William 
 
 Henry 
 
 Carfon 

 
 OE CALIF., ETBEAlffTri&
 
 TITO
 
 By WILLIAM HENRY CARSON 
 
 Author of 
 HESTER BLAIR" and "THE FOOL 
 
 Illustrations by 
 C HARLES H. STEPHENS 
 
 C. M. Clark 
 Publishing 
 
 Company 
 
 Boston, Mass 
 
 U.S.A. 
 
 1903.
 
 CLAR K 
 PUBLISHING 
 C M P A N T 
 
 BOSTON, MASS. 
 U . S . A . 
 
 ENTERED AT 
 STATIONERS HALL 
 LONDON FOREIGN 
 COPYRIGHTS SECURED 
 
 RIGHTS OF 
 TR ANSLATI O N 
 PUBLIC READ- 
 I N G AND 
 DRAMATIZATION 
 RESERVED
 
 ILL USTRA TIONS 
 
 "I swear not by that!" . Page 65 
 
 They fought for a commmon cause, 
 
 furiously, blindly" . . Page 238 
 
 " Boy, hast thou kept thy vow? Page 317
 
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 i
 
 TITO, 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE quiet of early evening had settled over 
 the city of Florence. In the valley the first 
 shadows were enveloping the river Arno, 
 but on the distant tower of the Palazzo Vecchio the 
 sunlight still lingered a golden flood that, slowly 
 mounting to the top, touched the apex caressingly, 
 as though loath to remove its crown from so noble 
 a work. The slanting beams turned the sky into 
 mountains of bronze, to melt quickly away as the 
 sun dipped behind the distant hills. Flashed 
 heavenward, the last rays of light sank to the line 
 of the horizon in their wake a canopy of flame 
 fringed with purple, that, as if weary of its own 
 splendor, followed, with languid grace, the reced 
 ing light. It was already night in the valley. 
 
 Mother Malenotti stood before the open door of 
 the Vanburg Villa, situated some miles from the 
 city. She had an air of alertness, expectancy, and, 
 after a moment s hesitation, noiselessly closed the 
 door and returned to the dining room. 
 
 "No word from him yet and it is now three days 
 I
 
 TITO 
 
 since I sent the telegram. Bah! what does he 
 care! He will be glad to be rid of her; and she 
 my Bettina ! she will die." 
 
 A flood of emotions swept over her features- 
 love for Bettina, the young wife who, after giving 
 birth to a son, lay unconscious, dying, in the ad 
 joining room ; hate for the absent husband and 
 father, for having stolen the love that the old 
 woman claimed. 
 
 "Madonna Mia, why did he ever enter our 
 lives?" 
 
 Her voice shook with emotion, but it was the 
 passion of hate, not of sorrow, that moved her. 
 Cautiously she looked into the adjoining room at 
 the sleeper, who lay quite still, her breathing the 
 only sign of life; then turned to face Pietro, her 
 foster brother, who had just entered. 
 
 "Well?" she queried. 
 
 Her glance was eager, questioning; her attitude 
 that of suppressed excitement. 
 
 Pietro responded with a nod of his head. 
 
 A gleam of vicious joy flashed the intelligence 
 that she understood; then her features resumed 
 their habitual expression unrelenting, forbid 
 ding. 
 
 "You have heard nothing from him yet?" Pietro 
 asked. 
 
 "No. Perhaps he has gone to America. It was 
 only a question of time till he deserted her. Now 
 she is dying " 
 
 A savage love, tempered by a sorrow that was 
 pathetic, shone in the eyes she turned to the taci- 
 
 2
 
 TITO 
 
 turn Pietro, as if to wring from him some expres 
 sion of sympathy, of hope; but after meeting her 
 look in sullen silence, his eyes fell. 
 
 A low forehead, bleary eyes, restless with sus 
 picion, bloodless lips compressed tightly over 
 irregular, yellow teeth, dark swarthy skin, and a 
 croppy, thin beard that accentuated his expression 
 of dogged determination and calculating cruelty 
 such was Pietro as he sat glaring at the floor. But 
 it was a scar, blood red, extending from the lobe 
 of the left ear to the mouth, like a whip-lash, stand 
 ing out on the cheek with repulsive prominence, 
 that added a hideousness to a face that was cruel, 
 revolting. One glance was sufficient, and you 
 turned away, shuddering. His life had been one 
 of vindictive passion, hate guided by superstition: 
 the goal of his desires, vengeance; the only re 
 deeming instinct in his nature, his love for his 
 niece, Bettina. Since her marriage to Horace 
 Vanburg he had not seen her. Two days before, he 
 had come quickly in answer to the command of his 
 foster sister, Mother Malenotti, a command that 
 filled him with terror when he learned the cause 
 a command that aroused every evil instinct in his 
 nature. 
 
 "And the child?" The old woman s voice was 
 tremulous. 
 
 "Hush !" he exclaimed. 
 
 He did not look up for, conscious of his own 
 ugliness, it was only in moments of passion that 
 he met the eyes of those who addressed him. 
 
 "He has had his joy," he muttered, "his sorrow 
 3
 
 TITO 
 
 is yet to come. If she dies, then will he make his 
 reckoning with the Cristo and me." 
 
 Pietro s lips parted in a vicious smile, showing 
 his yellow teeth, but it was like the snarl of a wild 
 beast. 
 
 "Sorrow? Diavolo! You cannot reach his 
 heart. These Americans are without hearts. 
 What know they of love? Has the rich father 
 ever sent for our Bettina? No. Has he ever 
 called her daughter? No. He was too proud to 
 acknowledge her; and, after the marriage, when we 
 went to America, did not our Bettina wait day 
 after day for word from the father bidding her 
 come to him? And each day the look of sorrow 
 in her eyes deepened I could read it there. But 
 the husband had but excuses to give her, bidding 
 her wait, while her heart was bursting with shame. 
 Do you hear, Pietro? She was not good enough 
 for these rich Americani! Not good enough our 
 Bettina!" Rage seemed to choke her utterance, 
 and she paused, breathless. The scar on Pietro s 
 face turned to a dull purple hue. 
 
 "Angiolina," his tone was one of fierce intensity, 
 "do you see this scar?" He raised a finger trem 
 bling with passion to his face. The old woman 
 remained silent. 
 
 "He who gave me that is dead," he continued. 
 "Would you know how death came to him?" His 
 smile added venom to his words. 
 
 The old woman raised her hand in a deprecating 
 gesture. 
 
 "All we had this Americano stole from us, and 
 4
 
 TITO 
 
 it has left a scar deeper than that, do you hear? 
 deeper." 
 
 "Be guiet," she commanded, "what is the good 
 of this ? It will not save her." 
 
 Pietro relapsed into his customary sullen 
 silence; the old woman busied herself about her 
 duties. 
 
 Two years before our story opens, began the 
 love romance of Horace Vanburg and Bettina 
 Turelli. He, a descendant of a family who could 
 trace their ancestors to the earliest Dutch settlers 
 of Manhattan Island, young, rich in his own right, 
 an amateur artist of uncommon ability, was loiter 
 ing through Europe and Northern Africa. Now in 
 Algiers, a man of wealth and leisure, disappearing 
 in a night to become the guest of French officers 
 on the frontier, bivouacking in the desert, tearing 
 across country, the wildest of wild riders, skirting 
 the coast in an open boat, the companion of native 
 fishermen, daring fate through the mountain 
 passes of Sicily, avoiding much travelled routes 
 and the English hotels of Cairo to consort with 
 natives, and run the risk of having his throat cut. 
 Of a day dallying along the shores of the Nile, to 
 be next heard from at Rome disappearing- as 
 suddenly to sketch in the most southerly parts of 
 Italy living with the peasants, passing for an 
 Italian, French, German or American as occasion 
 demanded and his progress or affairs were ad 
 vanced the languages of continental Europe 
 were to him as his native tongue. He had earned 
 his holiday by a brilliant record at college his 
 
 5
 
 TITO 
 
 daring and dash while at school, being repeated in 
 his wild journeyings: seeking the least known 
 and obscure byways of Southern Europe and the 
 adjacent continent, fearless, restless, peril only 
 adding zest to his travels. 
 
 He had first met Bettina at one of the Floren 
 tine galleries. From the first meeting her beauty 
 had attracted him, for it was of an uncommon type, 
 rarely found in one of her class. She lived with 
 her aunt, Mother Malenotti, whose love for the 
 beautiful, talented girl was such as one of her race 
 and position in life knows wild, jealous, idola 
 trous. The old woman and Pietro worshiped at a 
 shrine Bettina was their goddess. 
 
 The aunt and Pietro worked in the fields, slav 
 ing, pinching, denying themselves almost the nec 
 essaries of life, that the young Bettina might be 
 taught, that she might have the best of food, of 
 clothing for her future was all that was left to 
 them; and they watched over her as a tigress 
 guards her young. When on a holiday they rested 
 from their labors, they would sit beside the young 
 artist, watch her in silent adoration, and marvel at 
 her beauty, and her wonderful skill, as the portrait 
 of the Madonna grew on the canvas. Then with a 
 sigh of satisfaction they would return to the fields, 
 blessing the saints that had been kind to them. 
 
 Vanburg and Bettina had spent one long sum 
 mer together, copying in the galleries, sketching 
 in the valley of the Arno, happy with their art and 
 their love until, in the early autumn, he had asked 
 Mother Malenotti s consent to their marriage. 
 
 6
 
 TITO 
 
 He was met by a tirade of invectives, upbraid- 
 ings, even curses, for having come into their lives. 
 Why should he, a rich aristocrat, wish to marry a 
 peasant s daughter? No, she would never con 
 sent. He would make of Bettina a plaything, a pas 
 time, and when he was tired of her, fling her from 
 him, back into her old life disgraced, dishonored. 
 Vanburg resorted to every art to win her favor. 
 Time, however, only increased the old woman s 
 wrath; but notwithstanding her opposition, in the 
 late autumn they were quietly married. 
 
 A cablegram, followed by a letter, informed his 
 father of his marriage, but to these came no reply, 
 and Vanburg determined to visit America in the 
 hope that his father would become reconciled. 
 Mother Malenotti accompanied them. Though 
 she made no effort to disguise her enmity toward 
 Vanburg, her devotion to the young wife was 
 complete, and he met her vindictive thrusts with 
 calm courtesy that only enraged her the more. 
 
 "If you would hate me less," he said to her, "it 
 would add to Bettina s happiness." 
 
 An ominous flash of the eyes was her answer. 
 
 "Why do you hate me?" he insisted. "Bettina 
 is happy." 
 
 "She was happy before you came." 
 
 "True," he rejoined, "but she is not less happy 
 now." 
 
 "Not now, but 
 
 Her glance of suspicion flashed her meaning. 
 
 "Try to hate me less. It would add to your 
 own comfort, besides it makes Bettina miserable." 
 
 7
 
 TITO 
 
 "What of the rich father?" she demanded, 
 fiercely. "He has not sent for my Bettina. Why? 
 Yes, to America I will go with thee that I may be 
 near my Bettina for she will return here as she 
 goes without the blessing that is her right. Dost 
 thou think I do not know? Yes, yes, I will go, 
 that I may curse thee for having brought this 
 shame to her. And thy wife! When she knows 
 what I know will she not cry her heart out but 
 she will speak no word, for that is her way. Yes, 
 I will go, I will go to be near her." 
 
 Vanburg winced. The old woman voiced his 
 own fears. 
 
 Their arrival in America was, so far as his father 
 was concerned, a realization of all that Mother 
 Malenotti had prophesied the father refused to 
 acknowledge his son s marriage. Only once did 
 Vanburg- visit his home. He received a formal 
 greeting, but no mention was made of his wife; 
 and he read in the set expression, the unresponsive 
 features, the calm, unflinching gaze, that should 
 he ever return he must come alone. 
 
 Bettina met him with a startled, expectant look ; 
 but she read in his face what she most feared. 
 
 "Love, let us return to our own Italia. Shall 
 we go soon ?" 
 
 "Yes," he answered. 
 
 The old woman said nothing, but the young 
 husband could not meet her glance that flashed 
 with jubilant, vicious joy. 
 
 Returning to Florence, Vanburg rented a villa 
 on an eminence overlooking the city. Here they 
 
 8
 
 TITO 
 
 lived for nearly two years, Bettina s love for her 
 husband, and the sunshine of her native land, fill 
 ing her life to completeness. 
 
 Then came the hurried departure of Vanburg 
 for Paris and Brussels on business connected with 
 his property interests ; the premature birth of their 
 child; the telegram, directed to his bankers at 
 Paris, where it had lain uncalled for until he had 
 returned from Brussels after an absence of two 
 days. 
 
 And now Bettina was dying; and the young 
 husband, grief-stricken, was rushing south, his 
 heart sickening at the thought that he might not 
 be in time.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 IN intelligence and education Mother Malenotti 
 was far above the ordinary peasant, for she 
 came of a family of some degree of affluence; 
 but in early life she was left to fight the battle with 
 poverty. She was forced to perform the most 
 menial labor, to provide for her younger sister 
 Bettina s mother insisting that she maintain, in 
 a degree, the modest gentility to which she had 
 been accustomed. But the marriage of her sister 
 to a poor artist wholly embittered her life, and 
 after the death of Bettina s mother, the only influ 
 ence to soften the old woman s hate was the young 
 child, who gave promise of great beauty. Her 
 artist instinct Bettina inherited from her father, 
 but her desire to be taught was at first frowned 
 upon. Pier marked ability, however, overcame 
 her aunt s bitter opposition, and she received such 
 instruction as the old woman, assisted by Pietro, 
 could procure. It was when the work of the 
 young artist had begun to attract attention, when 
 the hopes of the aunt and Pietro seemed about to 
 be realized, that Vanburg first met Bettina. 
 
 When Vanburg had asked their consent to his 
 marriage their rage was beyond bound. Again 
 was disappointment to enter their lives, again were 
 they called upon to surrender all hope, all ambi- 
 
 10
 
 TITO 
 
 tion; nothing remained but the memory of their 
 years of toil bitterness for the loss of their Bet- 
 tina, hate for the man who had won her love. 
 
 Dr. Remo had just left Bettina s bedside. He 
 was plainly nervous, and refused to meet the old 
 woman s questioning glance. Divining his fears, 
 she regarded him with pitying disdain. 
 
 "Bah!" she exclaimed in a tone of disgust, 
 "thou wert not always a coward. I can remember 
 when fear did not so easily move thee." 
 
 "Hush!" he ejaculated. 
 
 "The child was born dead. That you know! 
 for were we not here alone?" 
 
 "Enough," he said, "I will come later in the 
 night. She cannot last till morning. Before the 
 end comes she may again recover consciousness." 
 
 He went out, followed to the door by the old 
 woman. 
 
 "The coward!" she muttered when she was 
 alone, "but he dare not speak. He has skill, but 
 the devil guides it. Have I assisted him these 
 years for naught? He cannot stay in the country, 
 he must not. After he has gone there will be no 
 one but Pietro." She chuckled. "Another child 
 of the devil ! but they can wring nothing from 
 him! Revenge is what sweetens his life, but he 
 must wait his knife will not grow dull nor rust. 
 It is I I, who shall wring the heart of him who 
 stole her from me. My Bettina!" 
 
 Her voice choked. With the cry of a wild 
 animal, she stood motionless her hands clenched 
 
 ii
 
 TITO 
 
 in suppressed rage, her eyes smouldering with 
 hate. 
 
 "Aye, Pietro, thou angel with the devil s soul, 
 thy turn shall come when I have tortured him. 
 When he feels what I now feel, when he lives to 
 curse his own child then, good Pietro, will I turn 
 him over to thee for a final reckoning. Thy ven 
 geance would be too sure, too swift; mine, ah!" a 
 devilish smile momentarily dissolved the wrinkles, 
 "mine is the slow torture like the point of a pin 
 in the flesh that lies close to the heart. And I shall 
 ask him of the rich father who would not acknowl 
 edge his wife. And his son shall grow to hate him, 
 to curse his father, his own flesh and blood." 
 Again the laugh, again the distorted features; a 
 tirade of mutterings, threats, curses and prayers 
 intermingling. A silence followed the old 
 woman s mind lost in the receding years. 
 
 Rising, she prepared for the night, arranging 
 everything skilfully and with systematic precision. 
 She moved about with the soft, trained step of one 
 long accustomed to illness, for she had been for 
 years a mid-wife, and it was while acting in that 
 capacity that she had obtained knowledge which 
 now forced Dr. Remo, without question or com 
 ment, to do her bidding. 
 
 It was nearly dawn when the doctor returned, 
 and together the} went into the sick chamber. 
 
 Almost immediately, a quick, springing step 
 echoed on the board walk, and Vanburg hurriedly 
 entered the dining room. 
 
 Horace Vanburg was not what is termed distin- 
 
 J2
 
 TITO 
 
 guished in appearance, neither was he handsome. 
 Yet he would attract a second glance either of 
 admiration or respect. It was not his face that 
 appealed to one or commanded attention : it 
 was his closely knit figure, his massive shoulders, 
 the well trained muscles, formidable under the 
 light clothing that covered them, that stamped 
 him as the born and trained athlete. His face was 
 clean shaven, and he possessed no distinctive fea 
 ture that might be called attractive; but an open 
 frankness of expression, eyes that looked squarely 
 at you, never wavering fearless, sturdy and inde 
 pendent manhood was stamped on face and form. 
 But he possessed one distinctive characteristic, a 
 trait that for generations had marked the Van- 
 burgs a proud poise of the head, which was 
 thrown back, giving to him an air of hauteur, 
 almost of insolence; but this was the physical in 
 signia of his race. True, he came of a family who 
 reckoned pride a heritage that was theirs as of 
 right, but his mind and his heart and his tastes 
 were as simple as those of an untutored child. 
 Physically he was as nearly perfect as man attains. 
 Only at college sports had he ever tested his 
 strength and endurance gifts which he was 
 almost unconscious of possessing. He was the sort 
 of man in whom men confide, he was of that order 
 of gentlemen who can command the love of 
 woman.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A GLANCE at the faces of Mother Malenotti 
 and her companion was all that was needed 
 to confirm Vanburg s fears. It was not for 
 one of his race to betray emotion ; his features were 
 as though hewn from stone, impenetrable, a 
 blank; and his seeming lack of feeling, either of 
 concern or grief, the old woman attributed to a 
 want of affection for the young wife. 
 
