coward ! When they thought I was 
 so brave, I was actually running away, and
 
 192 THE PROMOTION OF BERKWATER 
 
 fought when I saw that I could not help 
 myself, as the men crowded after me in 
 the rush ! " 
 
 Elinor s pride was too deeply stung for 
 her to recognize that in making this avowal, 
 so that she would not accept him under 
 false appearances, Berkwater was showing 
 bravery of a rare order. Nor was she able 
 to see that there was a change in the man : 
 that his character had been strengthened, 
 and purified of much of its dross. Her 
 pride was dominant, and blinded her to 
 considerations that love alone might have 
 heeded. And Berkwater went back to the 
 army, a heart-broken man. 
 
 His regiment had been transferred to the 
 command of General Sherman, who was 
 carefully preparing for the Georgia cam 
 paign. When Berkwater rejoined the 
 army, and reported for duty, his colonel 
 greeted him with cordial warmth, and 
 then said : 
 
 " Major Berkwater, let me be the first 
 to congratulate you. General Sherman 
 has learned of your bravery at Chicka- 
 mauga; and, in filling some vacancies and 
 preparing for a campaign that is likely to
 
 THE PROMOTION OF BERKWATER 193 
 
 prove of vital importance, has decided to 
 give you a colonelcy. I shall be sorry to 
 lose you from my own command, but I am 
 heartily glad that this promotion has come 
 to you." 
 
 Berkwater was so elated that for a mo 
 ment he forgot that his advancement 
 could no longer mean anything to Elinor. 
 He pictured to himself how proud she 
 would be, and then came the swift remem 
 brance that all was over between them. 
 
 Soon, too, came another reflection, that 
 turned him hot and cold by turns, and 
 made him only abstractedly continue the 
 conversation with his colonel, to whose 
 friendship and whose representations to 
 Sherman the new promotion was due. 
 
 Out upon the Chattanooga streets went 
 Berkwater, and there he restlessly wan 
 dered up and down. Night had fallen, 
 and in the great camp that filled and over 
 flowed the town there was quiet, save for 
 now and then a burst of laughter from 
 some tent, the steady beat of the sentries 
 pacing their rounds, the challenge and re 
 sponse of pedestrians, or the hasty gallop 
 of some orderly through the streets.
 
 194 THE PROMOTION OF BERKWATER 
 
 Berkwater made his resolution, and then 
 walked firmly to the headquarters of Gen 
 eral Sherman and asked to be admitted to 
 his presence. Sherman, deeming that only 
 a matter of importance could prompt a call 
 at such an hour, ordered that he be ad 
 mitted. 
 
 Berkwater entered. Before the gen 
 eral s penetrating glance he quailed. He 
 looked fixedly at that face of grizzled firm 
 ness which, though kindly, showed im 
 movability in every line, and for a mo 
 ment he hesitated. 
 
 " Well, sir ? " The words came with 
 sharp impatience, quick and stern. 
 
 " General Sherman, I understand that I 
 am to be commissioned a colonel for brav 
 ery." 
 
 " This is very unusual conduct, sir. 
 Well ? " 
 
 Berkwater stood very straight and very 
 pale. He spoke with nervous quickness. 
 
 " I don t want the commission, sir. I 
 I don t deserve it. I ought not to have 
 had any credit. I I was a coward. I 
 was running away." 
 
 Sherman s countenance was inscrutably
 
 THE PROMOTION OF BERKWATER 195 
 
 grave and watchful, yet there was a touch 
 of human interest somehow apparent a 
 touch of pity and when he said, curtly, 
 " Tell me about it," the young man told 
 him the whole miserable tale, concealing 
 nothing of his shameful fright. 
 
 The general listened in silence till the 
 story was ended, and then continued to 
 look fixedly at the young fellow, who 
 stood, wretchedly expectant, before him. 
 
 " There," said Sherman, pointing to a 
 paper that lay on the table, " is the com 
 mission that was intended for you." 
 
 Berkwater miserably bowed. Sherman 
 arose, walked slowly to the table, and took 
 the commission thoughtfully in his hand. 
 He held it toward Berkwater. 
 
 "Take it!" 
 
 The young man took it in dazed aston 
 ishment. 
 
 " Major Berkwater Colonel Berkwater 
 the commission is yours. You have 
 been tried in as severe an ordeal as a bat 
 tle, and have not been found wanting. 
 Yet I realize that, while you have thus 
 shown yourself morally brave, it is possi 
 ble for you again to fail physically as you
 
 1 96 THE PROMOTION OF BERKWATER 
 
 failed before. See to it that you do not ! 
 Do not make me regret that I have taken 
 this course ! I trust you and there must 
 be no wavering! In the coming campaign 
 I shall see that you have a chance to show 
 what kind of soldier you really are." 
 
 Completely overcome, Berkvvater began 
 to stammer a reply, but Sherman inter 
 rupted him. " Not a word more. And 
 now, leave me, for I am very busy." 
 
 In the Atlanta campaign, that followed, 
 Berkwater was indeed given ample oppor 
 tunity to show that his cowardice had van 
 ished and that he was a changed man. 
 His regiment took part in many battles 
 amid those Georgia hills and pine forests. 
 With difficulty at first, but afterward with 
 the self-command that comes to a spirit 
 victorious over itself, he exposed himself 
 freely too freely, as some thought and 
 on every occasion acted with intrepid cour 
 age. His men idolized him, and were 
 ready to follow him anywhere. 
 
 After the Battle of Atlanta he wrote to 
 Elinor. He told her, with frank manli 
 ness, that he had not ceased to think of 
 her and to love her, and that he had be-
 
 THE PROMOTION OF BERKWATER 197 
 
 gun to hope, in spite of her decision against 
 him, that there might still be a chance to 
 win her regard. He told her that he was 
 a changed man, that he was sure the ten 
 dency to cowardice had been overcome, 
 that General Sherman himself had com 
 plimented him in General Orders. Would 
 she not forget the past ? 
 Her reply was brief. 
 
 " I am sincerely glad that the change 
 has come, but there is still something that 
 I cannot bring myself to overlook. I read 
 in the papers that you received your pro 
 motion as colonel on account of your con 
 duct at Chickamauga. It was your duty, 
 as it seems to me, to tell General Sherman 
 of the actual circumstances, and then wait 
 for your promotion till you could receive 
 it without concealing anything. It is a 
 bitter question to ask but how can I be 
 sure that your career since then has not 
 also been owing to chance ? " 
 
 The cold injustice of the letter hurt 
 him keenly. He could not know that 
 she still cared for him, and that it was the 
 struggle between her pride and her affec-
 
 198 THE PROMOTION OF BERKWATER 
 
 tion that had resulted in such a harshly 
 written note. Berkvvater never suspected 
 how Elinor suffered from the triumph of 
 her own pride. He wrote no reply to her, 
 for his own pride was too deeply touched 
 by her unfair judging of the case against 
 him. 
 
 It was but a few days after the receipt 
 of her letter that, in a tierce skirmish near 
 Jonesboro, Berkvvater was desperately 
 wounded and left on the field. He was 
 cut across the face with a sabre, and a 
 bullet went through his neck, at the very 
 base of the brain. His body was stripped 
 and plundered while he lay unconscious, 
 and when he was afterwards taken from 
 the field and carried away a prisoner, the 
 bullet wound had caused such a benumb 
 ing palsy of the senses that he could not 
 even tell his own name. There was no 
 suspicion that he was an officer, and he 
 was sent to Andersonville prison. 
 