 "Bettina!" Vanburg s voice was husky. He 
 addressed Mother Malenotti, whose eyes were 
 fixed upon his face as if to measure, in anticipation, 
 the effect of her answer. 
 
 "She is very low. Three days ago the child was 
 born before its time. It was born dead. Ma 
 donna, my Bettina ! She will die !" 
 
 She wrung her hands, moaning with noisy 
 grief, until a warning glance from Dr. Remo 
 caused her to desist. From her eyes, half hidden 
 under her drooping eyelids, shot a glance to note 
 the effect of what she said, a look searching, pen 
 etrating, a look which proclaimed her inhuman 
 disregard for the feelings of the man who listened. 
 He stood silent, motionless, then turned to Doctor 
 Remo. 
 
 "Is what she says true?" 
 
 "Yes." The answer came with hesitation. The 
 14
 
 TITO 
 
 doctor continued falteringly: "With the exception 
 of a few moments she has been unconscious. She 
 is slowly sinking. Before the end she may re 
 cover consciousness, but I fear she cannot last 
 till morning." 
 
 Vanburg did not reply. He entered his wife s 
 room and softly closed the door. 
 
 "What did I tell thee !" said Mother Malenotti, 
 when they were alone. "He is glad glad that his 
 wife is dying. He thinks only of the joy of being 
 rid of her. Is it not as I have said ? And when I 
 spoke of the child as dead did I not see the joy in 
 his eyes? Yes, yes, the honeymoon is over! 
 While it lasted the passion lived; after, he must 
 look for a new plaything. Ah! the sweet Ameri- 
 cani, the sweet, gentle, rich Amen Diavolo! the 
 swine ! the " 
 
 Her companion held up a warning finger. The 
 old woman ceased speaking, but her face, dis 
 torted with passion, the muscles twitching, her 
 eyes flashing her hate, was horrible to see. 
 
 Hers was not the blind, furious, unreasoning 
 hate of one whose mind is a mixture of chieldish- 
 ness and brutish passions. She was endowed 
 with the instincts of the refined criminal, cold, cal 
 culating, her reasoning logical, though the process 
 might be crude, carrying out her schemes with a 
 boldness that augured well for success her great 
 est danger the possibility that her unreasoning 
 hate might balk her own efforts. Her one pure in 
 stinct was her love for her niece. The husband s 
 wealth could not influence her, and a look, a word, 
 
 15
 
 TITO 
 
 a caress from Bettina brought with it joy she would 
 not have bartered for all the riches of her own 
 Florence. In her love for the young wife she was 
 pathetic, tender ; in her intense hatred of Vanbnrg, 
 she was demoniacal. 
 
 Vanburg sat by his dying wife. No outward 
 sign betrayed the agony that he felt, but at times 
 a faint groan, quickly stifled, voiced his sorrow. 
 It was a sorrow that strucL at his heart, his hope, 
 his life, but it was voiceless. Tears were not for 
 him his was a great, silent, immeasurable grief 
 that wrings the heart dry: it was such grief as 
 touches the very essence of the soul. 
 
 "Bettina, love! Bettina, Bettina, my wife!" 
 
 Though he spoke in a whisper, a shudder 
 seemed to sweep over her; then her breathing, for 
 an instant irregular, became almost imperceptible, 
 and again she lay quite still. 
 
 The pallor of approaching death, though re 
 lieved by the delicate tint of brown on her cheek, 
 only accentuated her beauty. Her hair, of a dark 
 chestnut hue, fell in wavy masses on the pillow; 
 her hands, which lay outside the coverlet, were of 
 marvelous whiteness. Every line of her features 
 proclaimed the artist, and were as those of a god 
 dess in marble the purity of their exquisite curves 
 rivaling the works of art in the Gallena degH Uffrzi. 
 But it was when she again moved, her eyelids 
 slowly uplifting, her glance one of intelligence, 
 when she recognized her husband, that one caught 
 a glimpse of the tenderness of the young wife. 
 Her dark hazel eyes, the long black lashes slowly 
 
 16
 
 TITO 
 
 lifting, a veil to soften their lustre, seemed to dis 
 close the portals of her soul their expression that 
 of a wondering child. 
 
 "Horace, my love." Her voice died to a breath. 
 
 "Bettina, darling." 
 
 "Ah! I am so glad you came. They have 
 told" 
 
 "Rest, Bettina love," he said, touching her lips 
 lightly in a caress, "they have told me." 
 
 "If the child had lived" 
 
 "Do not mourn, my own, think now only of thy 
 self." 
 
 "I think only of thee, Amore Mio, how lonely " 
 
 "Hush, Bettina, wife, hush. Do not exhaust 
 thyself." 
 
 Often, in his short life, had he heedlessly faced 
 death without a tremor ; but as he leaned over his 
 young wife until his breath fanned her cheek, it 
 was only by a command made perfect by years of 
 self repression that he controlled his voice, his 
 emotions. It was not for the Vanburgs to betray 
 their feelings. You might wring their hearts, 
 but conjecture as to the measure of their suffering 
 would be the only reward. 
 
 "Horace," her tone weak, faltering, "let me hear 
 thy voice. Tell me what I know so well, that 
 you love me." 
 
 "I never realized till now how well, my own. 
 But I need not tell thee. Never has a doubt come 
 between us. My love was so great! If the 
 thought ever came that I might lose thee, I trem-
 
 TITO 
 
 bled, love, with dread, with fear. Ah, the happi 
 ness I have known with thee " 
 
 He dare not trust his voice further. She sighed 
 in an ecstasy of delight: her eyelids quivered, 
 closed, and again it seemed as if consciousness had 
 left her. 
 
 In the adjoining room Mother Malenotti, her 
 passion threatening to overcome her, disregarding 
 her companion s warning was saying : 
 
 "I will not be quiet! Will I not say it to him 
 when she is gone? Aye, that I will and more. 
 And he shall listen. Dost thou hear? With all his 
 dirty wealth will he listen! And she might have 
 married one of her own countrymen, for she had 
 many lovers. And now, now she must die! Why 
 do you not go and look at her ? You coward ! 
 You stand there shaking with fear fear! Of 
 what ? Fool ! Go to her and see if you can turn 
 your devil s skill to any use." 
 
 She flashed a look of disgust at him as he en 
 tered the sick room. 
 
 After the doctor s cursory examination, Van- 
 burg s questioning glance was answered by a 
 shake of the head. Bettina moved uneasily and, 
 with a slight movement of her hand, motioned 
 the Doctor to withdraw. 
 
 "I will call you if you are needed," Vanburg 
 said. 
 
 When they were alone, Bettina, with an effort, 
 turned her head so that she might see her hus 
 band s face. He drew nearer, for her voice had 
 sunk to a whisper. 
 
 18
 
 TITO 
 
 "I have so much to say, so much. Aunt 
 Malenotti " 
 
 "Do not distress thyself, my love, I shall see 
 that everything is done for your aunt. Is there 
 nothing I can do for thee, my Bettina?" 
 
 "Yes," she sighed, "remember me, love." 
 
 A smile lingered on her features, but it was as 
 faint as the shadow of a moonbeam. She made 
 an effort to press the hand that held hers, but her 
 fingers were powerless. Her glance, resting on 
 her husband s face, was one of pathetic, lingering 
 tenderness. She loved, as those of her nation 
 ality love, intensely, passionately, but subdued 
 and controlled by her finer instincts, and a nature 
 at once refined and lofty in her high ideal of life. 
 The happiness of her married life had been com 
 plete. 
 
 Vanburg bent his head to hear the words that 
 formed on Bettina s lips words she was power 
 less to utter. 
 
 The dull light of early morning was touching 
 the peaks of the distant Apennines a shroud of 
 gray descending to the valley. It settled over the 
 heart and the life of Horace Vanburg. Bettina s 
 lips moved in a last effort. 
 
 "Horace my own love." 
 
 That was all. Fate had laid a heavy hand on the 
 man who sat motionless, stricken with a sor 
 row that leaves heart and mind barren of feeling 
 the past glowing with the brilliancy of an autumn 
 sunset, the light of a great love; the future 
 
 19
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A WEEK later Mother Malenotti and Van- 
 burg were alone in the house, that he was 
 visiting for the last time. After Bettina s 
 death he had lodged at a hotel in the city, for the 
 loneliness of his home oppressed him ; and his final 
 visit was for the purpose of turning over the costly 
 furnishings to the old woman, and to make provi 
 sion for her future. 
 
 Handling the bric-a-brac, weighing each piece 
 of silverware in her hand, speculating the while as 
 to its worth, she listened to Vanburg while he told 
 her it was hers to do with as she wished, her ava 
 rice filling him with disgust. But when he offered 
 to settle upon her a competency, hate shone from 
 the eyes she turned to him. She had enough for 
 the few years that were left her should she re 
 quire more, there was Pietro. No, she would 
 accept no money; she was alone, her needs were 
 few if necessary she would work in the fields 
 and she resumed her mental estimates of the worth 
 of her new belongings. Vanburg left her standing 
 in the centre of the room, her noisy grief ceasing 
 as he was about to depart, that she might flash at 
 him a look of unutterable hate. Death had not 
 softened her, and, had curses the power the lowly 
 mind attributes to them, he might, in the future, 
 
 20
 
 TITO 
 
 well believe the fates had listened to her maledic 
 tions. 
 
 Through the window she watched his retreating 
 figure ; then, shaking her clenched fist at him as he 
 disappeared, her cackling laugh sent little thrills 
 of uncanny echoes through the deserted house. 
 
 "You shall suffer, by the blood of the Cristo 
 shall you be made to feel such pain as only a father 
 may know. We, of Italia, never forgive! You 
 stole from me the life and the love of Bettina all 
 I had, all I lived for ! But you have yet to pay the 
 cost the cost of a life agony ! And the good God 
 grant to you a long life, that you may live to hear 
 your own flesh and blood curse you, aye, as I do 
 now. Will that not wring your pride your heart ? 
 And you will then know that I, Angiolina Male- 
 notti, have not forgotten !" 
 
 Again the laugh, the distorted features, the mut 
 tered oaths ; dying into exclamations of covetous 
 joy, of greed, as she gloatingly surveyed the tap 
 estries and paintings. 
 
 All this was hers, and from the proceeds of the 
 sale would come a bit of land, a cottage, and in 
 different luxury for the rest of her days. She 
 would sell it all all but a memento of the dead 
 Bettina, and taking from an easel a portrait of the 
 Madonna, the last work of the artist wife, she 
 looked at it long and lovingly. It was a copy of 
 Lippi s famous painting, finished only a few days 
 before Bettina s marriage, her name and Van- 
 burg s entwined in the right hand corner of the 
 unframed canvas. This she would keep to remind 
 
 21
 
 TITO 
 
 her daily of the young girl for whom she had 
 slaved in the fields; it would also remind her of 
 the wrong she had suffered, of her own vow of 
 vengeance yet to be fulfilled. 
 
 With a heavy heart Vanburg was making prepa 
 rations for his journey to America. Silent, impas 
 sive, with the quiet, methodical thoroughness of 
 one who has seen much travel, he attended per 
 sonally to every detail. With the death of Bettina, 
 hope, ambition, courage, had gone, and with stolid 
 indifference he put all thought of the future from 
 him. Life, shipwrecked at the outset, was a real 
 ity, and delays and inconveniences he met with 
 cynical unconcern, his face expressionless, his 
 mind in the past, his physical being responding to 
 every demand made upon it. On his journey to 
 Paris and London he was to take a steamer at 
 Liverpool if there were other occupants in the 
 railway carriage apart from the knowledge that 
 he was not alone, he was unconscious of their pres 
 ence. Their voices were as meaningless sounds, 
 and, sitting silent, impassive, he journeyed north. 
 
 Not until he was aboard the steamer did the 
 nervous tension of the past week relax. Then the 
 true measure of his loss, the hopelessness of his 
 future swept over him, but the turmoil was deep 
 in his heart, in his soul, and no trace of suffering 
 was noticeable. Appetite for food was gone, the 
 power to woo sleep had left him, and pacing the 
 deck through the long hours of the night brought 
 little relief. Then he drank he drank deeply, un 
 til his senses were benumbed, and sleep came. 
 
 22
 
 TITO 
 
 The long days and the longer nights wore away, 
 and the fever of hopeless unrest was ever with 
 him; but the expression of his face remained the 
 same, imperturbable. His step was firm, and his 
 appearance that of the club man, the aristocrat. 
 Years of athletic training, a physical and mental 
 balance well nigh perfect were, as yet, responding 
 to every demand. 
 
 Sitting apart, neither seeking nor encouraging 
 intercourse with the other passengers, he had time 
 to speculate of the future, to think of the home to 
 which he was returning, of the father, haughty, 
 unresponsive, whose expression of countenance 
 would be an hourly reminder that his son must 
 pay the penalty of his lowly marriage. 
 
 The journey s end reached, familiar sounds 
 hummed about his ears, the rush of traffic roared a 
 welcome, and, as it was early morning when he 
 arrived, he was driven to his home to meet his 
 father before he departed for his downtown office. 
 
 It was not then nine o clock, and when he en 
 tered the house, he was ushered into the dining 
 room where his father wa3 at breakfast. A formal 
 greeting, an inquiry as to his health, and over their 
 coffee they talked of matters connected with their 
 European correspondents. By letter Vanburg 
 had informed his father of Bettina s death, but no 
 allusion was made to his marriage, no word of 
 sympathy, of encouragement, of affection. The 
 breakfast finished, with the remark that he was 
 some minutes late, his father went out, and the 
 younger Vanburg was alone. 
 
 23
 
 TITO 
 
 "Just Heaven ! he exclaimed, "this sort of thing- 
 will drive me mad ! I can t stand this unnatural 
 existence this atmosphere of reserve stifles me. 
 Bettina, love, if you had only lived ! You were the 
 one tie that bound me to life my one hope of the 
 future. What is there left? If I had only been 
 born a farmer s or a laborer s son, I might have 
 something to live for, some great ambition might 
 have been called into life a determination to suc 
 ceed. I might have had a father with a heart 
 now, nothing but this monstrous existence, this 
 silent repression, unreal, inhuman. I have seen 
 peasants on the continent eating black bread, and 
 I have envied them, for they were human. They 
 could smile, they could laugh, their eyes talked 
 love, arid their voices were natural. Wealth, edu 
 cation, social environments had not dwarfed their 
 souls." 
 
 The day following his return to America he 
 began his duties in his father s office. But work 
 that once had fired his energy and ambition had 
 become distasteful. What had formerly been a 
 pleasure, he now looked upon as drudgery. But 
 it was not alone his duties that preyed upon his 
 mind, filling him with a growing discontent, it 
 was the uncongenial home life, the formality, the 
 studied politeness that maddened him, until, at the 
 end of a day s work, he regarded the prospect of 
 his return home with aversion. The seven o clock 
 dinner, prolonged, eaten in silence, save when in 
 terrupted by an exchange of courtesies that might 
 pass between strangers, filled him with resentment, 
 
 24
 
 TITO 
 
 and, after the first few months, he dined at his 
 club, or at some fashionable cafe. 
 
 It was Hearing the end of the first year since his 
 return to America, and, though outwardly the rela 
 tions between father and son were unchanged, both 
 were conscious of a growing coldness. Nightly 
 the younger Vanburg spent hours at his club ; his 
 associates marveling as they watched his headlong 
 pace, predicting an early collapse, speculating as 
 to the length of time until he reached the stage 
 that would be social suicide. His sorrow was yet 
 keen ; but his impassive, open expression of coun 
 tenance changed only when a faint, engaging smile 
 drew his friends still closer to him. He had the 
 gift, rare as his open, manly nature, of making no 
 enemies. In all the world only two hearts were 
 turned against him. In far away Italy, where his 
 love lay buried, two human beings mourned the 
 loss that was his, but daily they raised their voices 
 to record afresh their vow of vengeance.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE first year after his return had been to 
 Vanburg a time of fitful unrest. His posi 
 tion in the banking office had long since be 
 come irksome; home life, and the daily meetings 
 with his father over their prolonged, solitary din 
 ner, usually eaten in silence, was repugnant to one 
 of his genial nature, and his occasional dining at 
 some fashionable restaurant became a fixed cus 
 tom. 
 
 His father never referred to his marriage, but 
 his attitude toward his son could not be miscon 
 strued it was one of silent, though unmistakable 
 protest. If his son had ever enjoyed the confi 
 dence of his father it was now withdrawn, and 
 each day, each hour of his life he was met with 
 chilling, maddening reserve, as a reminder that 
 his marriage was neither forgotten nor forgiven. 
 
 Rage filled the heart of the young man, for his 
 love for Bettina was something sacred ; his sorrow 
 did not lessen with time, for memory, to a man of 
 his nature, refuses to be stilled, or to grant the 
 peace of mind that would come with forgetful- 
 ness. 
 
 He had been in the country with a college friend 
 for a week s hunting, and on his return had dined 
 at home. After smoking a cigar in his own apart- 
 
 26
 
 TITO 
 
 inent, he was considering what he would do to 
 pass the evening. lie was in an unenviable frame 
 of mind. His reception by his father, after his 
 absence was, if possible, marked by an added re 
 serve. With a cynical laugh he threw his partly 
 smoked cigar into the open grate. 
 
 "Sweet life to lead!" he ejaculated. "I wonder 
 what would happen if one were to really laugh in 
 this house? I suppose the portraits of our patri 
 cian ancestors on the walls would reverse them 
 selves without human aid, or perhaps the ghosts 
 of those who never married beneath them would 
 stalk forth through the halls in mute protest of 
 such ribald desecration. Heigh-ho! It s a weary 
 world. Bettina, love, if all the virtues of all the 
 Vanburgs of all time were concentrated in the 
 humble descendant of the race, he would not be 
 worthy of thee. What would my august father 
 say to that? I believe I ll go to the club. There 
 one can t think which, at times, is a blessing. 
 To-day is the twenty-seventh. I am an ingrate! 
 1 had forgotten the Hollander reception, and I 
 promised Madge weeks ago I would be there. 
 Madge, she s a lovely girl, and as unworldly as a 
 child ; and Ned is one of the cleverest chaps that I 
 know. Yet, I d rather take a thrashing than meet 
 the crush. The unreality of it all! I suppose I 
 must dress. I d as soon prepare for my own exe 
 cution. That, at least, would have the virtue of 
 genuineness. If one didn t know everyone else 
 what a joy it would be. The worst that can be said 
 of Woman is that she is a creature of frivolity and 
 
 27
 
 TITO 
 
 circumstances. Whatever vicious traits she may 
 possess are born of vanity. Man should be honest. 
 He has an opportunity to see, to learn, to know, 
 to judge; yet I am certain to meet someone, whom 
 I unfortunately know, wearing a society mask that 
 he donned with evening dress, who, perhaps, 
 cheats at cards. Oh, this world of sham, and de 
 ceit and it is nearly ten o clock !" 
 