 He had been seen by his own soldiers 
 to fall, badly wounded ; and as he was 
 never afterward heard from it became 
 generally believed that he must be dead. 
 Elinor Linndale read of his disappearance,
 
 THE PROMOTION OF BERKWATER 199 
 
 and later, through his former colonel, 
 learned that hope of ever hearing from 
 him had been given up, and that it was 
 looked upon as certain that he was dead. 
 
 In spite of her grief, she could not 
 but feel a relief that the man she had 
 loved was forever beyond the possibility 
 of disgracing himself. No suspicion that 
 she had misjudged him ever came to 
 her. 
 
 Berkwater was released at the close of 
 the war, and sent to the North, a wreck. 
 Landing at New York, he was not sent to 
 a military home or hospital, for he was 
 quite unable to give any explanation of 
 himself, and there were no papers upon 
 him such as the formalities of the time re 
 quired before a military institution would 
 open its red-taped doors. 
 
 He was gentle, quiet, and needed but 
 little attention. He was sent to Bellevue 
 Hospital, and there remained for a long 
 time, attracting the kind attention of 
 the surgeons by his simple helplessness. 
 Under their care he came at length to 
 remember that his name was Berkwater, 
 but what his first name was, what was his
 
 200 THE PROMOTION OF BERKWATER 
 
 history, or who were his friends, he was 
 quite unable to tell, even after the most 
 careful and patient questioning. 
 
 " I was promoted, but I told Sherman 
 all about it," he would say. And then 
 he would add, with strange earnestness, 
 " Yes, I told Sherman all about it." 
 
 At all other times his talk was confined 
 altogether to the simplest matters of his 
 daily life and surroundings. The past was 
 blotted out, save for the vague memory 
 that his few words about Sherman repre 
 sented. 
 
 In the course of time it became neces 
 sary to transfer him to Blackwell s Island, 
 and he became an inmate of the Alms- 
 house, on the ground that medical and sur 
 gical care could not benefit him, and that 
 the cots of the city s hospitals ought to be 
 occupied only by those whom the doctors 
 could help. 
 
 In the Almshouse he then remained, 
 growing gray and bent and feeble, and 
 from time to time being led by one of the 
 group of old soldiers among the inmates 
 to a meeting of Friendless Post, where he 
 seemed to get into his poor vacant mind
 
 THE PROMOTION OF BERKWATER 201 
 
 that the men about him were veterans. 
 He would sit beside them, in drowsy pa 
 tience, for hours, and once in a while 
 would pipe out, feebly : 
 
 " I told Sherman about it. I was pro 
 moted, but I told General Sherman." 
 
 Many years thus passed. And one day 
 a party of ladies, a committee from an 
 association for the amelioration of the 
 condition of the poor, visited Blackwell s 
 Island, and were shown through the va 
 rious institutions. At the Almshouse they 
 were particularly interested, and asked to 
 be led through every building and every 
 ward, even where lay the sick. 
 
 Into one of the sick-wards poor Berk- 
 water had been carried the week before. 
 The ladies reached that ward, and were 
 met by the surgeon in charge. 
 
 " I feel deeply interested in these unfort 
 unates, Dr. Clark," said the gray-haired 
 chairman of the committee. " Ever since 
 making my home in this city, three years 
 ago, I have planned to visit this island, 
 and yet this is the first time that I have 
 gotten over here." 
 
 " You will find the study very interest-
 
 202 THE PROMOTION OF BERKWATER 
 
 ing, Miss Linndale," returned the doctor; 
 " but it will be affecting as well. Look at 
 that poor fellow the one with the great 
 scar across his face. No one knows who 
 he is. He hobbles around the Island, 
 when he is well enough to be out. He 
 
 has been here for many years. He wants 
 to be cheerful and helpful, and can tell 
 absolutely nothing of his own past or of 
 his friends. He may live for years yet, 
 and without any change." 
 
 " Poor fellow!" said Elinor Linndale; 
 while Allen Berkwater, realizing that he
 
 THE PROMOTION OF BERKWATER 203 
 
 was the subject of conversation, piped 
 shrilly as the party passed beyond him : 
 
 " I told Sherman about it. Yes, I was 
 promoted ! But I told General Sher 
 man ! "
 
 ON CHERRY HILL
 
 ON CHERRY HILL 
 
 " JENNIE! Jennie! For the love o 
 J Heaven, Jennie ! Give me the kid ! " 
 
 But Jennie laughed shrilly, and con 
 tinued her stumbling walk, while her old 
 mother, bareheaded, and with thin wisps 
 of gray hair fluttering in the night wind, 
 followed close behind. Hoarsely, and 
 with supplicative iteration, she continued 
 to beg for the child, heedless of the driz 
 zling rain that was steadily falling. 
 
 "Jennie! Jennie! For the love o 
 Heaven ! " But Jennie was not to be 
 touched by appeals to either the love of 
 Heaven or of her child. The little thing 
 was less than a year old, and she carried it 
 alternately by an arm, a leg, or its body, 
 and it was too dumbly frightened to cry. 
 Jennie was not very drunk, but she walked 
 unsteadily, and all the obstinacy of her 
 nature had been developed. 
 207
 
 208 ON CHERRY HILL 
 
 The old woman touched her arm. 
 "Jennie!" But the girl turned fiercely 
 upon her, and the mother retreated, shrink 
 ing. 
 
 " I m looking for Pete ! I m going to 
 give the kid to him." The words were 
 uttered loudly, and with a distinct air of 
 defiance toward the little crowd that was 
 following. Some of the people tried to 
 laugh, with knowing intonation, but the 
 laugh soon died away. 
 
 Past old doorways, with fan-shaped win 
 dows above and columns on either side 
 for in these dismally dilapidated tenements 
 wealth and social eminence once dwelt 
 Jennie slowly swung. There were houses 
 of irregular height, standing at irregular 
 angles with the sidewalks. There were 
 threateningly dark passage-ways, leading 
 to other and dingier tenements in the rear. 
 Past the end of the street an elevated 
 train noisily rattled. From the great 
 bridge, above, swinging on its huge curve 
 toward Brooklyn, came the rumble of 
 trains and the clangor of gongs. Far aloft 
 there glowed electric lights that twinkled 
 hopefully through the rain, and Jennie,
 
 ON CHERRY HILL 209 
 
 glancing up, was impressed for a moment, 
 vaguely, as if by the possibility of some 
 thing bright but unattainable. Below, on 
 Cherry Hill, dim street-lamps shone miser 
 ably in the gloom. Saloon lights cut 
 broad swaths in the dismal darkness, and 
 contrasted with the gloom of open-doored 
 halls and the dark passage-ways. 
 
 Jennie " Handsome Jennie," as she was 
 called was scarcely more than eighteen, 
 and her eyes were luminously dark, her 
 figure neat and trim. She swung past a 
 lamp-post, and let the baby s body strike 
 against it. The little thing whimpered, 
 whereupon Jennie dashed her hand against 
 its cheek. It stopped its whimper, and 
 Jennie said, with a wild laugh : 
 
 " Pete used to say it made too much 
 noise. I didn t know how to stop it then." 
 