 Half an hour later Vanburg was at the Hollan 
 der s. 
 
 "I say, Vannie," young Hollander was saying, 
 "you look done up; been ill?" 
 
 "111!" Vanburg laughed. "Don t even know 
 what a headache is like." 
 
 "I missed you for the past week. Been out of 
 town ?" 
 
 "Up the state with Worthington, hunting, near 
 his country place. Fine time. Plenty of game, 
 and a host who can tell what a good cigar is like." 
 
 "I envy you your vacation. Do you know, I 
 don t fancy this sort of thing. It s Madge s and 
 mother s affair. Have you seen Madge?" 
 
 "For only a moment. She is so occupied with 
 her guests I felt guilty of trespass. Perhaps I can 
 have a word with her later." 
 
 "Well, you needn t feel guilty she s been ask 
 ing for you. She has a wonderful new charity 
 scheme. The East Side and all that. You know 
 what young girls are! At some period of their 
 innocent lives they believe themselves divinely 
 commissioned to consecrate their spare funds, and 
 ill-directed energies, to charity. For the past year 
 
 28
 
 TITO 
 
 she has managed to wheedle the greater part of 
 my salary from me. Why, she s as practical as 
 the Governor!" 
 
 Vanburg smiled. He had more than a brother s 
 appreciation for Madge. 
 
 "You may not believe me," resumed Hollander, 
 noting Vanburg s smile, "but wait ! She ll touch 
 you for your last quarter s salary." 
 
 They were not to remain long in doubt. Madge 
 Hollander approached. She had not yet reached 
 her twentieth birthday, but her carriage, and her 
 perfect self-possession, was that of one who was 
 many years older in the knowledge of the world 
 and its ways. Her gown, severe in its simplicity, 
 accentuated the lines of her perfect figure, but 
 added nothing to her beauty. A frankness of ex 
 pression, a piquant audacity, born of a pure mind 
 and ignorance of fear, a srnile that invited confi 
 dence, put you, meeting her for the first time, at 
 ease. But in the gray eyes that looked squarely 
 into yours, until it seemed as if they would unmask 
 every indiscretion in your past life, there was an 
 expression of authoritative reserve. Under the 
 long black eyelashes you caught a glimpse of a 
 woman, pure in thought, willing to believe that 
 nothing but good exists, yet endowed with Man s 
 knowledge of the world. What you saw was as a 
 flashlight on the curtain of the soul. What lay 
 beyond, you could not tell. 
 
 "Mr. Vanburg," she began. 
 
 "Mr. Vanburg," he repeated, mimicking her 
 formal tone. "Since when have I become Mr. 
 
 29
 
 TITO 
 
 Vanburg? Dear me! How deliciously formal 
 young ladies become when society declares them 
 old enough to discard short frocks." 
 
 "There, Horace, don t make fun! We aren t 
 now playing tennis in the country." 
 
 "No," he laughed, "nor fishing at Willoughby 
 Lake." 
 
 Madge flushed with pleasure, and her eyes 
 danced at the remembrance. 
 
 "Those were the short frock days," she laughed. 
 "I wish they could have lasted always." 
 
 "What! and forego this?" His glance swept 
 the crowded room with a significance she under 
 stood. 
 
 "It would not be a hardship," she rejoined. 
 "Our world is growing much like an over-culti 
 vated orchid. It needs the freshness of the early 
 summer morning to revive it. Its brilliancy dead 
 ens the senses, and we are becoming intellectually 
 inert. We are in need of a moral tonic." 
 
 "Epigrammatic, metaphoric, moralistic ! Quite ! 
 With what wisdom have your advanced years been 
 blessed !" 
 
 "There, you won t be serious. Let us sit here. 
 That s the new opera tenor who is singing. Do 
 you care to hear him ?" 
 
 "Not if you will consent to talk to me." 
 
 They sat on a divan at the far end of the room, 
 apart from the crowd who were listening to the 
 singing in the drawing room. Madge was eager 
 to unfold her new charitable scheme, and her com 
 panion smiled at her youthful enthusiasm. Her 
 
 30
 
 TITO 
 
 cheeks glowed, her eyes voicing the pleasure that 
 was to accompany the unfolding of her wonderful 
 project. 
 
 "Now," she began with an air of matronly seri 
 ousness, "I am going to tell you of our new " 
 
 "Society with a long name," interrupted Van- 
 burg, laughing. "It wouldn t do to have a short 
 one. This society, if I have grasped the idea, is 
 going to revolutionize the East Side. How much 
 do I give?" 
 
 "Ned has been talking to you. That boy ! All 
 he cares for is golf and new plays ! He can t take 
 things seriously," then with a crestfallen air: 
 "and I had anticipated the pleasure of telling you 
 all about it." 
 
 "In that you shall not be disappointed," Van- 
 burg replied. "I am here to listen. But first you 
 may put my name down for whatever you wish." 
 
 "It is not alone your money we want it s your 
 co-operation." 
 
 "Well," he laughed, "you may put my name 
 down on your list for that, too, and draw on me. 
 I ll honor the draft on sight." 
 
 "But I must explain our project, perhaps you 
 would not approve of it." 
 
 "You are concerned in it?" 
 
 "Yes, I m the secretary." This with a proud 
 uplifting of her shoulders. 
 
 "In that case," he rejoined, "you may double 
 the original amount of my subscription. I have 
 no way of knowing what you have mentally as-
 
 TITO 
 
 sessed me, hut it doesn t matter. Multiply it by 
 two." 
 
 "You re the same Horace as when we danced 
 together in the old days. Dear me! How aged 
 we have grown. Now, you never dance." Then 
 as if voicing a recurring thought, "Somehow, since 
 your return from Europe you are not quite the 
 same. At times I can read in your eyes the 
 shadow of a story. You know if a man feels at all, 
 he feels intensely, and he is very apt to betray his 
 feelings. Men are more honest than women also 
 less artful. A man s face is a photographic gallery 
 where hang his heart pictures. Before a woman 
 allows sorrow or kindred emotions to reach her 
 heart, she consults a mirror to arrange her expres 
 sions becomingly. Above all things that a woman 
 dislikes, is to have the world believe she is un 
 happy." 
 
 Vanburg, interested and smiling, listened to the 
 young girl. Was she the Madge he had known? 
 No. The eyes that met his with daring candor 
 were those of a woman of the world one who had 
 suddenly grown old in the knowledge of things 
 that be. 
 
 "Why, Madge, who would ever have thought 
 it ! Now you are a sage. But let us return to the 
 charity work. Tell me all about it." 
 
 Vanburg s light, bantering tone did not wholly 
 deceive his listener. On his part, never before had 
 he been tempted as then to tell her the story of 
 his love and his loss ; for he trusted her as, perhaps, 
 
 32
 
 TITO 
 
 he trusted no other human being. But the incli 
 nation was but momentary. 
 
 Madge outlined the work she was doing, work 
 which, with the assistance of others, she hoped to 
 accomplish. 
 
 "And," she was saying, as her brother ap 
 proached, "this little one is under my personal 
 supervision. Her name is Wilhelmina. Her 
 father, John McGlennon, is, unfortunately, ad 
 dicted to drink. Yet at some period of his life he 
 must have been a gentleman. He is highly edu 
 cated, but now works as a porter. The child is a 
 lovable little creature. Willie, I call her; her 
 father calls her Bill. I don t fancy the diminu 
 tive, but then he is her father, and notwithstanding 
 his habits, the child idolizes him." 
 
 "Now, Vannie, we know where our money goes. 
 It s as easy as the rule of Three. From Madge to 
 the child, then to the father, who once was a gen 
 tleman and now lifts boxes, then to " 
 
 "There, Ned, that will do! You assume alto 
 gether too much." She flashed a reproving look 
 at her brother. "The child s father would not ac 
 cept a penny." 
 
 "Here, then," persisted Ned, "is something new 
 in the history of the world s affairs a father who 
 drinks, and who will not take money, intended for 
 his daughter, to pay for it. Madgie, you tax our 
 credulity beyond 
 
 "Horace," said Madge, refusing to reply to her 
 brother s remarks, "will you consent to go with us 
 some day after office hours, to McGlennon s 
 
 33
 
 TITO 
 
 home? I know you will feel more satisfied after 
 the visit, and my protege will be delighted." 
 
 "Any day you choose," said Vanburg, smiling. 
 
 "Then let it be to-morrow. You will call for us 
 at papa s office?" 
 
 "Us?" queried Ned, excitedly. "Who might 
 us refer to?" 
 
 "You and me," quietly answered Madge. Then 
 turning to Vanburg, "You will excuse me." 
 
 Vanburg rose, and Madge entered the drawing 
 room. The glance of the two men followed her to 
 the door. Her brother s one of conscious pride; 
 in the eyes of Vanburg an expression approaching 
 reverence. 
 
 "I say, Vannie," said his companion, turning to 
 him with mock wrath, "you re a fine fellow! 
 What kind of a mess have you got me into? The 
 East Side, hard luck stories and all that !" 
 
 "Never mind, dear boy, Madge is worth the 
 effort many times over. Besides, it will do us 
 good. W r e know altogether too much of our own 
 world and too little of the other. You will come 
 round to the club?" 
 
 "Yes, if it s not too late." 
 
 After taking leave of his hostess Vanburg 
 -walked slowly down the avenue. 
 
 When he entered the club room he was met by 
 a volley of vociferous greetings from a party of 
 young men sitting about a card table, and he lis 
 tened with feelings akin to pleasure. They were a 
 manly set, full chested and broad shouldered; 
 and though they had drunk freely, their eyes were 
 
 34
 
 TITO 
 
 clear, for they were in a physical condition due to 
 constant athletic training. 
 
 "Davis," said ITarriman, "you must write an ode 
 to the return of the prodigal; meanwhile, we ll 
 drink." 
 
 And eat," said Davis, "the Muse works better 
 on blue points and Mumms." 
 
 "Insatiable Muse! Ned Hollander, you re just 
 in time, old man. Wine or beer?" 
 
 Sherry," answered Hollander. "Clean done 
 up. Social duties, you know." 
 
 "I say, we ve been trying- to wring from Van 
 where he s been for a week past. He s as mum as 
 one of the oysters that Davis is feeding to the 
 Muse. When it comes to divulging things, Van- 
 nie is as close as a precinct captain. Come, Davis, 
 is the Muse ready? Give us something on the 
 tender passion. Our friend Van has been rusticat 
 ing in the country. Now some fair dairy-maid s 
 heart is like the pitcher at the well broken." 
 
 Davis chanted sotto voce: 
 
 "Oh, love is like a bird in flight, 
 
 That s ever on the wing, Tra-la; 
 Forever trying to alight, 
 
 The simple, foolish thing, Tra-la. 
 
 Oh, little bird be wary thou, 
 
 For danger lies in wait for thee; 
 
 You listen! Can t you hear it now? 
 Tis calling ! Tis a mate for thee. 
 
 35
 
 TITO 
 
 Take care, oh little bird, take care, 
 The tale of love is new to thee : 
 
 A lover s words are always fair; 
 While wooing, he is true to thee." 
 
 "That s fairly good, Davis ; continue feeding the 
 Muse and rhyme some more. Suppose you fel 
 lows heard that Lawrenceson made $50,000 or 
 more floating the New Consolidated." 
 
 "Did he? Lucky dog! Somehow everything 
 he touches turns to money. Van, are you in the 
 market?" 
 
 "Not to any dangerous extent," he laughed. 
 "Governor won t allow it. I m on the same foot 
 ing with the other clerks. Gainst the rules, you 
 know." 
 
 "I d like to see the rules made that you d fol 
 low. The old gent s the only living being who 
 can keep you in trim." 
 
 "Good old chap, the governor," replied Van- 
 burg. 
 
 "You re easily satisfied, Vannie. If my gov 
 ernor was the head of one of the largest banking 
 houses in the city, I d see myself doing the grind 
 you follow. Guess not ! During the summer, I d 
 condescendingly allow the light of my counte 
 nance to cast its refulgent rays on Newport. 
 Cairo would be good enough in winter." 
 
 "I rather think the governor knows what is best 
 for me. I have more faith in him than he has in 
 me. Besides, you forget that I m quite content." 
 
 36
 
 TITO 
 
 "Some people are easily satisfied, I ve noticed 
 that." 
 
 In the rear of the room two elderly gentlemen 
 were smoking, exchanging confidences and the 
 gossip of the street. The elder of the two was 
 saying: 
 
 "Young Vanburg is going the pace. Wonder 
 his father doesn t curb him." 
 
 "Let him alone. We were young once ; and he ll 
 tone down. They tell me his father bears harder 
 on him than on any clerk in his employ. If he 
 were my boy, I would be proud to take him into 
 the firm. What can be gained by these radical 
 measures? It s a wonder the young man doesn t 
 bolt. He is a fine, fearless fellow; yet there s 
 something about him that I can t fathom his very 
 frankness baffles me. I like the boy; though I m 
 free to admit I don t understand him." 
 
 "He comes by it naturally," remarked the other. 
 "If his father is not what might be termed unfath 
 omable, then the hieroglyphics on the Egyptian 
 Sphinx are as A, B, C. His nature seems com 
 pletely soured." 
 
 "Some trouble, wasn t it? Divorced from the 
 wife, who died shortly after? I have forgotten the 
 story." 
 
 "That s why he is so severe on the boy. You 
 can t make blood out of water, neither can you 
 make water out of blood. The young fellow is 
 full of life; but I m afraid he s living a bit high. 
 His father must know it ?" 
 
 "How can he help it, the boy lives at home? 
 37
 
 TITO 
 
 He ought to behave. He has a fine prospect 
 ahead of him. Edwin Vanburg must be worth 
 from three to five millions surely that. He ll 
 never marry again." 
 
 "There was some talk of the boy being en 
 gaged to young Hollander s sister." 
 
 "So I believe. Never gave much credence to 
 the report. She s a beautiful girl, and he couldn t 
 do better. I hardly think, though, he s of the 
 marrying kind." 
 
 The laughter of the young men interrupted. 
 
 "You re not going now?" Harriman s voice was 
 entreating. "It s early. Gad, you must have a 
 rendezvous. It s only twelve o clock." 
 
 "Must be getting home," Vanburg replied. 
 
 A chorus of good natured raillery followed him 
 to the door.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 IT is not good to look into the faces of human 
 beings that have lost every vestige of the in 
 tellectual, faces upon which crime and vicious- 
 ness have left their stamp. It is not pleasant to 
 meet eyes and read their story of guilt, of sorrow, 
 of dishonor; to look at cheeks, to which shame can 
 lend no color, cheeks that had, at some time, been 
 touched by a mother s embrace; to hear voices 
 hard, metallic, rasping, breathing oaths that should 
 have scorched the lips of the abandoned speakers. 
 All this is debasing and soul-harrowing, yet it is 
 pathetic beyond human power to describe, and it 
 was this that met the eyes and the ears of Madge 
 and her companions in the late afternoon as they 
 crossed the Bowery on their way to McGlennon s. 
 Madge had insisted on walking, preferring that 
 her visit should be made in an unostentatious man 
 ner; but the sight of the human wrecks, and what 
 she was forced to hear, gave her a feeling of heart- 
 sickness. Her brother s scolding, for coming into 
 the locality, she listened to without protest her 
 only answer a smile of affection. 
 
 Fifteen minutes walk and they were before the 
 home of the McGlennon s. The entrance from the 
 street was through an alleyway leading to a court. 
 Here a new world seemed to confront them. On 
 
 39
 
 TITO 
 
 four sides rose dilapidated frame buildings, their 
 rickety walls scarcely able to support the crum 
 bling eves, whose zigzag course cut fantastic fig 
 ures against the blue of the sky above the walls 
 seeming on the point of tumbling into the narrow 
 court. It was as though the buildings had been 
 caught in an avalanche of the moving world, 
 which threatened to terminate their existence in 
 its grinding embrace. For only one hour of the 
 twenty-four did the sun s rays touch the brick 
 pavement of the dismal court; for the remainder 
 of the day and the night, gloom, like a blanket of 
 sorrow, fell upon its desolate confines. This was 
 Shadow Alley, and those so unfortunate as to call 
 the place home, prayed with lusty zeal when their 
 hearts turned to Heaven, fought in drunken frenzy 
 when occasion demanded, or cursed the fates that 
 had frowned upon their illspent lives. 
 
 Madge and her companions mounted the rick 
 ety stairs to the second floor, where they were met 
 by McGlennon s daughter, who had seen them 
 enter the court. Madge greeted the child affec 
 tionately. Bill held out her hand to the two men 
 with engaging frankness. 
 
 "I am so glad you came," she said. 
 
 Madge and the child talked together in low 
 tones, which gave the two men opportunity to 
 observe and ponder. This was a phase of life they 
 had never before encountered: the cheerless 
 room, the pine table, the few wooden chairs, the 
 mournful, lamenting tick-tack of the clock on the 
 mantel, in harmony with the heart-depressing bar- 
 
 40
 
 TITO 
 
 renness of its surroundings. But the floor had 
 been scrubbed clean until the worn boards seemed 
 to protest as they lay in little ridges and gullies, 
 and, like an old garment, its patches and scars told 
 its own story of age and of wear. 
 
 Bill, in dress and general appearance, was in 
 keeping with the room, in fact, she seemed a part 
 of it. She was as clean as was the floor, as pre 
 cise and as methodical as was the clock, and quite 
 as old fashioned. Her boots shone like the little 
 iron cook stove in the corner, and, like the stove, 
 they had as many rents and scars and patches hid 
 den under a shiny coat of polish. The color of the 
 print dress she wore was what might be chosen by 
 such an old fashioned little woman, and matched 
 the paintless table and chairs to a nicety and 
 here was the saddest point of resemblance her 
 face was the color of the whitewashed ceiling, 
 her extreme pallor, and high forehead, making her 
 appear years older than she was. Care, worry, and 
 the lack of good nourishment had retarded the 
 growth of her body, but her mind, under the pres 
 sure of responsibility, had raced ahead into the 
 domain of womanhood. 
 