 She bumped it against a house stoop. 
 The crowd, composed though it was of 
 the worst elements of Cherry Hill, was 
 very silent. It takes a good deal to awe 
 Cherry Hill, but Cherry Hill was awed. 
 Still, no one interfered. It is a part of 
 New York where it is not customary to in 
 terfere in strictly family affairs.
 
 210 ON CHERRY HILL 
 
 " Jennie ! For the love o Heaven ! 
 Give me the kid ! " 
 
 But the girl only repeated : " I m going 
 to find Pete, and give the kid to him!" 
 Then, twisting and twirling the child in 
 her arms, she began to sing. It was a 
 plaintive love-song, but her voice made her 
 listeners shiver. She brought the child up 
 in front of her with a jerk of one of its 
 pipe-stem legs, and deliberately scratched 
 its cheek. The scratches were not deep, but 
 the blood came. There was a remonstrant 
 murmur from the crowd, and the old mother 
 tugged at her daughter s arm and shrieked. 
 The girl again turned fiercely, and again the 
 mother shrank back, while her shriek died 
 away in a maundering moan. No one 
 thought of the police, for on Cherry Hill 
 they are never sent for, but only come 
 when uninvited. 
 
 Jennie held the child in the light of a 
 saloon window, and said, with dull calm 
 ness : " Pete said it was just a white-faced 
 little thing. I wonder what he ll think of 
 it now." 
 
 " Can t somebody find Pete and get this 
 thing stopped ? " said one of the men, and
 
 ON CHERRY HILL 211 
 
 at this a girl laughed jeeringly. " If you 
 want to find Pete you needn t look where 
 Jennie is ! He s off with 
 
 But another girl checked her. " Don t 
 let her hear that. Her heart s broke 
 a ready." 
 
 Jennie reached the top of the low slope. 
 Directly above her hung an arch of the 
 mighty bridge. On the very spot where a 
 great abutment towered, there had stood 
 the first presidential mansion occupied by 
 George Washington after his inauguration. 
 Jennie had never heard of Washington, 
 but the darkly massive pile of stone, con 
 trasting with the old tenements and the 
 garish lights, somehow impressed her. The 
 little crowd formed in a semicircle, and 
 watched her, silently. In that open space 
 there had stood, generations before, the 
 grove of cherry-trees that had given the 
 once delightful spot its name. From that 
 spot, down to the East River, where now 
 were narrow streets crowded with tene 
 ments, there had swept the finely kept 
 grounds of early residents. 
 
 Jennie leaned against the massive abut 
 ment that marked the site of Washington s
 
 ON CHERRY HILL 
 
 home, and might have fancied that there 
 was a grave and quieting influence there, 
 for she grew calm, and held the baby close, 
 and softly wept over it. The watching 
 
 crowd grew more 
 still. 
 
 There was a sud 
 den stir, and a cry 
 of astonishment. 
 "Here s Pete!" 
 And a young man 
 pushed his way to 
 the front. He 
 looked at none of 
 those who fell back 
 on either hand, but 
 \valked straight up 
 to the girl, who 
 stood, rigid and 
 with parted lips, 
 staring at him. 
 
 " Jennie, let me 
 have that kid! " 
 She started, and held its bleeding face 
 closer against her breast. " I dassent. You d 
 hurt it ! " And then she furtively wiped 
 its cheek with the sleeve of her cheap gown.
 
 ON CHERRY HILL 213 
 
 " Give me the kid ! " With a dry sob 
 she handed it to him. The couple stood, 
 with the child between them, and the 
 hands of both were touching it. Remorse 
 and tenderness were in the eyes of one, 
 while love and longing shone, frightened, 
 from those of the other. 
 
 The policeman on post came briskly up, 
 and with him was a clergyman who was on 
 his way to his home in one of the " settle 
 ment houses " that dot the great East 
 Side. He was a man who had devoted 
 himself to work in the tenements, and Pete 
 at once recognized him. 
 
 " Mister, me an Jennie wants to get 
 married, and was just wonderin where 
 we d find you. And we d like it done 
 right now, sir, if you please." 
 
 The clergyman was one of those rare 
 men who, a worker among the poor and 
 wretched, really understood those among 
 whom he labored. He saw that it was not 
 a case for delay. He took off his hat. 
 The policeman, at the risk of being seen 
 by a roundsman, removed his helmet. 
 Every man in the crowd stood with un 
 covered head. The young couple joined
 
 214 ON CHERRY HILL 
 
 hands, and the policeman took the baby, 
 letting it play with his night-stick to keep 
 it still. The drizzling rain turned to a 
 heavy shower, but no one heeded it. 
 
 "Whom God hath joined together," 
 said the minister, solemnly ; and when the 
 brief ceremony was over Pete took the 
 child from the policeman s arms and han 
 dled it with awe. 
 
 Jennie laughed happily. " Let me take 
 it! You ll drop it!" 
 
 It cooed up in her face, and she kissed it 
 passionately. Then Cherry Hill went in 
 out of the rain.
 
 A PROPOSAL DURING SHIVA
 
 A PROPOSAL DURING SHIVA 
 
 A ROOM on the third floor of a tumble 
 down old structure on Orchard 
 Street; a building of frame; and it stood 
 there tremulously, with its facade pitched 
 forward as with the stoop of an old man, 
 and its coat of gray faded and streaked into 
 shabbiness, and its little eyes, looking from 
 two old dormers, dull and bleared. 
 
 Two flights of trembling stairs led to 
 the room. It was broad and low, around 
 it stood cases filled with books and manu 
 scripts, and here and there were a few 
 small tables and some chairs. On a low 
 stool at one side, and sitting very stiff and 
 very straight, was little Selma Weidberg. 
 The room was lighted by lamps, that 
 burned but dimly, and made the old men 
 who were poring over the books and 
 parchments, over the Talmud and the 
 volumes of Jewish law and rabbinical lore, 
 peer closely to decipher the words. 
 217
 
 2i8 A PROPOSAL DURING SHIVA 
 
 Thick dark hair, beards of great length, 
 of gray or of mingled gray and black, eyes 
 that glowed with soft mysteriousness, lit 
 by inner-burning fires, fingers tenuous, 
 almost claw-like, from the constant touch 
 ing and handling of crumbly pages : and 
 Selma looked at the skull-capped men, as 
 grave and as thoughtful as they, while 
 the old men, glancing back at her, smiled 
 in kindliness, for it was pleasant to them 
 to see her there. The glow of the lamps 
 left their patriarchal faces half in shadow 
 and half in light, and gave lambent lustres 
 to sheets of olden yellow, and left shadows 
 in the distant corners of the ample, low- 
 ceiled room ; shadows that were almost 
 terrifying, in their grotesque mystery, when 
 Selma, as a very little child, first began to 
 visit there and to occupy that stool. 
 
 Some of the men were rabbis; Jewish 
 priests and teachers ; all were known as 
 rabbis in the loose nomenclature of the 
 East Side, for all were students, and 
 wrapped up in Jewish lore, even though 
 they daily followed unpretending voca 
 tions. The father of Selma kept a little 
 shop where he sold second-hand clothes,
 
 Their patriarchal faces half in shadow.
 
 and he had several agents who went 
 through the city, buying cast-off garments 
 for little or nothing. 
 