 "He will be here soon," she was saying to 
 Madge. "They discharged him this morning be 
 cause he was late. I feel so sorry! and you don t 
 know how good he is!" 
 
 Her look of displeasure was a protest against 
 an unthinking world, that could discriminate 
 against her father s habitual condition. 
 
 41
 
 TITO 
 
 Madge smoothed her hair gently. "Never 
 mind," she said, "we must get him another place." 
 
 A heavy step on the stairs announced McGlen- 
 non s return. The door opened and he paused on 
 the threshold, looking at one and then another of 
 the occupants of the room. He reeled where he 
 stood, but recognizing Madge, removed his cap, 
 and bowed to her with easy grace, a courtesy 
 which included her companions. 
 
 Even in his workman s garb he was a remark 
 able looking man, his herculean chest and shoul 
 ders, owing to his extreme height, which was over 
 six feet, being in perfect proportion. Though 
 under the influence of drink he stood erect, his 
 finely formed head thrown back, his unconscious 
 attitude one of equality. At some time in the past 
 he had been a gentleman of refinement, of educa 
 tion, and time and dissipation had, as yet, failed to 
 wholly efface the stamp of respectability. 
 
 "Bill," he said apologetically, "I didn t know 
 that you had visitors. Pardon me," he said, 
 thickly, "I believed my daughter to be alone. 
 Don t let me disturb you. You see," he continued, 
 "Bill doesn t mind when I am well, under the 
 influence of drink; and, ordinarily, there s no one 
 else to consider. Had I known, Miss," he ad 
 dressed Madge, "that you were here, though the 
 knowledge would have made no difference in my 
 condition, it would have led me elsewhere. Bill," 
 he said, laying his hand on the child s head, "I m 
 sorry, I m very sorry I came home; I ll go out 
 
 42
 
 TITO 
 
 again. You may then apologize for your father. 
 It s not nice, child, but it s necessary." 
 
 His daughter held his hand closer. The young 
 men exchanged glances. Who was this man 
 whose manner indicated education and good 
 breeding? He spoke with a slight Scotch accent, 
 but the tone of his voice was that of a scholar and 
 a gentleman. 
 
 "You are surprised," he said, addressing Van- 
 burg, "so am I, and yet, no! it s of my own 
 choosing. Once I was not a porter. My profes 
 sion now is to lift boxes. Eh, gad! that s some 
 thing of an art to do well. Bill, dear, if you wish 
 to talk to the lady, invite her into the other room. 
 You see," he continued jocularly with a wave of 
 his hand, "we have a suite. Yon is Bill s room." 
 
 Madge and Bill went into the adjoining room, 
 her father s eyes following them to the door. 
 
 "Young man," said McGlennon in a steadier 
 voice, "I, too, once bore the stamp of respecta 
 bility ; but that is so long ago ! I wouldn t remem 
 ber the time if I could. There are two classes of 
 persons that remember, those whom memory 
 benefits and fools. So I have forgotten all but 
 Bill. When my memory becomes obtrusive, I get 
 drunk. It needs no logic to convince you that 
 drunkards can t remember, hence I won t attempt 
 it." 
 
 "It s plain to be seen," said Vanburg, "that you 
 were not always in such circumstances as, unfort 
 unately, we now find you." 
 
 "No," he answered in a firmer tone, "but that 
 43
 
 TITO 
 
 was at a time I would forget. Memory is the least 
 merciful of our faculties it is domineering, relent 
 less. Drink is its only master hence I am drunk 
 most of the time. When I am not, it is because of 
 lack of funds. That," he laughingly continued, "is 
 a logical excuse, if not a moral one." 
 
 Vanburg and his companion listened in wonder; 
 yet they readily divined that some mystery in the 
 life of this man had turned the current of his 
 existence. 
 
 They were about to go and, as Madge and Bill 
 descended the stairs, Ned caught Vanburg s eye. 
 Understanding the look, young Hollander fol 
 lowed his sister and left him alone with McGlen- 
 non. 
 
 Vanburg took a bank bill from his pocket and 
 was about to place it on the mantel, when Mc- 
 Glennon, anticipating the action, raised his hand 
 in protest. In an instant he seemed perfectly so 
 bered. His form straightened and he shook his 
 head. 
 
 "As a loan," Vanburg said. 
 
 "No, I appreciate your motive, but I can get on 
 without the money; besides it would go where 
 all my earnings have found their way to the 
 saloon. Thank you, but I will not accept it. It 
 is not for love of liquor that I drink it helps 
 me to forget." 
 
 "Sir," replied Vanburg, "I realize what you 
 have gone through. We are, in a sense, comrades 
 in misfortune." He held out his hand. McGlen- 
 
 44
 
 TITO 
 
 non grasped it eagerly and, standing proudly 
 erect, looked squarely at his companion. 
 
 "Good bye," he said. "We shall, I trust, see 
 each other again." 
 
 Vanburg rapidly descended the stairs and to 
 gether the three turned homeward. 
 
 After leaving Madge and her brother, he entered 
 an uptown cafe, and seated himself at a table. 
 
 It was nearing his dinner hour, but he had no 
 intention of going home. Only on rare occasions 
 did he dine with his father, for he was conscious 
 that their relations were strained, and he usually 
 sought restaurants or hotels where he would be 
 least likely to meet acquaintances. 
 
 "What has crossed McGlennon s life?" he mused. 
 "I can picture him when he was my age, and 
 what a specimen of manhood he must have been. 
 And now, he is fast becoming a wreck, a physical 
 derelict, all but his mind, which refuses the 
 peace he craves, and tortures him. That is, 
 also, very much alive. What a hell his life must 
 be ! Regrets and remorse. If it weren t for the 
 child, he would kill himself with drink. Unless 
 my judgment has already begun to feel the effect 
 of this red devil here " he held the whiskey in 
 his hand "McGlennon is a University man. 
 And now he lifts boxes. Merciful Heaven ! The 
 effect is apparent. I wonder if drink was the 
 effect or the cause? Anyway, he is living in hell. 
 Shall I reach such a stage? Do not all reach it? 
 And the torment will be kept alive because the 
 mind refuses to crumble with the decaying body. 
 
 45
 
 TITO 
 
 And there will be days and nights, and nights and 
 days; and then, Heaven willing, madness comes. 
 Am I starting on the road that leads to will it 
 end in drink and forgetfulness or I shudder at 
 the other the years of damnable torture a 
 memory that will not die! I am throwing down 
 the gauntlet to fate, playing with dice that are 
 loaded; and yet, what is there left for me? My 
 sun has reached the meridian and is slowly sinking. 
 Eh, faith ! I ll send it down in a blaze of glory." 
 
 46
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 AFTER dining at an uptown hotel, Vanburg 
 went to the club. The rooms were nearly 
 deserted, a few of the older members loung 
 ing in comfortable easy chairs, exchanging notes 
 of the business world, or enjoying their after din 
 ner cigar, and it was with a feeling of relief that he 
 noted the absence of the younger set those who 
 were his particular friends. His entrance was un 
 noticed and, taking a magazine from the table, he 
 sank into an armchair which faced the door, and 
 began lazily turning the leaves. But he was 
 in no humor to read, and, glancing at the engrav- 
 irigs, laid the book on the table beside him. 
 
 "I wonder," he mused, "if the articles in that 
 magazine inspired such outrageously bad art." 
 
 Settling himself comfortably, he puffed rings of 
 smoke into the air, quite unconscious of the sound 
 of voices behind him. But as though his ear was 
 tuned to the name, he heard his own mentioned. 
 The speaker had raised his voice in indignant pro 
 test. 
 
 "The whole proceeding is a outrage. While 
 the young man was absent, his father employed an 
 expert to go over his books. No attempt at 
 secrecy was made every clerk in the office knows 
 it." 
 
 47
 
 TITO 
 
 "Davis says his father cabled to Europe to look 
 into his transactions abroad." 
 
 "Davis is a cad. He talks too much; yet it s 
 quite true." 
 
 "Horace can t know of it; he s not one of the 
 kind to stand such treatment even from his 
 father." 
 
 "All rot sheer rot ! They found errors, evi 
 dence of carelessness, that s all." 
 
 "His father believed him to be speculating 
 heavily. Mark me ! When the young fellow 
 learns the truth, which he must, there ll be the 
 devil to pay! I have known him since boyhood, 
 and will bank my life on his honor and his hon 
 esty." 
 
 Vanburg, his elbow resting on the cushioned 
 side of the chair, his forearm upright, between his 
 fingers a partly smoked cigar burning feebly, lis 
 tened : on his face the same expression as when 
 Mother Malenotti had told him that Bettina would 
 die. Placing the cigar between his lips, his arms 
 resting on the sides of the capacious chair, he 
 resumed smoking. But a faint, cynical smile 
 played about the corners of his mouth, a smile 
 that those who knew him well would have recog 
 nized as a danger signal. It was with such a smile 
 he had faced his opponents on the football field 
 in some of the hardest fought games during 
 his college career. It was with the same look of 
 smiling unconcern that, in southern Italy, he had 
 stood before an enraged Italian who, with uplifted 
 knife, had rushed at him, and, after breaking the 
 
 48
 
 TITO 
 
 fellow s arm with a blow, had lifted him bodily into 
 the air and dashed him to the ground. 
 
 Rising hastily he strode toward the men who 
 had been discussing the affairs of the bank. They 
 were old friends whom he had known for many 
 years. 
 
 "Thank you for your confidence in me," he 
 said in a calm tone, holding out his hand. "I was 
 sitting near and could not help overhearing." 
 
 They shook his hand warmly and, without an 
 other word, he went out. 
 
 He did not follow his first impulse and go home 
 to demand of his father why he had put this dis 
 grace upon him. Turning up the avenue he 
 entered the Park. Heedless of direction, at times 
 going in a circle, he walked on and on, finding 
 himself first on the east side, then on the west side 
 of the Park, only to retrace his steps and plunge 
 into the darkest recesses. 
 
 But the hours of walking had accomplished his 
 purpose, and when he returned home he was out 
 wardly calm. No human being could do more 
 than conjecture what were his feelings. The same 
 inscrutable look, the same shadow of a smile, and 
 a manner that betrayed neither anger nor resent 
 ment. 
 
 Father and son possessed many characteristics 
 in common, but in many ways they were as unlike 
 as it is possible for those of the same blood to be. 
 The father s pride, verging on haughty arrogance, 
 blinded his sense of justice. The son was imbued 
 with a spirit of fairness, a superior intellect, and a 
 
 49
 
 TITO 
 
 calmness of judgment and manner that might be 
 mistaken for indifference. 
 
 As they stood facing each other, the advantage 
 was entirely with the younger man. Their eyes 
 met, but if either were laboring under excitement 
 or apprehension, he did not betray it. 
 
 "Well?" It was the elder Vanburg who first 
 spoke. 
 
 "Is it true, sir, as I have been informed, that 
 during my absence my accounts have been exam 
 ined by an expert?" 
 
 For an instant a faint color mounted to the old 
 man s cheeks, but died as quickly. 
 
 "Yes," he replied, without removing his glance 
 from the face of his son. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "I had reason to believe, or to expect, that your 
 accounts were incorrect." 
 
 "And you took this means of ascertaining the 
 truth, and of publicly branding me with dis 
 honor?" 
 
 Again the faint smile hovered about the corners 
 of the speaker s mouth. His tone was one of calm 
 courtesy, his eyes leveled at the face before him. 
 
 "There was no further publicity than was nec 
 essary. I desired to learn the exact condition of 
 your books." 
 
 "And you did learn?" 
 
 "Not to my entire satisfaction." 
 
 The blood rushed to the young man s cheeks, 
 followed by an ashen pallor. His voice was un 
 naturally low as he answered, his words measured. 
 
 50
 
 TITO 
 
 "And you still believe me to be a defaulter ?" 
 
 At the word "defaulter" a quiver swept the old 
 man s frame, but his voice was pitched in the same 
 monotone. 
 
 What had I a right to expect? A son of mine 
 who would marry a low, Italian peasant 
 
 "Stop! you have dishonored me in the eyes of 
 the world. You must rest satisfied with that. 
 The memory of her of whom you speak is sacred to 
 me more sacred than the name of Vanburg. I 
 was never worthy of her, I could never hope to 
 be." 
 
 His tone and manner in speaking of the wrong 
 that had been done him were those of sorrowful 
 reproach; but at the reference to Bettina, his self- 
 control vanished, and his voice, trembling with 
 passion, rang through the room. His father 
 looked at the flushed face and, for an instant, emo 
 tions akin to pride and love moved him; but he 
 also recognized in the flashing eyes, the com 
 pressed lips, the spirit of the mother whose name 
 he had never mentioned in the presence of his son. 
 In his voice, as he replied, there was an added 
 sting. 
 
 "You are my son, yes, but you have your 
 mothers blood." 
 
 "For that," came the reply with slow distinct 
 ness, "I thank God. To-night my services with 
 the bank terminate. To-night I leave this house. 
 I have one request to make: when you discover 
 your error, I ask you to make it as public as is 
 now my disgrace."
 
 TITO 
 
 For an instant terror filled the eyes that fol 
 lowed young Vanburg until the door closed be 
 hind him. When he was alone the father sank into 
 his seat, his face ashen gray, his eyes still fixed on 
 the door through which his son had passed. He 
 sat motionless until he heard him descend the 
 stone steps to the street. 
 
 A time had come when he must call upon his 
 pride, his arrogance, to sustain him. With what 
 results? Lips that quivered, eyes into which the 
 tears would come, hands that trembled as if with 
 palsy, and more than all the conscious, overwhelm 
 ing, sickening truth, that mocked him, taunted 
 him, that he had wronged his son. He felt it, he 
 knew it, he had read it in his son s eyes the son 
 whom he had never known, the son whom he had 
 refused to know, to love. His pride! Was that 
 not left to him? But to what use, to what pur 
 pose? Had he not called upon it to rally to his 
 aid ? and he had found it what ? Something that 
 limped on crutches of rotten clay that crumbled 
 and lay at his feet dead ashes. Would his son 
 return? No. So far he knew him. What was 
 left to him? Nothing but the remnants of the 
 pride that for a lifetime he had fostered and petted 
 and pampered. Yes, he would gather from the 
 wreck whatever was left, and it would again take 
 on the semblance of life; but it would be a mis 
 shapen thing, feeble and faltering and, like a 
 treacherous friend, desert him should it hear his 
 call for aid.
 
 TITO 
 
 Slowly the hours dragged on, and the gray light 
 of dawn was a reminder that he had not slept. 
 
 After leaving his home, Vanburg went at once 
 to a hotel on Fifth Avenue. Writing out his res 
 ignation to his club, he dropped it into a letter 
 box. From that moment his world, for him, had 
 ceased to exist. 
 
 53
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 MOTHER MALENOTTI sat knitting in 
 the living room of her home, situated 
 a few miles south of Florence in the valley 
 of the Arno. 
 
 Through the open door, the brilliancy of an 
 Italian sunset accentuated the emptiness of the 
 humble abode with distressing clearness. The 
 house bore the stamp of the peasant s home, cheer 
 less and uninviting, and no touch of comfort per 
 vaded the scantily furnished room where she was 
 at work. Though the house was gloomy within, 
 a glance over the sweep of country from the 
 threshold of the door was like a glimpse of Heaven 
 from the confines of Purgatory. On no canvas 
 was ever depicted the beauty that there unrolled 
 before the eye. Gradually descending, the land 
 sloped in a succession of varied tints of green, until 
 it terminated at the banks of the river Arno, a 
 seam of silver, dividing the rolling plain. Beyond, 
 the fields stretched in undulating waves of color, 
 lost in the hazy clouds enveloping the distant 
 Apennines. The house, itself, stood some feet 
 from the roadway, raising its brick roof in the 
 centre of the garden ; but the ugliness of its four 
 walls had not the power to mar the beauty of the 
 surrounding country. To the eye, everything was 
 
 54
 
 TITO 
 
 Italian the blue of the sky, the green of the foli 
 age, the flowers, the fragrance of the soft breeze, 
 and that inimitable atmosphere that can be found 
 only in the land of sculptors, of painters, of a peo 
 ple in whom artistic instincts are developed as in 
 no other land, under no other sky Italy. 
 
 Turning from the threshold and the glory of the 
 wondrous sunset, the eye, with an effort, became 
 accustomed to the gloom within the house. As 
 the light, through the open door, fell upon the 
 bent figure of Mother Malenotti, even its mellow 
 glow could not soften the lines of her hardened 
 features. Deeper and more forbidding than when 
 we last saw her was the expression on her 
 wrinkled features. Kindliness or sentiment never 
 disturbed the fixed expression of savage resent 
 ment that flashed from her eyes; a smile seldom 
 softened the tense, drawn lines about her mouth, 
 for time had dealt unkindly with her. Her back 
 was bent by the accumulation of years and the 
 weight of labor ; her hair was snow white ; and the 
 climate of America had planted in her system the 
 seed of rheumatic ills which made her life a tor 
 ment, imparting to her temper a crustiness that 
 banished the few friends she had once claimed. 
 One by one they had slipped out of her life, until 
 she was left alone with young Tito and the mem 
 ory of her Bettina. The years had not lessened 
 her sorrow nor quenched the fire of her hate. In 
 deed, passing time, and increasing ills, only tended 
 to fan the flame, and from brooding upon her loss 
 had come a belief fixed, sincere, fostered by her 
 
 55
 
 TITO 
 
 mental and physical suffering, that Vanburg had 
 been the cause of all her misfortune. 
 
 During the month following the death of her 
 niece, Mother Malenotti had left Florence, not, 
 however, to return to her own home. Her rela 
 tives and friends she had shunned, and, with the 
 money realized from the sale of the furnishings of 
 their home in Florence, she had purchased the 
 house and bit of land where we now find her. 
 Here, with the child, Tito, she lived a life of seclu 
 sion making no acquaintances and repulsing all 
 advances. With a flash in her eyes, a look, and an 
 unspoken curse on her lips she answered those in 
 whom the child awakened curiosity. His name 
 was Tito just Tito. To those unwise enough to 
 ask for further information, a forbidding silence 
 on her part was the only response. She was 
 known by the name of Madame Rossi; the child? 
 Madonna! the child is the son of one who is dead; 
 and now I must slave for him that he may live. 
 