 Abraham Weidberg was younger than 
 the other men who frequented the book- 
 room, and his air of solemn dignity was to 
 quite an extent gained through associa 
 tion with his companions, who were more 
 learned and more venerable than he, studi 
 ous and wise though he was. 
 
 It was only once in a while that Selma 
 was allowed to accompany her father on 
 his visits to the room, and to these occa 
 sions she looked forward with the keenest 
 expectation and enjoyed them with raptur 
 ous delight, though she sat so still on the 
 little stool that the old men, who looked 
 so kindly at her, thought she must surely 
 be wearied. 
 
 The building, in spite of its dilapidation, 
 was still strong. It was built with the 
 stoutest flooring, and with huge oaken 
 beams, and bade fair to outlast many a 
 fresh and pretentious upstart of brick that, 
 thin-walled and weak-girdered, had arisen 
 near it. And because the building was 
 still strong, in spite of its age and its
 
 222 A PROPOSAL DURING SHIVA 
 
 apparent weakness, the second floor was 
 used as a hall, where societies met, and 
 where, at times, there were gatherings of 
 the garment workers, of one or another of 
 the many classes, of the great East Side. 
 Partitions had been taken down, and a 
 stage erected at one end, and mirrors 
 placed completely around the sides. These 
 mirrors were the delight of the people who 
 met there, for they reflected the large 
 number actually present, and the large low 
 room, into a hall of stately dimensions, 
 filled with a vast assemblage. 
 
 Through the thick floor there sometimes 
 came up to the rabbis the sounds of shouts 
 and cheers and stampings, but these 
 annoyed the bearded men but little, for 
 their ears were well accustomed to the 
 noise and hum of the East Side, where 
 there is no such thing as stillness, packed 
 and congested and massed together as 
 those tens of thousands of people are, in 
 that most thickly populated portion of the 
 entire world. 
 
 But little Selma heard and noticed the 
 sounds, and her mind busied itself with 
 speculations as to what those noisy men
 
 A PROPOSAL DURING SHIVA 223 
 
 were doing, down below her. And once 
 in a while there came into the quiet book- 
 room a young man who, as she vaguely 
 understood, at times took part in those 
 meetings that made so much of turmoil 
 a turmoil so in contrast with the quiet of 
 the book-room. 
 
 Enoch Heimann was his name, and he 
 was handsome and full of energy and 
 enthusiasm. Quiet he always was, when 
 in the book-room, but it was a quiet be 
 hind which lay potentialities of action. 
 Even Selma, though but a little girl, could 
 in some sort see that he was a strong man 
 a man of physical vigor, and strong in 
 ardent mentality. He was a man made 
 for action rather than for dreaming, and 
 yet he was a dreamer too : and Selma 
 came to look upon him with a sort of wor 
 shipping awe, as she did upon the patri 
 archal longbeards who were the regular 
 habitues of the place. 
 
 He was broad-shouldered, and held 
 himself very erect. His forehead was both 
 high and broad, and over it his black hair 
 obdurately clustered in short curls that he 
 tried in vain to flatten. His eyes were
 
 224 A PROPOSAL DURING SHIVA 
 
 full and dark. He could talk with fluent 
 ease, and had a way of touching the hearts 
 and the understandings of his listeners. 
 The bearded rabbis liked him, too, because 
 he could listen, in long retentive silences, 
 while they poured out for him the wisdom 
 that they had garnered during their years 
 of studious life. They liked him because 
 he wanted to keep up the prosperity and 
 strength of the Jewish people wanted 
 them to be both wise and great. 
 
 He was of poor parents. His father 
 was a refugee from Russia, and had mar 
 ried, in New York, a handsome girl, the 
 daughter of a Jew of Portugal. Enoch 
 grew to manhood with a bitter dislike for 
 the established order of things and for the 
 rule of wealth. With his powerful mind, 
 and his education (for his father had given 
 him the best that the public schools of 
 New York could offer), the young man 
 might have made himself a favorite among 
 a wealthy class. But he never attempted 
 this. He looked on the Jews of wealth, 
 such as those whose names he saw over 
 scores of business establishments on Broad 
 way, as being almost as fully aliens as if
 
 A PROPOSAL DURING SHIVA 225 
 
 they were not Jews. It was with the 
 myriads of the Hebrews of the packed 
 tenements that his soul was bound up. 
 
 Selma never knew just when it was that 
 she first began to notice Enoch Heimann. 
 He grew gradually into the girl s conscious 
 ness, as a part of the dreamy old room ; and 
 also, much as she admired him, as an ele 
 ment of threatened unrest. He, for his part, 
 grew to like to see the child there. To his 
 mind, touched with a leaven of poesy, the 
 girl was a sort of guardian spirit there, with 
 her eyes so big with wondering awe. 
 
 Sometimes, after poring over musty 
 books, and talking with slow gravity with 
 some rabbi, he would walk over to the lit 
 tle stool, and would speak gently to Sel 
 ma ; and she would answer with a bright 
 ening look, but also with a gravity that 
 befitted the book-room, so dimly dusky 
 with learning. 
 
 And one night he thought the girl 
 looked sleepy it was far past the hour at 
 which Weidberg usually went home, on 
 the nights that Selma was with him and 
 Heimann told him that he would take the 
 girl to her mother, as he himself lived near
 
 226 A PROPOSAL DURING SHIVA 
 
 their home, which was on Stanton Street. 
 And the girl put her hand trustfully in 
 his, and went away with him ; like a child, 
 indeed, and yet, so Heimann thought, in 
 some ways more like a woman. 
 
 After that, as the months and years 
 crept by, Enoch kept up the habit of, once 
 in a while, walking home with the girl ; 
 and Selma grew to young womanhood, 
 with Enoch thus a part of her life. 
 
 It never seemed strange to her that this 
 big and handsome man should have estab 
 lished himself as a sort of guardian. Noth 
 ing seemed strange to her that came from 
 the duskily lighted room where were the 
 books of Jewish history and law, and the 
 bearded rabbis. Sometimes, sitting on her 
 stool, she would pore over some huge 
 book, and then talk quaintly about it as 
 Enoch led her home. It was often strange 
 old Talmudic tales, full of dramatic narra 
 tive or of humor, that she read, and the 
 people and the happenings in the stories 
 were as real to her as what she saw about 
 her on the crowded streets. And in those 
 streets she saw much of beauty beauty of 
 sound and of sight. Where, for example,
 
 A PROPOSAL DURING SHIVA 227 
 
 Enoch saw a woman toiling through the 
 street, bending beneath a huge bundle of 
 sewing, for which, he knew, she would re 
 ceive, perhaps, no more than twenty-five 
 cents, Selma saw the curve of the wom 
 an s shoulders as having an odd graceful 
 ness, and she noted the contrasting colors 
 of her gown and shawl, and it made an at 
 tractive picture in her eyes. The lights 
 in the shop windows, the shouts of the 
 children, the rumble and murmur of it all, 
 were parts of a pleasant show, in which, 
 walking demurely with big Enoch, she 
 could herself be a part. Her father was 
 well to do, her home was comfortable, she 
 was kind-hearted and impulsive to help, 
 but her parents had kept her, as much as 
 possible, from the knowledge of actual 
 misery. Her dreamy connection with the 
 book-room and the rabbis lent a marked 
 touch of unreality to her life. 
 
 Enoch liked Abraham Weid*berg, for he 
 recognized in the man a practical shrewd 
 ness that, so it seemed to him, might be 
 turned to good account in a movement for 
 the bettering of the condition of the ten 
 ement Hebrews.
 
 228 A PROPOSAL DURING SHIVA 
 
 As Selma approached young woman 
 hood, and her visits to the room of the 
 rabbis almost ceased, she came to prize the 
 evenings on which Enoch looked in at 
 their home. Her father and Enoch dis 
 cussed with eager enthusiasm problems of 
 life and possible reforms; while her moth 
 er, a fine-looking, sombre-eyed woman, sat 
 mostly silent. Selma, equally silent, sat 
 by her side, and each was usually engaged 
 in sewing on some homely household gar 
 ment. 
 
 Rebecca Weidberg was a Galician Jew 
 ess, and among Selma s earliest recollec 
 tions were those connected with the huge 
 wig that her mother wore ; for the staid 
 Jewish woman had yielded unquestioning- 
 ly, at her marriage, to the iron rule that 
 required as it had required of the women 
 of her branch of Hebrews for centuries 
 that the hair of a bride be clipped or 
 shaven close. 
 
 There gradually became more and more 
 fixed in Selma s mind, a feeling of deep 
 love for her people and her religion, but 
 there also came a sad feeling that there 
 was something stronger in life that her
 
 A PROPOSAL DURING SHIVA 229 
 
 religion and her people must remain in 
 the condition from which Enoch Heimann 
 was so anxious to free them. Following 
 the idea of Enoch, she had come to think 
 of her race as comprising only the thou 
 sands who struggled with the problems of 
 life in the tenement districts : the rich He 
 brews of the city were not of them : she 
 began to learn the misery of the tene 
 ments, too, and her heart overflowed with 
 commiseration. 
 
 She was educated at the public school 
 of her district, and sent for two terms to a 
 large musical school on the East Side, 
 where she, and many like her, were for low 
 fees taught to play and sing. VVeidberg 
 even purchased a piano for her (in many of 
 the tenements there are pianos or flutes or 
 violins), and in a simple way she could 
 play. Enoch liked to hear her, and usu 
 ally, after the discussion of social problems 
 with the father, he would ask that Selma 
 play, whereupon the girl would shyly do 
 so. 
 
 What, more than anything else, gave 
 Selma the feeling that her race and her 
 religion must yield to other forces, came
 
 230 A PROPOSAL DURING SHIVA 
 
 to her through her visits to the old Jewish 
 burying-ground on West Eleventh Street. 
 When she was a very little girl, her father 
 led her far over there, 
 on the opposite side of 
 the city from where she 
 lived, and he pointed 
 out what was left of the 
 burying-ground, and 
 she peered between the 
 iron bars of the fence 
 in reverential awe. 
 Buildings closely 
 hemmed in the trian 
 gular bit of ground, 
 crowded with time- 
 stained stones, and her 
 father told her that, al 
 though rich men were 
 eager to buy the little bit of land, 
 and willing to pay a great sum for it, 
 no amount of money, however great, 
 could purchase it, so strong was the 
 enduring observance, on the part of 
 the Hebrew sect, whose dead lay 
 there, of their rule that no dead body 
 should ever be removed, no burying-
 
 A PROPOSAL DURING SHIVA 231 
 
 ground desecrated. The roar of traffic 
 from Sixth Avenue, which was but a few 
 rods away, increased the reverence with 
 which she regarded the infinitesimal tri 
 angle. 
 
 It was not till long afterward that she 
 realized what gave her mind a more sad 
 dening bias. It came to her, one day, with 
 a painful shock. It was, that part of the 
 burying ground had already been removed ! 
 
 " Yes," her father said, " but that was 
 for the street, my child. There had to be 
 a street cut through, and of course the 
 city took the necessary land." 
 
 Selma could not understand how her 
 father could look on the fact thus calmly. 
 There, where graves had been, ran the 
 smooth street, with its asphalt pavements, 
 its stone sidewalks, its traffic, its wagons, 
 its quick-stepping pedestrians. It was a 
 thing for Jews to be proud of, that money 
 could not purchase the patch that was left : 
 but there was crushing inexorability in the 
 fact that, after all, there was a power that 
 could do as it pleased with it. 
 
 The smooth, hard streets, the iron power 
 that had cut the burying-ground in twain,
 
 232 A PROPOSAL DURING SHIVA 
 
 appalled her. The idea fixed itself, and 
 became, so she felt, ineradicable, that it is 
 useless to fight against the power that ex 
 ists, against things as they are. Much as 
 she admired the handsome Enoch, she 
 could only feel that he was in error when 
 he talked of proposed reforms and changes 
 and the altering of conditions. She 
 thought of the remorselessness of the hard 
 pavements, a-nd of the crushing power of 
 existing conditions. 
 
 And yet, although her feelings were thus 
 enlisted against Enoch s views, she could 
 not but feel a thrill of admiration when 
 she heard him talk of uniting all of the 
 Jews of the East Side in a great league a 
 league that should control labor, and prices, 
 and hours of work, and should combine 
 Hebrews of all trades and sects and nation 
 alities. 
 
 She knew that she loved Enoch, but it 
 was as if he were her brother. She had 
 never had either a brother or sister, and 
 Enoch had therefore the more easily in 
 corporated himself with the most precious 
 portion of her life. 
 
 Selma grew to be very beautiful, but
 
 A PROPOSAL DURING SHIVA 233 
 
 not with the beauty of her Jewish friends, 
 or after the type of either of her parents. 
 Her hair was brownish black. That, too, 
 was the color of her eyes. Her face was 
 dark, but of a creamy tint. Her nose was 
 straight. Her mouth was sweet and firm. 
 When she smiled, her face lit up in an ex 
 quisite glow. And Enoch came to love 
 her dearly. 
 
 Frequently did he try to get her to take 
 a share in the discussions, but rarely could 
 she be induced to do so. She, like her 
 mother, sat silent, and listened to the men. 
 
 Time passed, and, although Selma was 
 still young, her mother began to think 
 seriously of her marriage, and the girl s 
 great beauty promised possibilities of 
 marked advancement through the event. 
 But Weidberg always checked her, with 
 jealous crustiness, when she hinted at any 
 change in Selma s way of life. 
 
 " The girl is happy with us ; let that 
 suffice," was all that he would say. 
 
 It was on a bright Summer afternoon 
 that there came to Selma a poignant shock. 
 She learned that her mother was ill, and 
 that there was no hope for her recovery.
 
 234 A PROPOSAL DURING SHIVA 
 
 Mrs. Weidberg had never been strong, and 
 an insidious disease had finally attacked 
 her, and henceforth she was sure steadily to 
 fail. The illness had come upon her some 
 months before, but the fact had been kept 
 from the daughter s knowledge till con 
 cealment was deemed no longer either pos 
 sible or advisable. 
 