 Of Pietro they saw but little. Three or four 
 times yearly, on a holiday, he came to the cottage 
 and remained a day or two, leaving them as he 
 had come, sullen and silent. At first he regarded 
 the boy with an indifference amounting to dislike, 
 for, though he was Bettina s child, his hate for the 
 father was keenly alive. But as Tito grew, and 
 the years added to his beauty, he would hold the 
 boy before him at arm s length, and, in the startled 
 eyes, fair features, and quivering lips for Tito 
 feared him, he could see the face of the dead 
 Bettina. Then, for hours, he would watch the 
 
 56
 
 TITO 
 
 boy. and a savage love took possession of him, 
 a love that, as time passed, amounted to idolatry. 
 But no responsive chord was touched in the child s 
 heart, for his instinct rebelled, and he received the 
 presents with which Pietro sought to win his favor 
 with suspicion, mingled with disdain, and when 
 the old man had departed he would throw them 
 from him. 
 
 Pietro listened to the old woman with demoniac 
 glee while she related to him the child s vows of 
 vengeance, and the hate for his father which she 
 had instilled into the boy s heart. 
 
 "Ah, but I may trust thee," was Pietro s reply, 
 "thou couldst outwit the devil. But should the 
 boy fail" 
 
 "He will not," was her reply. 
 
 "But should he" 
 
 Their eyes met. The old man s head shook as 
 if with ague. They said nothing further, but they 
 understood. 
 
 The boy grew and beauty set upon him as by 
 right. He gave promise of marvelous things, for, 
 though his mind was steeped with the venom of 
 the old woman s hate, his body was well nourished 
 with the best of peasant fare, and even luxuries 
 that his foster-mother scorned. When his baby 
 prattle became intelligible, and he could lisp the 
 first few words, a fierce joy shone in the old 
 woman s face, but her laugh chilled the blood. 
 Even the child looked with fearful, wondering eyes 
 at the features distorted by ghoulish mirth fea 
 tures that betrayed no other human emotion 
 
 57
 
 TITO 
 
 than the hate that grew with her increasing 
 years. 
 
 She could see in the boy s eyes the dreaminess, 
 the exquisite gentleness of the child Bettina; but 
 she cursed the fair skin and the sturdy robustness 
 that spoke of other than Italian blood. Tito 
 seemed to absorb from her the fierce vindictive- 
 ness that dominated her being, and he often 
 yielded to uncontrollable bursts of passion. He 
 would lisp curses with the soft Italian inflection, in 
 a tone that, in a child, is nearest to spoken music. 
 For an evening prayer, he would follow the old 
 woman, word for word, as she breathed into his 
 ears oaths and imprecations upon his father, he 
 who had been ashamed to acknowledge the wife 
 that had borne him a child. The wondering eyes 
 of the boy sought those that shot gleams of hate, 
 as, in his childish treble, he called upon the saints 
 to preserve him until, with his own hand, he could 
 avenge his wrong. 
 
 "Say it again, my Tito, say it again !" she would 
 shriek, and the child would again lisp the curses 
 that at first fell from his lips in unmeaning, child 
 ish monotones, but that grew with his understand 
 ing, fierce and passionate. 
 
 She carefully hid from him all knowledge of the 
 world. He was forbidden books, for she looked 
 upon schools as the breeding places of discontent. 
 
 "He shall become a true son of Italy," the old 
 woman declared. "He shall be a son of the soil 
 a true peasant. He will then feel the blood in his 
 veins, and some day he will awake to the power 
 
 58
 
 TITO 
 
 within him. His mind? bah! that is for me! he 
 shall think as I think; he shall feel what I feel 
 the hate, and the joy of knowing that he can 
 avenge himself and me." 
 
 When Tito was eight years old the parroco of 
 the village came with offers of good advice. 
 Mother Malenotti met him with eyes that flashed 
 a warning. "It is time," the good man said, "that 
 young Tito prepared for his first communion. 
 Must not the soul be nourished as well as the 
 body? He must learn the story of the Cristo. 
 Madame Rossi, you do not come to mass. What 
 think you of your example for the boy?" 
 
 The good man s show of solicitude was cut 
 short by a flood of abuse that sent him shuddering 
 from the house. The child laughed and clapped 
 his hands with delight. 
 
 But the beauty of nature was at work upon his 
 susceptible rnind, and the fields and the flowers 
 spoke a language that appealed to the finer in 
 stincts within him. He was much alone, wander 
 ing through the fields and the woods. He appre 
 ciated nature s picture of the beautiful. The birds 
 spoke to him words which he understood, which 
 aroused emotions that thrilled him. The patter of 
 the raindrops seemed voices of another world ; and 
 the brooks and the streams, as they joined the 
 Arno on its way to the sea, bore his childish con 
 fidences. He could not understand the feelings 
 that moved him when alone, and he confided in 
 but one. his only companion and play-fellow, little 
 Maria; for boys of his age shunned him. 
 
 59
 
 TITO 
 
 She, a child of Tito s age, would have been 
 homeless but for the charity of relatives. She had 
 been his one companion since he could remember. 
 They had shared their sorrows, and whatever joys 
 they had ever known; and it was Maria, who, 
 against all the world, had championed the cause of 
 her boy lover. But her trust in Tito brought 
 upon her the enmity of every child in the country 
 round, even the wrath of those who daily re 
 minded her that she was a charge upon their 
 bounty, for the boy was regarded with disfavor; 
 but threats were of no avail, and her voice was 
 always raised in his defence. 
 
 They roamed through the woods, the fields, 
 leaping over wall and hedge, wading through the 
 brooks, tearing through underbrush, like two wild 
 fawns, appearing suddenly to the peasants in the 
 fields untamed children of nature. 
 
 But as Tito grew and his plan for seeking his 
 father took definite form, Maria, with startled 
 eyes, the color coming and going under the light, 
 hazel nutbrown of her velvety cheeks, listened 
 with bated breath and trembling fear to her com 
 panion s vow of vengeance. Tearfully she pleaded 
 with him, for the horror of his vow terrified her; 
 but the boy put her gently aside, telling her, ten 
 derly, that she could not understand. Noting her 
 distress, realizing that she could not enter into his 
 purpose a purpose that, to him, was but the pur 
 suit of justice, he ceased to discuss with her what 
 caused her evident pain, and, when together, they 
 surrendered themselves to the joy of living, happy 
 
 60
 
 TITO 
 
 with the birds and the flowers, and the love prom 
 ises which they daily made. 
 
 Music became a passion with him, and at times 
 he would unconsciously lift his voice in songs 
 he learned from the peasants at work in the fields. 
 His voice, strong and unerringly true, rose in a 
 high treble that rang on the stillness with pathetic 
 tenderness and beauty ; but it served to bring upon 
 him the wrath of Mother Malenotti. It reminded 
 her of another voice that she had loved and, in 
 breathless wonder, young Tito listened to the 
 storm of passion which his simple song aroused. 
 He did not sympathize with the old woman in her 
 desire for revenge. Gazing fixedly at her, his 
 coiestioning eyes told that the good within him 
 rebelled. But her irascibility left its imprint upon 
 his sensitive nature and, as his passion was al 
 lowed free rein, the intensity of her fierce vindic- 
 tiveness sank into his soul. 
 
 As Tito grew his fair beauty brought upon him 
 the envy and the wrath of those of his age. They 
 heaped upon him insults that stung him into a 
 rage. Taunting him with a stain upon his birth, 
 they called him "Little Bastard," to see the fire in 
 his eyes, and to hear him give way to a whirlwind 
 of invectives. Tingling with shame and humilia 
 tion, he would demand of the old woman if it were 
 true that he was fatherless, nameless. For answer, 
 she would shriek with delight: "Beat them, my 
 Tito, beat them ! Art thou not strong? Do I not 
 feed thee with the best? Listen !" And she would 
 relate tales of her countrymen, tales of hate, of 
 
 61
 
 TITO 
 
 revenge, of conquest, until the child s eyes would 
 dilate with excitement, his cheeks flush at the 
 thought of the shame he must avenge. 
 
 Fierce and prompt was the punishment of his 
 defamers. Bloody was the outcome of his en 
 counters and, as he presented himself to the old 
 woman with blood-stained face and hands, he tin 
 gled with the joy that conquerors feel. His re 
 ward was the old woman s cry of joy, soldi to 
 squander as he would, and the assurance that 
 when he had avenged his mother s wrong, wealth, 
 untold wealth, awaited them. 
 
 "But my father?" young Tito demanded, "you 
 have not told me of my father." 
 
 Clutching the boy by the arm till he writhed 
 with pain, she gave way to shrill, terrible laughter. 
 
 "Thou shalt know him,aye,thou shalt know him 
 when the time comes. When thou art strong, 
 my Tito, and can strike, even to his heart then 
 shalt thou know his name. He is great do you 
 hear? and rich! But he hated me! and I hated 
 him and it has grown and grown and grown !" 
 
 It was the twenty-fourth day of June, the feast 
 of St. John the Baptist. Tito was then nine years 
 of age, strong, well developed, with the form, the 
 features and the carriage of a young god. He had 
 thrashed those of his age, and those who were 
 years older, into a. state of subjection that breeds 
 respect. He walked proudly erect, and was al 
 lowed the freedom of action and of speech that a 
 strong arm and unquestioned courage commands. 
 He knew nothing of God, he feared not man. and 
 
 62
 
 TITO 
 
 he calmly viewed the procession of children as 
 they marched through the village to the church, 
 the only feeling awakened within him being a 
 large contempt. After mass the parroco accosted 
 him before the church door. 
 
 "Well, little heretic, hast thou yet learned to 
 fear God? 
 
 "No," came the prompt reply, "nor thee." 
 
 "Demonictto! is it this that thou hast been 
 taught?" 
 
 lie shook the cane that he carried in his hand 
 at Tito, who unflinchingly stood his ground. 
 
 "If thou strikest me," said the child calmly, 
 though his eyes blazed, "when I am older I will 
 beat thee." 
 
 "Fiaf* cried the enraged priest, "thou art a 
 child of the devil!" 
 
 "If I am a child of the devil, thou art a swine," 
 answered the intrepid Tito. "Thou art fat and 
 greasy, aye, and lazy even like a pig. I am not 
 afraid of thy stick." 
 
 The good man went his way with a muttered 
 malediction upon the unheeding Tito, who smiled 
 sweetly, conscious that he had routed the enemy; 
 and, with head high, he strode through the village 
 in proud disdain born of his late conquest. But 
 here more of the enemy were in waiting. 
 
 "Well, Piccolo d Ignoti, with thy English blood 
 and angel face, thou dost not come to the church ! 
 neither dost thou know thy own father. Thou art 
 of the dirty American*. Go to America, thou lit- 
 
 63
 
 TITO 
 
 tie whelp, with thy girl face. Thou art not of 
 Italia." 
 
 This was not to go unchallenged, and when his 
 strength was exhausted, for the odds were three 
 to one against him young Tito, with blood dis 
 figured face, appeared before Mother Malenotti. 
 
 "Tell me," he said, "am I an Americano? Who 
 is this father that I have never seen? Tell me of 
 him, for I will know. Nay," he cried between his 
 sobs, as the old woman endeavored to turn him 
 away unsatisfied, "I will know! If thou dost not 
 tell me I will run away. Dost thou hear? I will 
 go to the sea, and I shall go in a ship," and he 
 called to his aid such a stream of oaths, that the 
 old woman shrieked with delight. 
 
 "Ah! my Tito, thou art now my son, my own 
 Tito. Yes, I will tell thee, truly I will tell thee. 
 And thou shalt go to America, my own Tito, when 
 thou art older and stronger. Then shalt thou 
 know thy father the father that deserted thee, 
 the father that ruined my life and stole my beloved 
 Be" 
 
 She stopped suddenly, overcome by her wrath, 
 checked by her desire to guard the secret of his 
 parentage. Her eyes glowed with tigerish long 
 ing for revenge, and she beat her hands upon 
 the table as she leaned towards the boy. 
 
 "Thou shalt know, my Tito," she continued, 
 "but not now, not now. It is not yet time. And 
 thou wilt keep thy vow?" 
 
 The eyes of the child flashed. "Have I not to 
 day for the hundredth time been told I have no 
 
 64
 
 I SWEAR NOT BY THAT ! "
 
 TITO 
 
 father? I know only shame! See!" he cried, 
 wiping off the blood that still disfigured his face, 
 "is he not the cause of this?" 
 
 "Aye!" hissed the old woman. "It flows from 
 thy face. That will heal. Mine is the heart s blood 
 that has flowed these years, these years." 
 
 Snatching a crucifix from the mantel, she held 
 it before him. 
 
 "Swear," she cried, holding it out to him, 
 "swear that thou wilt never receive the sacrament 
 until thou hast avenged thy mother, till, with thy 
 father s life thou hast wiped out thy disgrace. 
 Swear it, my Tito !" 
 
 "I swear," cried the child, "but " grasping the 
 crucifix and dashing it against the brick wall of the 
 fireplace, "I swear not by that! What has it 
 done for me? Has it given me a father? No! 
 Who am I? What am I? Angioletto! Piccolo 
 d Ignoti. Do I go through the village, what do I 
 hear? Why do they call me these names? Thou 
 dost not tell me who I am, who my father is. 
 Thou tellest me wait, and wait, always wait, and 
 that is all. I am tired of waiting and of fighting ; 
 but I must fight when they say these things to me. 
 1 shall go and seek this father, dost thou hear, old 
 woman ? I shall go ! And I shall ask him if he has 
 a better name to give me than Angioletto! d Ignoti. 
 And if he be dull, even old, I will prick him with 
 the point of my knife to enliven his wits. And 
 I shall see if his blood is redder than mine and if 
 it can flow as freely. And I shall hear him cry out 
 
 65
 
 TITO 
 
 for he is a coward ! Dost thou understand me, 
 old woman ? A coward, a coward, a coward !" 
 
 What young Tito had failed to learn from books 
 he seemed to have acquired intuitively. Without 
 being aware of how the knowledge had come to 
 him he could, in a laborious manner, read and 
 write; but Mother Malenotti frowned upon his 
 efforts. Absorbing knowledge of good or evil 
 without apparent effort, his young mind sought 
 the food that it craved, and an opportunity for 
 good being denied, he grasped that which was 
 within reach. But the bent of his intellect found 
 nothing to satisfy its cravings. It was balked, 
 starved, and unconsciously fretted under enforced 
 restraint. He despised the feelings of hate and of 
 revenge with which his nature became imbued, but 
 a living example was ever before him, and he came 
 to believe that revenge was the one ambition that 
 should be satisfied. Love within him, except his 
 love of nature, and his boyish passion for Maria, 
 was still unborn. He had never sufficiently con 
 sidered the old woman to analyze his feelings to 
 ward her ; yet he disliked her she filled him with 
 a feeling of savage resentment. Since he could re 
 member, never had an affectionate word passed 
 between them; no gentle touch had soothed his 
 childish passions and troubles, though in her own 
 way she was kind to him; but her kindness took 
 the form of well prepared food that would nourish 
 the body. She would have him strong, vigorous, 
 and she fed him as they feed cattle that are being 
 fattened for the market. 
 
 66
 
 TITO 
 
 With a child s quick perception he divined the 
 old woman s intentions, and he regarded her with 
 shuddering distrust and awe. But he had out 
 grown his fear, and now as she looked at him, 
 her eyes gloating with joy, she roused him to a 
 frenzy. He saw the gleam of the eyes, cold, cal 
 culating, her bent and decrepit figure in the un 
 certain light of early evening. He rushed from 
 the house, followed by the old woman s inhuman 
 laughter. 
 
 She picked up the broken crucifix and, kissing 
 the cross, laid it on the mantel.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE years went by, bringing to Mother Mal- 
 enotti increasing ills and aches. Her mind 
 was failing, and she talked incoherently of 
 her life in America. She guarded her secret with 
 the cunning of the weak-minded, and though the 
 boy listened, hoping to learn from her the story of 
 his birth, he was forced to be content with dis 
 jointed sentences, and vague allusions to her 
 former home. But what he did hear whetted his 
 curiosity, and he listened patiently to her child 
 like babble. Young as he was, he understood that 
 her mental condition foreshadowed the end. Her 
 step was feeble and her voice weak, but her fail 
 ing health seemed, if possible, to enliven her desire 
 for revenge, and her hate grew in proportion as 
 her strength failed. Fixing her eyes on the boy 
 she would gaze at him with a gleam of longing 
 tenderness. "Yes." she would mutter, "he has 
 her eyes, her voice, but, Diavolo!" she would 
 shriek, "Little Devil, go away, go awav, you have 
 your father s fair skin, yes, and his head! And 
 like thine, his eyes, when it pleased him to look at 
 me, cut like a knife. But he seldom took the 
 trouble to see me. Dost thou hear? To him, I 
 was a thing a creature!" 
 
 Pausing, she would look long and fixedly at the 
 68
 
 TITO 
 
 boy. "Turn thy head to one side, Tito, so, Madre 
 de Dio! It is his face. Yes, yes, the same proud, 
 insolent curve of the head. Go away !" she would 
 cry; then relapse into her customary drone and, 
 rocking to and fro, bewail her ill-luck and her de 
 clining strength. 
 
 All one early Spring day Tito listened to the old 
 woman s lamentations. At times she seemed to 
 be in full possession of her faculties ; her mind was 
 clear, and she talked understandingly. But she 
 was alert, on her guard, and refused to discuss 
 what was uppermost in the child s thoughts. Un 
 conscious of her physical and mental decline, she 
 postponed the day when she would enlighten the 
 boy as to his birth his father. No threats, no 
 entreaties on his part, had power to move her 
 he should know when the time came. Then, only 
 then. 
 