 With the knowledge of the fate that 
 hung over her mother, there came to the 
 girl an explanation of a change that she 
 had noticed in Weidberg himself. His 
 manner had been gradually altering. He 
 had ceased to take delight in the discussion 
 of abstruse points with his colleagues. He 
 had come to dislike the presence of Enoch, 
 and the young man found him petulant, 
 dogmatic, and rude. There were times 
 when the girl flushed for her father s con 
 duct. 
 
 On several occasions Heimann, in pained 
 mortification, left after the briefest possi 
 ble call, and Weidberg would growl out, 
 after his departure : " The man is tiresome. 
 He is impertinent, too, in setting his ideas 
 against those of his elders. Selma has al 
 ways been right in liking the society and
 
 A PROPOSAL DURING SHIVA 235 
 
 the learning of elder men. The talk of 
 that Heimann is like the sound of a shutter 
 rattling in the wind." 
 
 Now Selma thought she understood the 
 reason for her father s conduct: it must be 
 because of his knowledge of the inevita 
 ble fate of his wife : and, thinking thus, 
 the girl was very patient with him, and 
 gave him more of love and tenderness. 
 
 The end came without warning, one 
 dreary day, when neither the husband nor 
 the daughter was at home, and the grief of 
 the girl was something pitiful. Stolid and 
 dry-eyed but in his eyes there burned 
 a lurid light the man tried to comfort 
 her. His nature had long since changed. 
 Suddenly, with this affliction, his voice 
 changed, and he spoke with a harsh rau- 
 cousness, that he tried to make loving. 
 
 " Selma, it had to be. It is better that 
 Rebecca thus ceased from sorrow and pain. 
 Yes ; it is better. But I shall make my 
 Selma happy." 
 
 To his croaking consolation she could 
 not reply. Friends came, and offered their 
 services ; the funeral was one of sober dis 
 tinction : and then Selma and her father
 
 236 A PROPOSAL DURING SHIVA 
 
 returned to the house where death had 
 come. 
 
 The period of mourning, the eight days 
 of Shiva, began with a strange unrest on 
 the part of the father, with a passion of 
 weeping on the part of the child. In the 
 front room, overlooking the crowds and 
 the never-ceasing bustle of Stanton Street, 
 the two sat. There was no other near of 
 kin, and hence the two sat solitary. 
 
 " See ! " said an Armenian woman, 
 whose windows, across the street, com 
 manded those of the Weidbergs. " See ! 
 The Jews sit without their shoes. All the 
 day through, and day after day, they sit 
 so. And they will not use the chairs, but 
 are seated on the floor ! " 
 
 Thus, indeed, as demanded by custom, 
 did Abraham and Selma Weidberg sit in 
 mourning. For hour after hour they 
 wearily sat in the same room, only to 
 separate at night, and take up the re 
 newed vigil at dawn. When they ate, they 
 either stood or remained seated on the floor. 
 They could not go from the house until the 
 days of Shiva were fully numbered. 
 
 Twelve acquaintances, the greater part
 
 A PROPOSAL DURING SHIVA 237 
 
 being rabbis from the book-room, came 
 every evening and solemnly intoned pray 
 ers. The kindly old men tried to comfort 
 the pair, and Selma s heart was lifted 
 somewhat out of its sadness. They spoke 
 gravely of the problems of death and im 
 mortality, and then with gentle kindness 
 talked with the stricken girl. 
 
 The rabbis spoke of their comrade as 
 they gathered in their dusky room. " He 
 acts as if possessed of an evil spirit," said 
 the grayest and oldest of them all, gloom 
 ily shaking his head. 
 
 " Yes, and did you not mark how his 
 eyes glowed as if with fever, how his 
 fingers twitched, and how his face burned 
 hot?" said another. 
 
 Enoch went, taking off his shoes as he 
 entered, and seating himself in sober sym 
 pathy. But Weidberg snapped at him, in 
 sharpened words, and gibed and glowered ; 
 and the young man, pained and silent, went 
 away. Selma barely looked at him, and 
 he could not know how strongly she hoped 
 he would overlook it all, and ascribe her 
 father s conduct to his grief. 
 
 Day after day went slowly by. Once
 
 238 A PROPOSAL DURING SHIVA 
 
 in a while an acquaintance came in, and 
 sat, shoeless and commiserating. On the 
 morning of the sixth day Selma noticed 
 that her father was more than ever flushed, 
 more nerve-shaken, more unlike his former 
 self. He sat silent, gazing straight down 
 at the floor : and when at length he raised 
 his eyes, and looked at her, they were red 
 and bloodshot. He began to murmur, in 
 mumbling words, and she caught a few 
 disjointed sentences from the Song of 
 Solomon : 
 
 " Behold, thou art fair, my love ; thy 
 lips are like a thread of scarlet ; behold, 
 thou art fair." 
 
 There was another silence. Then came 
 the word, hoarsely croaked : 
 
 " Selma ! " 
 
 " Yes, my father." The girl felt a sense 
 of oppression. 
 
 " There is something, Selma, that I wish 
 to tell you. Rebecca and myself spoke 
 often of it. We wondered if you ought 
 to know." 
 
 He spoke clumsily, heavily, awkwardly. 
 She did not reply, but looked at him in 
 wonder. His face flushed more red. He
 
 A PROPOSAL DURING SHIVA 239 
 
 turned his eyes away, after shiftily trying 
 to meet her glance. 
 
 " You you were not our child. You 
 were, the child of parents who could not 
 care for you. And and we were child 
 less " 
 
 He ended with an almost unintelligible 
 mumble. She sat rigid, horror-struck. 
 He moved restlessly, and slantwise turned 
 his eyes on her. Her words came like a 
 cry of pain. 
 
 " Why, oh, why, do you tell me such a 
 thing at such a time ? " 
 
 "Selma! Have pity on me; I could 
 not wait could not but speak. Jacob 
 worked and waited for seven years, and 
 then for still another seven ; but Jacob 
 lived in an age when men counted their 
 lifetime by centuries, and seven years was 
 but a fragment. And I shall soon be get 
 ting old, my Selma; and I felt that I 
 must tell you and must know " 
 
 "Must know!" she whispered. " I 
 don t understand." She shivered and 
 shrunk away from him. 
 
 " I want you to take the place of 
 Rebecca," he said, hoarsely.
 
 240 A PROPOSAL DURING SHIVA 
 
 The self-control of the girl broke down. 
 "Oh, mother! Mother! For you were 
 my mother ! In all right you were you 
 were indeed !" 
 
 Weidberg hunched himself, meanly, and 
 slunk a little away from her, with a craven 
 gesture. 
 
 There was a knock at the door, and 
 Enoch entered. Weidberg spoke to him 
 with savage coarseness. " Why do you 
 disturb us ? How dare you intrude at 
 such a time ? Go ! " 
 
 Without a word, Enoch went away.
 
 A PROPOSAL DURING SHIVA 241 
 
 The girl only wept. There, until night 
 fall, the two sat together; the man, with 
 his head bowed and his face hidden ; the 
 girl, with her face buried in her hands, 
 and her mind revolving humiliating 
 thoughts. 
 