 They were sitting before the door of the cottage. 
 It was early evening and the breeze had set the 
 leaves chattering. Tito was listening to the old 
 woman s garrulous ravings. She had spent a 
 good day, and talked of his future, and though she 
 held rein on her tongue, she spoke more freely 
 than was her custom. Occasionally her mind 
 wandered, and, for minutes at a time, she would 
 lapse into meaningless gabble; then, as one starts 
 from a light sleep, she would become conscious 
 that her tongue was not under her control, and 
 would furtively glance at the boy, lying on the 
 grass at her feet, his eyes seeking the new coming 
 stars, his quick ear drinking in every word that fell 
 
 69
 
 TITO 
 
 from her lips. There had been a pause. She was 
 lost in the confused memory of receding years. 
 She spoke her mind again that of a child. 
 
 "And we were so happy we two, alone. In all 
 the world there was not such happiness. I 
 worked, aye, I slaved, that she might paint the 
 pictures. But no one could draw the Virgine 
 and the Child like my B , like her. And she 
 would sit in the galleries in dear Firenza through 
 days and weeks, while I worked in the fields for 
 the bits of cloth and the brushes. And with them, 
 and the drop of oil, would she fashion the head of 
 the Cristo. Madonna! What art was hers! It 
 was life to her it was all. Then he came. Ha, 
 ha, ha, but he shall pay for it. Aye, he shall pay 
 with his blood." 
 
 There followed mutterings, supplications to the 
 saints to witness her vows of vengeance. Sud 
 denly she turned to the boy who was silently stor 
 ing in his memory every word she uttered. 
 
 "What hast thbu heard, Tito? Of what have I 
 talked? Ah! but thou shalt know, aye, in good 
 time, in good time." 
 
 Tito did not reply. There was a dreamy ex 
 pression in the eyes he turned to the stars, to read 
 there what was denied him ; but he was deaf to the 
 voices of the night which were beginning to dis 
 turb the soothing quiet, for his ear was tuned to 
 the old woman s voice that again broke the still 
 ness. 
 
 "The silver and the bric-a-brac, a prince s ran- 
 
 70
 
 TITO 
 
 som! That was mine, all mine. And he doesn t 
 know the boy lives." 
 
 Her cackling- laugh was like the echo of the cry 
 of the damned. It seemed to rouse her. 
 
 Tito, stand here where I may look at thee." 
 
 The boy rose and stood before her. Her eyes, 
 like smouldering coals, gleamed through the dusk 
 of the evening, and she nodded her head approv 
 ingly. "Yes, them hast grown, for well have I nour 
 ished thee. It is almost time that thou shouldst 
 know and thou shalt. Thou wilt not forget thy 
 vow? Remember what they call thee Piccolo 
 d Ignoti! Does it not stir the blood in thy veins? 
 Let me feel thy arm. Aye, it is hard. That is 
 good. Thou canst strike, aye, and well, for have I 
 not seen that scullion, Tammaso, when thou hast 
 pummelled him? And the grass withered where 
 his dirty blood spilled upon it. Thou didst well, 
 my Tito, aye, well." 
 
 "Was my father fair like like me?" he asked, 
 then caught his breath sharply. His question 
 roused the passion within her, and her words re 
 solved into a stream of invectives. 
 
 "Listen, old woman," the boy cried, "thou wilt 
 delay too long. If thou dost not tell me soon, I 
 shall go to Firenza. There, I shall sing, for I can, 
 the good doctor in the village tells me I sing 
 well. And I shall stand in the public squares and 
 sinsr, and they will give me money. Then shall I 
 go to America. Sicuramenti! And I shall find 
 this coward father. And thou shalt know naught. 
 That will not please thee, old woman." 
 
 71
 
 TITO 
 
 "Thou must not leave me," she shrieked, "I, 
 too, must go. I must see him when his own son 
 has struck him, even to the heart. And I shall 
 mock him, and ask him why he stole her from me. 
 Thou wilt not deny me that, my Tito? It is for 
 that I have lived. Thou wilt not !" she cried. 
 
 She clutched his arm and tried to rise. The 
 pale moonlight gave to her features an unearthly, 
 clay-white color. For a moment her passion gave 
 her strength, then, with a moan, she sank into a 
 chair. The boy looked at her in affright. 
 
 "Come," he said gently, "come within. Thou 
 shalt rest, and then shalt thou tell me what I would 
 know." 
 
 "Thou wilt not leave me, my Tito?" she wailed. 
 
 Without replying he helped the old woman into 
 the house, and though he endeavored, by gentle 
 questioning, to induce her to talk, he met with 
 little success. 
 
 The morning sun streaming through the win 
 dow awakened Tito. He arose and descended to 
 the living room. All was quiet. He looked into 
 the chamber occupied by Mother Malenotti. 
 One look at the body on the bed was sufficient 
 the old woman had been dead for hours. No 
 living being near her, in the quiet of the night 
 she had died her last cry one of vengeance. Tito 
 stood beside the bed. No feeling of compassion 
 or sorrow moved him as he gazed on the 
 wrinkled features. Death had deepened the lines 
 in her face, until its expression was unnatural, in 
 human. The boy looked long and intently, but 
 
 72
 
 TITO 
 
 with dry eyes, and a feeling only of regret that she 
 carried with her the secret of his birth. His heart 
 suggested no prayer ; he thought not of God or of 
 the hereafter into which her soul had been 
 plunged, without warning, to meet her Maker. 
 No time for repentance, no word or touch to ease 
 her going, she had left her long life of hate, her 
 last thought, her last cry, one of revenge; her 
 only legacy to the child, her all-consuming hate 
 for the father whose life the boy had sworn should 
 wipe out the dishonor of his own birth. 
 
 Pietro, a week after the funeral, had returned to 
 the fields, and young Tito sat alone before the 
 house. For the past few days he had wandered 
 aimlessly about through the fields and the woods, 
 thinking much, for he realized the time had come 
 when he should go into the world and make his 
 own way alone, unaided. What was this world 
 like? America was far away, yet he would go, 
 for was it not there his father lived? Yes, he 
 would go, and soon. He looked about him with a 
 feeling of regret, for he would miss the flowers and 
 the fields and the blue sky. Where was this city, 
 this New York? He would demand of the 
 parroco, who should know. Within the hour he 
 presented himself before the priest. 
 
 "Well, Little Devil, hast thou come at last to 
 confess thy sins?" 
 
 "No," answered Tito, "when I have done that 
 for which I am sorry, I will ask thee to absolve me. 
 What I would know is where is this city of New 
 York ? How shall I go there ?" 
 
 73
 
 TITO 
 
 The priest laughed shrilly. 
 
 "What, little heretic, canst them do in America? 
 Thou canst neither read nor write." 
 
 "That is for me to decide," answered the boy 
 stoutly. "What I would have thee tell me, is how 
 I may get there. Shall I go to Genoa? There 
 are many ships there." 
 
 "Thinkest thou, boy, it would not be well to 
 make thy peace with God ere thou go on this jour 
 ney? What know you of Heaven?" 
 
 The eyes that met the reproving glance of the 
 priest did not waver. 
 
 "What has Heaven done for me?" demanded 
 the boy. "Hast thou not called me Little Devil? 
 Hast this Heaven given me a father? Save thy 
 word of advice for those who seek it. Good 
 Father, thine is a trade that flourishes best when 
 the crops fail. Did ever a man come to thee 
 with a full stomach? Heaven is for those who 
 need help; I only ask the way to America. If 
 thou dost not tell me, I shall know that what the 
 village doctor says of thee is true." 
 
 "What has he said, Little Devil ?" 
 
 "That thou hast the wit of an ass. Also his 
 voice. Tell me how I shall go to America ? 
 
 "The road thou art now travelling will lead thee 
 to thy master, the Devil." 
 
 "Now, I believe the good doctor. I will go to 
 him. Good bye, Parroco, we shall not meet again 
 unless you be sweeping the street crossing, and 
 I pass that way." 
 
 "Well," said the doctor kindly, as Tito, hat in 
 74
 
 TITO 
 
 hand, stood on the threshold of his office, "what 
 now? You have not been indulging in your cus 
 tomary pastime?" 
 
 "I have not fought," the boy answered, a tinge 
 of regret in his voice, "for two whole weeks. But 
 it is no fault of mine. They run from me." 
 
 The doctor looked at him as an artist might 
 regard his model with admiring eyes. 
 
 "Tell me," said the boy, "tell me how I shall go 
 to America." 
 
 "And wilt thou go?" 
 
 "Yes, and soon. I have money enough to take 
 me there. When I reach America I shall work, 
 and I shall find the father whom I have never 
 seen." 
 
 The doctor smiled. He respected the boy s 
 courage, for he had seen it proven. To attempt to 
 turn him from his purpose he knew would be a 
 waste of time; so, while Tito, with flushed cheeks 
 and glowing eyes, listened, the good doctor told 
 him what he would know. From Florence to 
 Genoa twas but a step. There he would take a 
 steamer for New York, and then 
 
 "Ah!" sighed the boy with delight, "then 
 the rest is easy. Am I not strong? Thinkest 
 thou I cannot work? Am I afraid? No! Fear is 
 not for me !" 
 
 For hours after Tito returned home, he sat by 
 the open door, pondering. He laid the disjointed 
 fragments of knowledge which had come to him, 
 facts he had gathered from the ravings of the old 
 woman, before him : and by an ingenuity that was 
 
 75
 
 TITO 
 
 uncommon in one of his years even remarkable 
 in its logical deductions he fashioned them into 
 an understandable whole. Connecting, bit by bit, 
 the information he had accumulated, which he had 
 retained in his memory, he was now in possession 
 of a fair and concise outline of the history of 
 Mother Malenotti s life from the time his father 
 had entered it. His mother, he knew, was an 
 artist. He was satisfied that New York was the 
 home of his father and that he was an aristocrat. 
 The boy was even familiar with the names of cer 
 tain localities in the city, and the old woman, in 
 unguarded moments, had given such details of 
 his father s personal appearance as to furnish the 
 boy with a mental photograph of him, that was 
 stamped upon his impressionable mind. 
 
 The journey to America he viewed with un 
 daunted courage and determination, for confidence 
 had come to him through social isolation and the 
 necessity which forced him to depend upon his 
 sturdy, physical strength. Ignorance of the world 
 was to him at once a curse and a power that comes 
 from lack of fear, and unfamiliarity with danger 
 and hardships. Such ready money as was in the 
 possession of Mother Malenotti at the time of her 
 death, was his. This, with what Pietro had given 
 him. was sufficient for his immediate needs, and to 
 pay his passage to America; beyond that, he did 
 not give a thought to the future. His strong arm 
 gave him an arrogant self-reliance, and an en 
 thusiasm born of childish disregard of conse 
 quence. But he was wise beyond his years, and 
 
 76
 
 TITO 
 
 old in the philosophy that Nature teaches. Had 
 the word of God been instilled into his heart, 
 directing his young mind, he would have been cap 
 able of wonderful things. He was of the mould 
 that has given to the world great men men 
 who have lived and have died for a principle. A 
 malign fate had willed to him one thought, one 
 emotion, one desire revenge. 
 
 Entering the house, he carefully examined the 
 few effects the old woman had left two or three 
 letters, yellow with age and worn by much hand 
 ling; cheap trinkets of Italian make that she had 
 preserved as mementos of her younger days; but 
 it was a ring of unique design that attracted the 
 boy and aroused his curiosity. The stone of the 
 ring had been removed, and inside the slender 
 hoop of gold was the name Bettina. The letters 
 the boy burned not knowing their value. The 
 ring and a small picture of the Madonna, in oil, a 
 few inches of canvas tacked on a wooden frame 
 mementos of the home of his childhood these 
 were all he wished to retain. 
 
 Two days later, with a third-class ticket to 
 Florence, he stood at the station with Maria s 
 hand in his own. Their tears mingled, but they 
 were blind to those who watched them and smiled. 
 
 The train puffed into the station. There was an 
 exchange of promises, a parting kiss, and Tito 
 began his journey. 
 
 77
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE two hours railroad journey from his old 
 home to the city of Florence gave Tito a 
 taste of the world that he was entering. 
 After having been jostled at the station, and 
 crowded in the dingy compartment of the rail 
 road carriage, he regarded the passengers with 
 looks which did not invite intimacy, and his bear 
 ing was not calculated to enlist their sympathies. 
 They wore the peasant s garb and were dirty and 
 unkempt. Tito watched them first with disdain, 
 then with disgust. It is not your feelings that 
 interest mankind in general; it is what you are 
 unfortunate enough not to hide that concerns the 
 observing. Tito did not dissemble the appear 
 ance of his fellow-travelers did not please him, he 
 had never been trained to disguise his feelings, and 
 they could read on his face that he considered him 
 self much too good for the company he was in. 
 Having regulated their social status by eye, one 
 of his fellow travelers, a burly youth with a 
 wooden expression of countenance, and a bullet- 
 shaped head on heavy shoulders, addressed Tito. 
 He was the boy s senior by several years and of 
 unquestioned insolence. 
 
 "Where dost thou go, young one, with thy 
 78 "
 
 TITO 
 
 cherub face?" There was studied offence in the 
 tone. 
 
 "Not whence you came from a piggery/ 
 answered Tito. 
 
 "Thou hadst best cultivate a more civil tongue," 
 retorted the other hotly. 
 
 "1 might if you had learned to respect your 
 betters." Tito s tone was not pacific. 
 
 Their eyes flashed their unspoken opinions. 
 The other passengers lent approval and encour 
 agement. 
 
 "Canst thou not read thy ticket, Angiolettof" 
 the stranger asked, the appellation being a chance 
 shot. Tito s countenance became scarlet. 
 
 "Yes," he retorted angrily, "as readily as your 
 dolt face. It will be best for your wooden head if 
 you mind your own affairs." 
 
 The guard interrupted this exchange of pleas 
 antries. The train was drawing into the station at 
 Florence. 
 
 It was early evening and he walked boldly along 
 the crowded streets. Having eaten nothing since 
 noontime, he was hungry, but though he did not 
 appreciate the value of money, he knew its pur 
 chasing power. Approaching a fruit store, he in 
 stinctively put his hand into the pocket of his 
 trousers fruit cost money. He stopped suddenly, 
 and a blank stare of amazement overspread his 
 features his purse was gone. 
 
 The passersby looked with a show of curiosity, 
 and some little interest, at the fair-haired youth 
 standing on the sidewalk, gazing into space, nn- 
 
 79
 
 TITO 
 
 mindful of their admiring glances. The boy had 
 received his first unkind jolt to remind him that 
 the world guards those whose diligence never 
 slumbers. He was paying the penalty of ignor 
 ance of the ways of large cities. He did not mourn 
 he had yet to fully appreciate his position, with 
 out money, and knowing no one in the city. A 
 smile lighted up his face, and not a few turned for 
 a second time to look at the boy, standing with 
 hands thrust into his pockets. Alone, penniless, 
 supperless, and hungry he was certain that never 
 before had he been quite so hungry yet he 
 laughed aloud. 
 
 The streets were brilliant with lights; well 
 dressed people hurried on their way to theatre and 
 opera; the stores and restaurants were filled with 
 life and gaiety ; and the light fell aslant the face of 
 the boy who found amusement in the contempla 
 tion of his loss. "Diavolo" he laughed, they 
 should have left with me enough for supper. Did 
 I know the thief I would ask of him a few soldi 
 with which to buy soup, aye, and some fruit as a 
 loan. Scitana! scullion! Not a sou left! What a 
 beast he is ! I have not enough to buy me one 
 orange one very small orange. Now, were it he 
 of the wooden face that clod of the fields who 
 taunted me on the train, I would pummel him, 
 aye, so that he would not know his own ill-favored 
 visage in the glass. I could make putty of that 
 face, even though he had not my purse. I must 
 have the worth of the good gold pieces that were 
 mine. Did I know how to pray, I would say, 
 
 80
 
 "SILENT. BREATHLESS, A LOOK OF RAPTURE ON HIS FACE."
 
 TITO 
 
 Heaven guide him across my path. But the 
 money I have it not, and America is far away. 
 That it is, and there I must go, but how? I know 
 naught of work, and besides I am as empty as a 
 pail that has stood in the sun, as empty as are my 
 pockets. Some one must feed me, but who? Let 
 me see. Tito, thou of the angel face," he laughed 
 softly, "a hot soup, some fruit and, and coffee, 
 cheese and a tumbler of wine. What thinkest thou 
 of that? Verily a feast! That, some one must 
 give me. I have never gone hungry, nor shall I. 
 A lodging? That will come after. America? 
 That shall be for to-morrow." 
 
 He was standing opposite a fashionable cafe. 
 Dinner was being served, and the music of a man 
 dolin orchestra came through the open doors and 
 windows. Never had he heard such music. It 
 rose and fell and died to low whispers. The boy 
 listened as if the gates of Heaven had been thrown 
 open the flood of music and the flashing lights 
 being a taste of the unknown. His eyes seemed to 
 bulge from their sockets as, with an expression of 
 indefinable pleasure, he stood as one transformed 
 silent, breathless, a look of rapture on his face. 
 He was wholly unconscious of where he was; to 
 the crowd that surged about him he gave no more 
 attention than if he were alone in the fields and 
 the woods, with the stars his only companions; 
 nor did he see the admiration on the faces of those 
 who paused to look at him, his face and figure 
 rivaling the beauty of the marble gods on the 
 pedestals of the Uffizi. To him, at that moment, 
 
 Si
 
 TITO 
 
 the strains of music to which he listened with an 
 intoxication of delight were all that appealed to 
 thought or understanding. The orchestra was 
 playing a pot-pourri of popular airs, the melodies 
 that stir the blood of the impulsive Italian. After 
 some minutes the notes of a folk-song were borne 
 to the ears of Tito, and his voice rose in the 
 familiar strains he had heard the peasants chant at 
 their labor. A crowd gathered about him, for his 
 voice was that of an artist ringing out in tones 
 that vibrated on the night air the last note lin 
 gering in a cadence of marvelous beauty. 
 
 if-p"-! 
 
 
 
 "" f i I 
 
 PI 
 
 \ S^-H i^ 
 
 
 -^ r P _^&d 
 
 fl>. 
 
 ^/i/r / OT/PI svnni un An - g# - lo 
 
 TO fie - to 
 
 ^ 
 
 mia ma - dn- ) to slo at pal-pi - 1 
 
 m 
 
 ilt - sfo ifell 
 
 all! mf 
 
 82
 
 TITO 
 
 p 
 
 
 
 tf ^* H 
 
 
 
 
 L=^ 
 
 
 
 * 
 
 Prr-c/if! ..... 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 \-gli oe 
 
 i spa - nf 
 
 <rf - w.V 
 
 P T PT pi 
 
 dre mia mn-drf mo-ri 
 
 o-rf at- me to- 
 
 t, 
 
 r 
 
 ma-tfrf mo- 
 
 The song- finished, unabashed, he looked at the 
 crowd about him, a smile lighting up his face. A 
 shout of approval was followed by a shower of 
 coin, that many hands gathered from the pave 
 ment to give to him. Laughing gleefully, he 
 iingled the money in his pockets, and was about 
 to turn away, when a waiter from the cafe accosted 
 him. 
 
 "Thev would have thee within," he was in- 
 
 tf 
 
 formed. 
 
 "But I will eat/ he laughed, "after which" 
 "But thou wilt eat within, and well." 
 "Good," he replied, "then will I come." 
 They went into the cafe, and the best was set 
 
 before him. He needed no urging. The guests, 
 
 83
 
 TITO 
 
 mostly artists, watched the boy, marveling, mean 
 time, at his beauty, which his peasant garb, by 
 contrast, only accentuated, while Tito s eyes said 
 plainly, "I am well content to be here, and thou art 
 much honored." 
 
 "Mio Dio! What eyes! He shall sit for me." 
 It was a Florentine artist who spoke. 
 
 "What insolence is there in his expression!" 
 whispered his companion. "The lines of the neck 
 and the poise of the head he might be a noble. 
 What do they call thee?" the speaker asked. 
 
 " Little Angel ! Little Devil/" Tito answered 
 with a laugh. The wine had lent a flush to his 
 cheeks, and his eyes shone with added brilliancy. 
 "Those whom 1 do not please call me by another 
 name, but for that they must fight me." 
 
 He had risen from his seat, and stood before 
 them with head thrown back in the manner that 
 was wont to make Mother Malenotti rage. He 
 was conscious of his strength, and the many faces 
 against the background of splendor did not dis 
 concert him. 
 
 "Where hast thou learned to sing?" they asked. 
 There was kindly concern mixed with respect in 
 the voice. 
 
 "How can I tell?" answered the boy, "I sing as 
 the birds sing. They are not taught, they cannot 
 help singing. Yes, I will sing for thee till my 
 voice crack ; but thou shalt give me what they have 
 robbed me of, the money that was to take me to 
 America." 
 
 "See, Little Devil ! the name suits thee well 
 84
 
 TITO 
 
 thou shalt come to me daily, and I will paint thy 
 portrait." 
 
 "No," answered the boy, "that I will not." 
 "But the money to take thee to America?" 
 "That will I have to-night. Listen !" 
 The orchestra was again playing, and the boy, 
 picking up the melody, sang it to the end. His 
 was the art that Nature teaches, and his voice was 
 one that, in a moment of profligacy, she had be 
 stowed upon him. It was the heaven-sent gift 
 that no art can imitate, a power that is given to 
 but few. There was a liquid flexibility in his tones, 
 and a command so perfect that his hearers listened 
 enthralled. What wonderful beauty was in that 
 voice, the faces of those who heard testified. For 
 the moment, to the eye and to the ear, he was a 
 divinity his features those of an angel, his figure 
 that of a young Hercules; but his mischievous 
 expression of boyish deviltry broke the charm. 
 
 The last note was followed by a series of bravos. 
 Silver coin and not a few bits of gold, were his re 
 ward. He counted his money, he had more than 
 he had lost. 
 
 "You will sing again?" 
 
 "Yes," he answered, "when it pleases me. You 
 have given me that which is mine; with it, I shall 
 go to America. When I sing again you shall not 
 give me money, for I have now what was taken 
 from me. If there is a favor I might ask, it is that 
 you find me the dolt who stole my money, that I 
 may beat him." 
 
 They sketched him standing in the glow of the 
 
 85
 
 TITO 
 
 lights, his eyes and cheeks aflame with excite 
 ment, tingling with joy at the knowledge that he 
 had done well. 
 
 It was midnight when he went to a modest hotel 
 where he slept the sleep of the young and the 
 healthy. 
 
 Early the next morning he was astir. The city 
 was awakening lazily and with reluctance, pre 
 senting a brilliant panorama to the eyes and the 
 mind of the boy. The cool, clear morning air 
 sent the blood dancing through his veins ; and the 
 sun s rays painted the distant Apennines a hazy 
 purple. He thought but little of his mission or his 
 prospective journey enough for him that he 
 lived, that he breathed, that he felt his pulses 
 quicken ; for what he saw filled him with new and 
 wonderful delight; and he paused in his walk to 
 gaze with wonder on the wealth of beauty spread 
 before him. While he looked at the picture 
 framed by the distant hills and blue above, for one 
 moment his heart and his mind were nearer God 
 than they had ever been during his young life. 
 The influence of the mystery of creation, the works 
 of art and of nature, sublime in their matchless 
 beauty, left him speechless. He caught his breath 
 sharply, for a spell of enchantment was upon him. 
 
 Entering one of the galleries, he gazed long and 
 earnestly at the art treasures; for even he, young 
 as he was, and untrained, could appreciate the 
 marvels of art that he saw. A Raffaello, a Michel 
 angelo, a Correggio, spoke to him a new language. 
 He looked upon the portrait of the Madonna and 
 
 86
 
 TITO 
 
 the Child. His mother, perhaps she, too, had 
 stood here as he now stood, and gazed with the 
 same feeling of rapture the lovely Bettina, whom 
 even the old woman had power to describe as one 
 rivaling in beauty these very works of art the 
 portraits that looked down upon him. The first 
 tears that the memory of that mother had ever 
 awakened stole to his eyes the first longing 
 throbs of love quickened his heart-beats. Gazing 
 at the portrait of the Madonna, he mentally pic 
 tured the fair Italian girl she who had given her 
 young life at his birth. From its hiding place, in 
 an inner pocket of his coat, he drew the small bit 
 of canvas which was all that was left to him of his 
 mother s work of love, and, raising it to his lips, 
 kissed it reverently. Into his face came a spiritual 
 expression, and those near him forgot the works 
 of the dead masters to observe the face of the boy, 
 who, unconscious of all the world, looked with 
 tender, lingering love upon the memento of his 
 mother s skill. Regretfully, and with loving touch, 
 he replaced the picture in his pocket, and with a 
 sigh that was half a sob walked away. 
 
 Turning abruptly into one of the galleries, he 
 came face to face with the artist, who, the night 
 before, had begged him to sit for a portrait. The 
 artist recognized Tito at once, and a smile of 
 pleasure played about the corners of his mouth. 
 
 "Well, Little 
 
 "Devil," said Tito, promptly. 
 
 "I have been thinking of thee and the journey 
 thou wilt take. Tell me ! Why not stay here in
 
 TITO 
 
 Florence, where that voice of thine might be 
 heard, until something could be made of it to 
 which the world would listen ? America is not for 
 thee. There the artist in thee will be starved. 
 Thou wilt be as the flower that dies, because the 
 sun is forbidden it, or that the dew kisses to life, to 
 be withered by the blast of the noonday heat. 
 What wouldst thou of America?" 
 
 The boy s eyes flashed. The blood surged to his 
 cheek, for the thought of his mission to America 
 brought with it a fierce gust of passion. In mem 
 ory, he was again with the old woman her rasp 
 ing tones grating on his hearing, until every evil 
 element was aroused, and every nerve in his body 
 responded to the fury that took possession of him. 
 He remembered now, that, which for one hour he 
 had forgotten, his mission his revenge. 
 
 "Mio Dio! Stand as thou art for one little min 
 ute until I sketch thee. Thou art truly named, 
 Little Devil. Tell me what I may say to make 
 the fire dance in thine eyes ? They have the depth 
 of expression, and the liquid tenderness of our 
 own Italia. The flames of hell could not shoot 
 such gleams. Ah! I have it. Divino! Truly 
 thou art of Italia but thy fair skin?" 
 
 This last was as a match to a train of gunpowder. 
 The artist looked in astonishment, for his ears, 
 tuned though they were to the license of his craft, 
 and the free speech of compatriots of his calling, 
 as well as models of all classes or of no class at all, 
 stood amazed, while he listened to the volley of 
 oaths that fell from the lips of the boy. 
 
 88
 
 TITO 
 
 "Verily, L y inferno! but sublime! If thou wilt 
 stay here in Fircnza till I get the fire of those eyes 
 onto canvas thou canst name thy price. What 
 sayest thou, boy?" 
 
 "That for all the wealth of Firenza I would not 
 remain." 
 
 "Come," said the artist, as he laid aside his un 
 finished work, "it is time to eat. Thou shalt eat 
 with me, and we will talk, and thou shalt tell me 
 of thyself." 
 
 Together they walked to a cafe in the Via Tor- 
 nabuoni. Here they seated themselves, and over 
 their coffee Tito s artist friend heard the boy s 
 story. With his eyes fixed on the mobile counte 
 nance before him, Tito s companion listened en 
 raptured and, with the instinct of the true artist, 
 watched the boy s changing expression that voiced 
 his thoughts more eloquently than his tongue had 
 the power to do; and the artist read his life story 
 on his face the intense passion, the flashes of 
 tenderness, the eyes that spoke in dumb eloquence 
 of a soul starved, distorted, groping in the dark 
 for an outlet for his affection, seeking the love 
 that it craved. 
 
 "But why surrender thyself, thy life, to this hate, 
 this passion, this revenge? If thou hast no father 
 perbacco! thou hast no father! What of it?" 
 The artist s voice was bantering. He did not de 
 sire to offend the boy. He regarded him as a find 
 a discovery, one in whom was the power to ac 
 complish great things. His only desire was to 
 turn him from his determination to sacrifice his 
 
 89
 
 TITO 
 
 energy, his life ; for he could read faces, characters, 
 and he recognized in Tito the promise of a great 
 future. 
 
 "And thou wilt go?" the artist asked. 
 
 "Yes. That will I. And this New York 
 knowest thou of it?" 
 
 "It is a great city of many people. Riches they 
 have aye, untold wealth but art pooh ! They 
 measure art by the tradesman s tape. Their God 
 is not thine. They will not understand thee, nor 
 thou them. The artist in thee will rebel thou 
 wilt cry aloud for the blue of the sky, the fra 
 grance, the beauty of our own Italia. They will 
 not feel what thou dost now, and the soul within 
 thee will wither. Stay with me, my son, and thou 
 shalt study art the art that is thy master." 
 
 "I will come back, perhaps, but it shall be when 
 I have washed the stain from my blood, when I 
 "shall have heard the coward father cry out with 
 pain when he hears me tell him that I Tito, his 
 son, have avenged her \vhom he was ashamed to 
 acknowledge. My mother ! Beautiful ! Aye ! 
 The old woman has told me, with eyes like those 
 of the Madonna in the galleries. She, too, was an 
 artist, as thou art. See !" he cried, drawing the bit 
 of canvas from his pocket. "Is not that art? If 
 it is not, then am I blind. Must not her hand have 
 been small and beautiful to have drawn the lines? 
 Must not her touch have been gentle as an angel s 
 to have wrought such beauty? Canst thou not 
 see her as I see her, standing before the portrait of 
 the Madonna, with her eyes uplifted, with the 
 
 90
 
 TITO 
 
 beauty that the gods give ? For it is so that I pic 
 tured her, with cheeks that the sun had kissed to 
 a peach blow. Had I the art, I could paint her as 
 the old woman described her; for even she, with 
 her devil s tongue, made of her one that beauty 
 had touched not lightly." 
 
 He leaned across the table at which they sat and 
 poured forth his soul in words to which his com 
 panion listened, enraptured by their impassioned 
 fervor. The ears of the artist drank in the music 
 of the boy s voice, while his eyes were riveted on 
 the face before him, flushed with emotions he did 
 not seek to hide. 
 
 "Yes," was the reply as Tito paused. "I see as 
 thou seest, aye, and feel the power that moves 
 thee, for it is the artist within thee, as well as the 
 son, that speaks. Mio Dio! What a fortune 
 might be thine ! Stay with me, let me teach thee, 
 fanciullo, mio for the fire within is consuming 
 thee. Thou shalt be my son, and thou, too, shalt 
 paint as thy mother did unless I have lost the 
 trick of my calling. Listen to reason ! Thou canst 
 not wipe out this wrong that cannot be. Thou 
 art giving thy young life to a cause that is empty 
 empty as the vacuum in a bubble that is blown 
 into air. This old woman has filled thee with a 
 desire to avenge thy mother as senseless as the 
 vendetta of our own race. Stay here, my son, and 
 thou shalt be great, famous, I promise thee; for 
 though thou hast the passion that gave thee thy 
 name Little Devil there slumbers the soul of a 
 Michelangelo within thee. Stay, and forget "
 
 TITO 
 
 "Nay," cried the boy with flashing eyes, "that 
 I will not! This father he is an aristocrat, a 
 noble. I shall ask him why he brought me into the 
 world. I shall cry out to him Look at me, thou 
 coward! Seest thou the stamp of shame on me? 
 Canst thou rub it away? And I shall taunt him, 
 and he will cringe, and, maybe, he will offer me 
 money as he would to a beggar. And I shall 
 throw it in his face! Do you hear? In his face!" 
 
 For a moment, he was, in memory, again in the 
 cottage by the roadway, and the wrinkled visage 
 of the old woman rose before him grinning with 
 an expression of fiendish glee her words echoing 
 on the summer stillness, "Remember thy promise, 
 my Tito, remember what they call thee " 
 
 The boy s hand fell upon the table and instinc 
 tively clutched the knife that lay upon it. The 
 eyes of his companion followed the movement, and 
 with a sigh he rose. 
 
 "He must work out his own destiny," he mused. 
 "He is a god!" "Enough," he said aloud, "come, 
 I have much to do, but it must wait. Thou shalt 
 go with me, and I will point out the masters that 
 thou wilt love and serve. Thou shalt have one 
 little taste of art, of beauty that is not mortal." 
 
 Together they walked in the direction of the 
 Uffizi. 
 
 92
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 GOOD was steadily at work in Tito s heart 
 and mind, persistently refusing to be 
 crowded or crushed by the elements of 
 viciousness that had been instilled into his mind 
 by the baneful influence of Mother Malenotti. 
 Knocking at the door of his conscience, and ap 
 pealing to his understanding, were feelings that 
 baffled him, and set his emotions into a riot. An 
 impulse for good would rise in him only to be met 
 and put aside by a power stronger than his will 
 a power fostered by years of wilfulness, and pas 
 sions that had never known restraint. Nature 
 whispered her secrets to him, and the ear of his 
 imagination had, day by day, been assailed by 
 thoughts and dreams that the beauties of the 
 world engendered. Of an imaginative and ar 
 tistic temperament, since the old woman s death, 
 the influence of nature and of art had been making 
 itself felt ; and emotions, which he could not under 
 stand, were results of his inner subconscious nature 
 asserting itself. 
 
 The artist and the boy went toward the Uffisi. 
 They walked slowly, the artist talking gently, even 
 affectionately; pointing out and explaining what 
 would be of interest and benefit to him. They had 
 
 93
 
 TITO 
 
 turned south from the cafe and entered the cathe 
 dral. Standing where they could look upon the 
 sweep of the vast edifice, Tito s companion 
 watched him narrowly to observe its effect upon 
 him. It was the first time in his young life that he 
 had ever entered a church, for although Mother 
 Malenotti, in her own way, professed the Catholic 
 faith, it had been her care to turn the boy s mind 
 from all religious thought and influence. He had 
 conceived a terrible, all powerful God, who visited 
 his wrath on those who felt not the sacredness of 
 an oath. The good within him came from natural 
 instincts, not from teaching or example. As they 
 entered the church and stood near the door, Tito 
 was lost in contemplation of the grandeur before 
 him; but it appealed to the material, not to the 
 spiritual, side of his nature. 
 
 "What is this God?" he asked with the candor 
 of his years. "He has done naught for me. I see 
 all this beauty ! Yes, truly, but it is not His work. 
 The hand of man wrought this, aye, and they are 
 dead. What did this God do for them? Tell me 
 that! If I ask Him for the purse that was mine, 
 He does not give it to me. Why, then, should I 
 give Him thanks? For being robbed by some 
 malandrino who, on a feast day, will drop one of 
 my good coins into the poor-box? And the thief 
 will be blessed for it. And could I not sing, would 
 I not have gone hungry?" 
 
 The artist smiled. He, himself was not of ardent 
 belief; and the bov s talk amused him. 
 
 94
 
 TITO 
 
 Truly/ he said, "thou art a little pagano. Yet 
 these things come to thee. See ! Do not these 
 works of art speak to thee of a power greater than 
 man s? Our hands and brains are only the in 
 struments, the tools that, by His divine will, have 
 been given us to perform these miracles of art. 
 Dost thou not feel the power, boy ? Does not this 
 beauty speak to thee and stir the heart of the art 
 ist? The little devil within thee is of the flesh 
 but thy soul, has it not spoken yet ?" 
 
 The boy did not reply. He was lost in a newly 
 discovered heaven. He did not hear his compan 
 ion, and his eyes told that the spell of beauty, of 
 the art of creation, was upon him. For that one 
 moment his inner conscience controlled his facul 
 ties, his being. The mystery of the conception of 
 the soul was being wrought, and the emotions that 
 filled him seemed to paralyze all else. 
 
 The artist s eyes were fixed upon the boy s face. 
 "Madonna Mia," he muttered, "a Tiziano would 
 cry aloud could he behold that face the tender 
 lines of an angel, with the eyes of a young demon." 
 
 Still the boy, speechless, gazed at the wonders 
 before him. At length, with a soft, prolonged 
 sigh, he turned to the artist. 
 
 "Come," he said, "let us go." 
 
 They went out into the bright sunlight, the spell 
 still at work on Tito s mind the germ of faith had 
 taken root. Crossing the Palazzo Vecchio, they 
 entered the CaHcria clegli Uffizl. Each picture, 
 statue and work of art, was, to the artist, as an old 
 
 95
 
 TITO 
 
 acquaintance, and he led the boy to those which 
 most strongly appealed to him. Pausing before 
 Lippi s Virgine, the artist waited for Tito to speak, 
 for when he had shown him the copy, his mother s 
 work, the artist had recognized it as a reproduc 
 tion of the famous painting he had noted, too, 
 that it was of a high order of merit. 
 