 " Those Jews ! " observed the Armenian 
 woman. "They are so strange! Their 
 grief is greater than at the beginning ! " 
 
 The final days of Shiva were a time of 
 unspeakable horror to Selma. Weidberg 
 sat in self-condemnatory misery. He did 
 not blame himself for caring for Selma. 
 That, he thought, was proper. But he 
 was stung with fierce self-loathing that, 
 hurried on by the warmth of his passion, 
 he should have spoken to her in such a 
 way and at such a time. And he knew 
 that Selma loathed him. 
 
 From the moment of his announcement 
 that she was not their child, she felt that 
 she must none the less sit out the appoint 
 ed days of mourning. Rebecca Weidberg 
 had been as a loving mother to her. She 
 would not shrink from giving her memory 
 the fullest measure of respect, even though 
 she must have Weidberg beside her.
 
 242 A PROPOSAL DURING SHIVA 
 
 Hour after hour, and without exchang 
 ing a word between them, they sat through 
 what was left of the time of Shiva. He 
 watched her, at times, furtively, hungrily, 
 hopelessly. She sat in black misery. 
 When friends came quietly in and sat to 
 mourn with them, the two spoke in the 
 briefest possible way, and the friends sor 
 rowfully sympathized with them in what 
 seemed only the deepest grief. Toward 
 the close of the eighth day Weidberg said, 
 huskily : 
 
 " I was wrong, Selma. It was a painful 
 mistake that I made. But I meant to 
 treat you only with honor. And I forgot 
 myself and made a sad mistake." 
 
 She flashed a look of scorn at him. He 
 quailed under it, but went on : 
 
 " I will treat you the best I can. Your 
 mother your real mother is alive. I 
 can tell you where you may find her." 
 
 " Do not tell me ! She cast me off ! 
 This this was my real mother ! Tell me 
 nothing of the other ! I would not go 
 near her, for either a crust of bread or a 
 drop of water or a word of comfort ! Say 
 nothing to me of her ! "
 
 A PROPOSAL DURING SHIVA 243 
 
 " Of course, then, you will stay with 
 me, here " 
 
 " With you ! Not a moment ! Not an 
 instant, after the time of Shiva is ended ! " 
 
 Her vehemence amazed him, but he 
 pulled himself together, sat more erect, 
 and spoke more calmly. His manliness 
 was coming back. His dream was over. 
 
 " I feared you would not, though I 
 hoped you would. Well, I shall see to it 
 that, whatever you plan to do, you will 
 not suffer for my moment of weakness. 
 You need not even see me again, if you 
 continue to hate me. I can wait till you 
 forgive me. Meanwhile, I shall send, to 
 any friend with whom you wish to stay, 
 enough of money to keep you in happi 
 ness and comfort." 
 
 " Money ! And from you ! Not a 
 cent! "the girl flashed out. "I will not 
 touch your money ! You shall not even 
 know where I am ! " 
 
 " You must think better of all this," he 
 responded, gravely. " I made a mistake. 
 I shall suffer for it. But you must let me 
 help you and care for you." 
 
 But when the time of Shiva was con-
 
 244 A PROPOSAL DURING SHIVA 
 
 eluded, Selma went away. Weidberg, in 
 dumb misery, watched her as she made 
 her little preparations. 
 
 " You will not tell me where you are 
 going ? " 
 
 " No. I cannot. I I thank you for 
 your years of care. And I am sorry that 
 it must be so hard a farewell. But it 
 must be good-by." 
 
 " Selma! I beg of you, do not go out 
 into the world alone. Do not make me 
 responsible for that ! " cried Weidberg. 
 " You are trying to punish me ! But do 
 not go alone ! It is an awful world ! You 
 need never see me, but take money take 
 it and say that you will send for more ! " 
 
 Selma softened a little toward him, yet 
 did not for a moment falter in her deter 
 mination. Her own firmness, her set re 
 solve, astonished and almost frightened 
 her. She was glad of the strength that 
 enabled her to hold to the way that she 
 had marked out, and yet, when it came to 
 the actual moment of leaving, she could 
 not but feel some sympathy with the man 
 who begged her, so frantically, to stay. 
 
 " You must not fear for me. I shall be
 
 A PROPOSAL DURING SHIVA 245 
 
 safe and well. I have planned it all, care 
 fully, during these last long hours. I am 
 sorry to have to leave in this way, but it 
 will be for the best. And so good-by." 
 
 She slipped quietly away. In a few 
 moments he wildly followed. He caught 
 sight of her at a distance and hastened 
 after her, but she had feared he would at 
 tempt this, and stepped with a quickness 
 that he could not rival. He lost her, and 
 returned to his empty rooms. 
 
 " Ah ! " cried the Armenian woman. 
 "The daughter grieves no longer; but the 
 father, he tears his hair and his beard ! " 
 
 Selma went direct to a friend, a young 
 Jewess whom she had met at the syna 
 gogue and for whom she had conceived a 
 strong liking. The girl lived with her 
 mother, a widow, far over toward the East 
 River, on Houston Street, and both of 
 them sewed for a bare pittance. The 
 mother worked on coats, and the girl on 
 shirts. They welcomed the drear -eyed 
 girl cordially, and when she told her tale, 
 asked for practical advice, and begged to 
 stay with them, they at once agreed to 
 care for her. They saw the justice, too,
 
 246 A PROPOSAL DURING SHIVA 
 
 of her request to keep secret the fact that 
 she was staying with them, and they over 
 whelmed her with sympathy. 
 
 Through their pilotage, Selma secured 
 sewing-work. She began upon it with a 
 vigor that amazed them, for they knew 
 that thus far in her life she had known 
 nothing of real toil. Early in the morning 
 she would arise, and would work till late 
 at night. To aid her in maintaining her 
 hiding-place as a secret, either the mother 
 or daughter, for a long time, carried Sel- 
 ma s sewing to the shop. Selma, too, 
 never went to her own synagogue, but on 
 the Sabbath worshipped in another section 
 of the city. 
 
 Weeks and months went uneventfully 
 by. She did not meet a single one of 
 her former acquaintances. She oftenest 
 thought of Enoch, and loved to hear her 
 two friends talk of him. She did not 
 know that he was torn with anxiety about 
 her; that even in the midst of his most 
 important duties, or his dearest plans, he 
 thought and thought of her. She did not 
 know that he loved her, and deeply. 
 
 He had never declared his love, for he
 
 A PROPOSAL DURING SHIVA 247 
 
 had long hesitated, while she was but a 
 girl, fearing to speak at a time when she 
 was not old enough to decide so momen 
 tous a question, and dreading the possibil 
 ity of taking advantage of her inexperi 
 ence and securing an answer that she might 
 regret when older. And then, when he 
 had at length decided that he could speak, 
 her father began a course of such rudeness 
 of treatment as made him pause. He 
 could not understand what lay behind it. 
 
 Now, Enoch had not the slightest idea 
 where Selma was, or of the circumstances 
 under which she had left her father s home. 
 Weidberg, dull and dry and bitter, would 
 tell him nothing. Enoch could only sus 
 pect, and he never suspected the truth. 
 Nor could he suspect with what an agony 
 of expectation the father watched for a let 
 ter or a message that never came. 
 
 In her work, Selma learned, with a 
 down-sinking heart, that for a long time 
 her unskilled fingers would not let her 
 earn more than twenty-five or thirty cents 
 a day. She had always been a seamstress, 
 at home, but the gentle household sewing 
 had not prepared her for the fierce swift-
 
 248 A PROPOSAL DURING SHIVA 
 
 ness that was necessary to earn even a 
 pittance. After a while, by the hardest 
 kind of work and greatly increased skill, 
 she was able to earn forty cents each day, 
 and began to feel almost happy. 
 
 To take advantage of a chance to earn 
 perhaps forty-five cents a day (for her 
 native skill and perseverance were telling 
 in her favor), she at length agreed to go 
 daily to the shop of the company that 
 took her work. Nearly a year had passed 
 since leaving her father, and New York 
 streets were so filled with hundreds of 
 thousands of people, that she thought she 
 could avoid recognition. And even if he 
 should meet her, why, he could not annoy 
 her, after all. She was not his child ! 
 
 And if she should meet Enoch ? But 
 she dared not think of this. Why had he 
 not found her, if he wanted to see her, she 
 asked herself, with feminin,e illogicalness. 
 
 Through denying herself all chances of 
 friendly acquaintanceship, she was more 
 lonely and more unhappy than were most 
 of the women who, like herself, labored at 
 sweat-shop toil for infinitesimal wages. 
 Perhaps it was well for her that she was
 
 A PROPOSAL DURING SHIVA 249 
 
 busy for so many hours of every day, for 
 at least it kept her from a certain amount 
 of brooding. 
 
 And she came, gradually, to see the 
 justice of the ideas of Enoch Heimann. 
 She saw what an uplifting, what a freeing, 
 was needed. In her own case, she felt too 
 dependent on her daily toil, too anxious 
 for the pittance that she earned, to dare 
 join in urging rebellion, but before the 
 year was up she came to have the keen 
 est fellow-feeling with those who were try 
 ing to better the conditions under which 
 so many thousands of men and women 
 worked. 
 
 And finally there came a great strike, 
 which affected not only her own establish 
 ment but scores of others. And, the 
 strike once begun, Selma felt a burning 
 desire for its success. If the sweat-shop 
 workers should win, why, she might make 
 ten cents more, every day, or five at the 
 least ! It seemed wealth to her. 
 
 When several of her companions told 
 her, one afternoon, that there was to be a 
 meeting, that night, at which the attend 
 ance would mainly be that of men, but at
 
 250 A PROPOSAL DURING SHIVA 
 
 which it was hoped to get as many women 
 as possible so as to show the sweat-shop 
 employers that the women also stood 
 hand-in-hand in the struggle, she felt that 
 she ought to go. When asked to promise, 
 so that they could count on her, she said, 
 yes, she would be one of them. A dozen 
 or so were to meet together and go in a 
 body. Other dozens of the women work 
 ers were to be similarly organized. 
 
 Not till she was on the way to the 
 meeting did Selma learn that it was to 
 be at the old building on Orchard Street, 
 and for a moment her courage failed her. 
 Then, but with a new glow at her heart, 
 she went on. 
 
 The women were led to seats near the 
 front. The hall was packed to suffocation. 
 The low-ceilinged room held the people 
 in a stifling heat. It was a summer night, 
 torrid anywhere, even outside, and with 
 out a breath of wind blowing in at the 
 windows. Men and women gasped for 
 air, yet new arrivals constantly pressed in 
 from the street, packing those who filled 
 the jammed aisles still farther toward the 
 platform. The encompassing mirrors re-
 
 A PROPOSAL DURING SHIVA 251 
 
 fleeted multifarious misery, yet also multi 
 farious determination. 
 
 Each speaker faced a throng of eager 
 listeners, who cheered and shouted and 
 stamped their feet and excitedly called 
 out strange ejaculations. It was seething 
 humanity seething physically, and seeth 
 ing mentally as well. Many were the 
 dour and haggard faces that were there. 
 
 oo 
 
 And Selma ? She was thinking of how, 
 long, long ago, she had listened to cheers 
 and stampings from this very hall. Were 
 the kindly old rabbis still up in the dusky 
 book-room ? Perhaps, some time in the 
 evening Enoch Heimann would be there, 
 too. A sudden burst of tears made her 
 bow her head, and as she quietly sobbed 
 there came a tremendous burst of applause, 
 welcoming a new speaker. He had just 
 arrived, and, being unable to get through 
 the crowd, had come in at a window. As 
 the roar of applause died down, and the 
 speaker uttered his first word, Selma looked 
 up. It was Heimann himself. 
 
 He thrilled his hearers. With alternate 
 fervor and sadness he drew pictures of 
 their lot. He urged them to stand to-
 
 252 A PROPOSAL DURING SHIVA 
 
 gether for relief from sweat-shop tyranny. 
 And the people shouted and clapped, and 
 some waved their arms in excitement, and 
 some wept. 
 
 It was as he was beginning the main 
 swing of his address that he caught sight 
 of Selma sad-faced, poorly dressed, hag 
 gard but the same Selma ! But he could 
 not think of her till his speech was over 
 could not think of her, except to talk to 
 her in his eloquence, and show that the 
 established order of things, so far as it 
 related to the condition and pay of the 
 myriad garment-workers of the East Side, 
 was vitally wrong, and that if a great 
 league could be formed it might be capable 
 of far-reaching good. 
 
 And Selma agreed with all that he 
 said. Misery had taught her that. Yes. 
 She was ready to forget all she had ever 
 believed of submission to the power that 
 exists. 
 
 And how strong and handsome Enoch 
 was! Then came another burst of tears, 
 for her year of privation and loneliness 
 had sadly weakened her. 
 
 Somehow, then, as she bent her face
 
 A PROPOSAL DURING SHIVA 253 
 
 forward into her hands, she forgot that 
 she was in a crowd. She forgot that she 
 was a sweat-shop striker. She listened to 
 Enoch s voice; and all she saw was the 
 dusky dimness of the 
 book-room, and the 
 quiet walks homeward, 
 with her hand laid trust 
 ingly in his. 
 
 She did not know 
 that the meeting was 
 over. She only knew 
 that Enoch had stopped 
 talking, and that there 
 was a hoarse roar of 
 shouts. She did not 
 know that there was a 
 rush of people to gather 
 around the speaker, to 
 grasp him by the hand, 
 to tell him how well he 
 had interpreted their 
 conditions and their 
 needs. 
 
 She found herself in a solid wedge of 
 people, slowly pushing toward the door. 
 Her heart sank bitterly. Was it all to
 
 254 A PROPOSAL DURING SHIVA 
 
 end thus ? Were the future years to be 
 but repetitions of the year just past ? 
 
 There was a parting of the people about 
 her. A voice was in her ear. 
 
 "Selma!" 
 
 " Enoch ! " 
 
 It did not seem necessary to say any 
 thing more. She never doubted but that 
 Enoch must understand it all. He took 
 her hand and held it firmly in his. " It is 
 long since we walked home together," he 
 said. 
 
 He was so loving, and yet so masterful. 
 She sighed contentedly. " Yes. It is a 
 long time," she said, simply. 
 
 " But I will not lose you again, my 
 Selma! We shall always walk home to 
 gether ! Always ! Is it not so, my 
 Selma ? " 
 
 And again she gave a little sigh of per 
 fect contentment.
 
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