 One look at the original and Tito drew forth the 
 canvas from his pocket, and a smile, tender, loving, 
 yet sorrowful, lighted up his countenance. 
 "Look," he cried, pointing to the portrait with 
 suppressed excitement, "this was her model. Is 
 not the copy wonderful? Here, then, was where 
 she worked, where she stood even as I now stand, 
 her son ! I, who am to avenge the wrong 
 she suffered. It was here that he, perhaps, first 
 met her. Ah! my mother, why couldst thou not 
 have lived until the day when I would say to thee 
 See ! thy son hast avenged thee, for the blood 
 that flows in my veins is of Italia. 
 
 Gazing long and lovingly, but with a critical eye, 
 at the portrait he held, he turned to the orig 
 inal. The spirit of the artist spoke in every look, 
 every gesture. His companion, at some distance 
 from him, watched the constantly changing ex 
 pression on the boy s face. 
 
 "I, too," he resumed, "may do these things. 
 Why cannot I paint the images? If this father 
 gave to me his fair skin, have I not the Italian 
 blood of my mother?" Turning to his companion, 
 he impulsively added : "Thou shalt teach me, but 
 
 96
 
 TITO 
 
 not now. When I return to dear Italia, when this 
 father shall have felt the sting of my knife then 
 shalt thou teach me thy art. Thinkest thou I 
 could learn?" 
 
 "Yes," was the reply, while the artist s eyes 
 rested on the upturned face with tender regard. 
 "I shall teach thee, for thou hast thy mother s soul. 
 Thou shalt learn, and I shall paint thy portrait, 
 fanciullo mio, if the world does not rob thee of 
 the fire in those eyes. But in America thou wilt 
 become indifferent to the beauties the good God 
 gave to us, and when thou wilt come back to 
 Italia, thou wilt not care for it, nor for the art that 
 thou now lovest. Thou wilt be like the birds that 
 would sing but cannot, because their tongues are 
 withered, and their voices are hushed; and only 
 the memories of their young lives are left them." 
 
 The boy did not answer and they turned to go. 
 
 "Think well of what I have told thee," the artist 
 said as they neared the Arno. 
 
 The sun was sinking behind the purple hills, and 
 a golden haze hung over river and valley. The 
 warm glow bathed the tower of the Palazzo Vec- 
 chio in a languorous flood of shimmering gold ; 
 and a buzz of life arose in response to the call of 
 approaching evening. 
 
 Tito s pulses throbbed with pleasure at the 
 sights and the sounds, for Florence was astir to 
 drink in the beauty. The words of the artist, as 
 much as what he had seen and heard, had made a 
 deep impression upon him. Though the effect 
 
 97
 
 TITO 
 
 might not be lasting, new thoughts and new emo 
 tions had taken possession of his heart and mind. 
 
 But here again chance rudely interfered for, 
 as they approached the Ponte Vecchio, the young 
 peasant who had taunted Tito in the railway car 
 riage, stood, not fifty feet away, in the act of pur 
 chasing some confections from a street vender, 
 in his hand Tito s missing purse. The concen 
 trated passions of his lifetime seemed to take pos 
 session of the boy. With catlike stride he stood 
 before the offender and, before the culprit had 
 time to secrete the purse, wrenched it from his 
 hand. 
 
 "You thief! You beast! You clod of the 
 fields!" There was a hush, and his voice rang 
 clear, "Now will I teach you better graces !" 
 
 With clenched fist he struck out boldly, and the 
 offender sprawled on the pavement at his feet. 
 Rising clumsily, he faced the enraged Tito, but 
 again he measured his length on the stone pave 
 ment, blood flowing from his face. 
 
 Now it is no uncommon sight to see the natu 
 rally indolent and easy-going Florentines indulging 
 in a wordy war, gesticulating wildly and, to one not 
 acquainted with the Italian temperament, seem 
 ingly on the point of coming to blows; but, as a 
 rule, words are their only weapons. They enter 
 tain a wholesome fear of the law, which frowns 
 upon those who would question its supremacy, not 
 even countenancing what might be deemed an act 
 of self-defence. 
 
 98
 
 TITO 
 
 Tito s belligerent act brought about him a 
 crowd who were mightily pleased, for their sym 
 pathies went out to the fair-haired youth whose 
 eyes shot gleams of defiance at the awkward coun 
 tryman; but it also brought the Guardia di Citta 
 and, before he realized it, he was in the stern 
 clutches of the law. An impromptu investigation 
 immediately followed. Tito s friend, who stood 
 behind him to champion his cause, calmly received 
 the marked courtesies which the officials of law 
 and order paid to him, for his name was a power. 
 The boy was in no conciliatory frame of mind. He 
 was ready to continue the battle, but a restraining 
 hand grasped him by the collar of his coat. The 
 officer, having set in motion the machinery of his 
 civic authority, demanded the cause of the breach 
 of peace. 
 
 "This swine-herder," volunteered Tito, indicat 
 ing his adversary with a finger of scorn, "stole my 
 purse, with the good gold that was mine; and he 
 has dared show it to me that I may know he had 
 it in his filthy pocket. And thou," he continued, 
 addressing the officer, "with all thy fierce mus- 
 tachios and rusty sword, which is good only to 
 slit a cabbage, if thou ever earned the hundred lire 
 the government pays thee, this bullet-headed pig 
 could not have stolen my good gold." 
 
 The crowd roared with delight and Tito glared 
 upon him of the bloody face. 
 
 "What have you to say?" asked the officer, of 
 the object of Tito s wrath. A closer grip at the 
 
 99
 
 TITO 
 
 nape of Tito s neck warned him that he would yet 
 answer for his freedom of speech. The peasant, 
 with dogged persistence, denied the imputation of 
 theft. He had found the purse. As he had come 
 by it honestly, the money was his. 
 
 "Now," retorted Tito, "will I beat you twice, 
 you lying thief! Wait till it pleases these white- 
 gloved warriors to release me, and will I paint your 
 face again with your dirty blood." 
 
 "Cease this," cried the officer, "what do they call 
 thee?" 
 
 "Tito," he replied, meeting the officer s glance 
 unflinchingly. 
 
 "What else?" 
 
 "Just Tito. Little Devil/ if you like it better." 
 
 "Thou art rightly named. Listen to me, Little 
 Devil. If thou wilt promise to behave thyself and 
 learn to cultivate a civil tongue, I may let thee go." 
 
 "I promise nothing but to beat that swine- 
 herder when I next meet him." 
 
 "Shall I take thee before the Commissioner of 
 Police?" 
 
 "Do," replied Tito, "that I may tell him thy 
 worth." 
 
 The artist spoke to the officer, who, with a mili 
 tary salute, released Tito, and, promising to be in 
 court the following morning, they went on their 
 way. 
 
 The artist smiled. Another side of the boy s 
 nature had been revealed to him. What element 
 in his nature would eventually assume the mas- 
 
 100
 
 TITO 
 
 tery? This he asked himself as they walked to 
 gether, and he listened to the boy s outpouring of 
 passion. "He will rise to great things," he 
 mused, "either for good or for evil. It will be as 
 Fate directs. If chance throws him in the way of 
 good, he will absorb it readily. He is like a flower 
 of wonderful promise, till its rank growth threat 
 ens to strangle it, for he has his mother s beauty 
 and talent, with an indomitable will and a daring 
 courage. Does he take this from his father, and 
 they ever meet then will there be a tragedy in 
 deed/ 
 
 "Tell me of thy mother," he said to the boy. 
 They were leaning against the spalletta, the turbu 
 lent Arno at their feet singing in fitful rhythm, 
 while the night shadows closed in upon them. 
 Tito told what he knew, his voice, tuned to a low 
 pitch, falling upon the ear of his listener with a 
 measured, musical cadence, that was as the echo 
 of the song he had sung the night before. Passion 
 seemed to have died into sorrow, and the tones of 
 his voice, more than his words, told that the sub 
 ject touched him deeply. Neither did the mention 
 of Mother Malenotti seem to stir the rage which 
 reference to her commonly awakened, and his 
 manner, subdued, dejected, was that of one who 
 feels keenly the want of a love he has never known. 
 At times, when he described the home that yet 
 rose vividly to his mind, his language grew elo 
 quent, and he painted a word picture that stood 
 out clear, distinct, poetic in its unstudied, uncon- 
 
 101
 
 TITO 
 
 scions realism. He spoke of the old woman with 
 out feeling, for, although memories of her still 
 rankled in his young heart, he seemed imbued with 
 a feeling in which sorrowful remembrance stifled 
 all other emotions. "And now," he continued, 
 while the first stars, through a rift in the line made 
 by the frowning Apennines, told that they had 
 talked till night was with them, "and now, I have 
 nothing but the legacy of hate the old woman 
 willed to me. Who am I ? Who was the mother 
 that is dead? Some one who was young and of 
 great beauty. Who is the father that is living? 
 The old woman has told me that he lives. Who 
 am I? Tito, just Tito. If thou shouldst ask me 
 further, I cannot tell, unless I add, fanciullo, or 
 Piccolo d Ignoti. Madonna Mia, that it should be 
 so or worse, that it be true/ 
 
 He laughed. Again he was the young Tuscan 
 in the valley of the Arno. Again the fierce passion 
 returned, and body and soul surrendered to its 
 influence. 
 
 "If it be true what would they do to a son, 
 who, with his father s lifeblood dripping from his 
 knife, should cry out, See ! It is I, Tito, who have 
 done this?" 
 
 A pause followed, that only the hum of the city 
 disturbed, until broken by the artist. 
 
 "Don t, boy, don t!" his voice was filled with 
 horror. "Think thou of thy God !" 
 
 "My God? I think of my mother! My 
 mother " A sob broke on the stillness, and the 
 
 1 02
 
 TITO 
 
 night shadows hid the tears that ran down the 
 cheeks of the boy. 
 
 The river sang its song and rushed heedlessly 
 on. It seemed but yesterday that it had listened 
 to the cries of the great Savonarola as he burned 
 at the. stake ; and its waters had borne his ashes to 
 the sea. Centuries were as but years, but days. 
 To sorrow it lent no ear, and time rolled on 
 unnoted. 
 
 To the two silent figures, night spoke a lan 
 guage they understood. 
 
 103
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 IT was high noon. From the stern of an ocean 
 steamer, Tito looked across the smooth waters 
 of the harbor of Genoa, at the city, rising in a 
 gleaming semi-circle from the water s edge a vast 
 amphitheatre in white, decorated at its base by a 
 fringe of masts, from which the water in the inner 
 harbor seemed to hang, a curtain of blue that 
 merged with the green of the gulf. 
 
 The steamer was to touch at Naples, and from 
 that point was to proceed to New York. Coming 
 aboard early, Tito had seen and learned much. He 
 was in the steerage, and for the past four hours 
 he had been on the ship, long enough, however, 
 to get into an altercation with one of the passen 
 gers, to be twice ordered from the bow, which 
 was forbidden territory, and to designate a deck 
 hand, who had inconsiderately jostled him, as a 
 Neapolitan pig. This did not augur well for his 
 peace and comfort during the trip, but he refused 
 to seriously consider these little incidents, and he 
 leaned against the rail lost in contemplation of 
 the beauties of the receding shore. He would 
 arrive in New York nearly, if not quite, penniless; 
 but this seemed a matter too remote to consider. 
 Enough for him that the sky had never seemed so 
 
 104
 
 TITO 
 
 blue, and the sea was something new and enchant- 
 ingly beautiful the air sighing through the rig 
 ging in fitful little gusts, the water singing its lap 
 ping refrain at bow and stern. What propelled the 
 ship was a mystery yet to be solved; and he had 
 serious designs on the captain s bridge. Surmis 
 ing that this point of vantage was forbidden, he 
 would watch his opportunity; for rules, even on 
 shipboard, are made to be broken, and he deter 
 mined to tread the sacred boards of the captain s 
 perch. The punishment ! Pooh ! That was in 
 the future. 
 
 When the city had become but a white speck, 
 and the shore a broken line on the horizon, he 
 turned his attention to the passengers. They were 
 a picturesque crowd from the provinces of north 
 ern Italy, types of the peasant class, fantastically 
 attired, and many of them spoke a patois which 
 the boy could not understand. With the instinct 
 of the artist he noted the details of each face and 
 figure, and, as they stood huddled close together, 
 like a flock of sheep, he determined to sketch them. 
 He had procured in Florence paper and pencil, for 
 he, too, would draw, he would make pictures and, 
 when he returned to Florence, the master who had 
 spoken to him of art and of the soul, should see 
 them. 
 
 During the last few years of the old woman s 
 life she had been given to talking aloud, and her 
 fear that she would betray the secret of Tito s birth 
 prompted her to speak in the broken English 
 
 105
 
 TITO 
 
 which, during her visit to America, and in listen 
 ing to Vanburg as he taught Bettina his native 
 tongue, she had been able to acquire. With the 
 quick ear of childhood, and with the avidity of one 
 to whom knowledge is denied, he had learned a 
 fair amount of the language. 
 
 He listened to the few among the passengers 
 who could speak English fellow countrymen who 
 were returning to America after a visit to their 
 native land, and their words, together with their 
 facial expressions and wild gestures, carried under 
 standing to his mind. 
 
 Thus the time was occupied, and the drowsy 
 Mediterranean sighed as she slept, and lifted the 
 ship with gentle pulsations. The breezes sighed 
 ravishingly, and the sun beat down on the throng 
 lying at full length upon the deck, dreaming of the 
 land of beauty which they had left, and of the 
 wonderful land of promise and of gold to which 
 each turn of the screw brought them nearer. The 
 ship entered the bay which is without peer, and 
 they w r ere at Naples. Here, more countrymen 
 came aboard, and Tito liked them less. A Neapol 
 itan, even in his own country, is not regarded with 
 favor, for the quintessence of filth and poverty 
 does not tend to make a race of people that might 
 be termed idealistic. The beauty that nature, with 
 whimsical disregard of the law of equation, was 
 pleased to heap with startling profligacy under 
 the shadow of Vesuvius, as yet, apparently, had 
 not touched the populace. The lowest order, as a 
 
 106
 
 TITO 
 
 class, are not good to look upon, and a closer in 
 timacy is productive of less delight. As a rule, 
 however, the Italians of the poorer class are exam 
 ples of true gentleness, in comparison with those 
 of other and greater nations, notwithstanding the 
 ever ready stiletto. 
 
 "What is it that burns?" asked Tito of one of 
 the newly arrived, indicating the cap of smoke that 
 topped Vesuvius. 
 
 "That! That s hell burning." 
 
 The boy considered the answer frivolous. 
 
 "How dare you stray so far from home?" he 
 queried. His informant looked at him dubiously. 
 "You have been to America?" questioned Tito. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "It has not sharpened your wits. Of English 
 you know something a leetle, a very leetle, eh? 
 Talk to me in the language they speak in Amer 
 ica." 
 
 "You understand?" queried the other in Eng 
 lish. 
 
 "Yaas," the boy affirmed, unblushingly, then 
 continued : "While you talk, I will, with this pen 
 cil, make on paper a picture of your face, but 
 much better favored than your own; and as you 
 talk more, so will I add to your beauty on paper. 
 Understand?" (This is English.) 
 
 "What is thy picture to me? I could not buy a 
 plate of soup with it." 
 
 "The worth is not in your ugly face, but in my 
 drawing of it. 1 shall make of it what your Maker 
 
 107
 
 TITO 
 
 never intended something that your master, the 
 devil, would disown. Beauty is not with you. I 
 will add it. Hold your head to one side so the 
 light may not show its ugly lines. Now, talk to 
 me the best English you may know." 
 
 With a sure touch and a rapid hand Tito 
 sketched the dark visage of his subject, standing 
 by the ship s side, against a background of cloud 
 less sky to which the coining twilight lent a deeper 
 blue. His model regarded the boy with respect 
 and some degree of awe. 
 
 "There," said Tito, handing the rough sketch to 
 him, "could your mirror do as well for you, then 
 might you believe in the miracles. This I will give 
 you, and for it you shall talk English to me every 
 day till we come to America. Tell me now of this 
 New York. Is it like Florence or Genoa?" 
 
 "America is good for work," was the reply. 
 "New York is a great city, and rich! But to live? 
 Bah ! They know not how to live ! You must be 
 of the government, of the police, then everything 
 comes to you. What doest thou there, boy? 
 Thou wilt work, aye, there is much to do, but thou 
 must pay one-half thou wilt earn as a tribute." 
 
 "To whom?" demanded Tito with large-eyed 
 interest. 
 
 "To the police to whom else?" 
 
 "That will I not," answered the boy, stoutly. 
 "They shall feed me, and if it amuse me, I shall 
 draw their pictures as I drew yours. These pic 
 tures will not be true, but they will please them; 
 
 1 08
 
 TITO 
 
 and they shall know me as Little Devil/ for I love 
 them not. And with a princely wave of his hand, 
 he terminated his audience with his fellow coun 
 tryman, who, already, treated him with the con 
 sideration that his youthful arrogance demanded. 
 
 Gibraltar had become a memory. The coast of 
 Spain had died into a hazy mist that merged with 
 sky and sea, and the Atlantic welcomed the voy 
 agers with heaving bosom and threatening mien. 
 The wind blew, and huge waves boarded the ship 
 and swept the decks from bow to stern. The pas 
 sengers, all but one, were locked below, and, as 
 the gale increased, prayed and shrieked upon their 
 knees, and called upon the Madonna to intercede 
 with the High Power, to preserve them from the 
 storm s fury. I say all but one were locked below. 
 That one, by an ingenuity which called down upon 
 his fair head the wrath of the officers, had eluded 
 their vigilance; and only by the miraculous hand 
 of Providence had he escaped death. He had been 
 picked up unconscious, after having been dashed 
 against the ship s rail, and was conveyed to the 
 first cabin saloon. Here, in the presence of a 
 number of the passengers he opened his eyes, and, 
 with a patronizing smile, demanded how he came 
 to be so favored. His wet hair, clinging to his 
 fair forehead, enlisted the admiration of the pas 
 sengers, but the ship s officer was unmoved. 
 
 " Little Devil, how did you come to be on 
 deck?" the officer demanded. 
 
 Tito smiled sweetly. He ignored the question 
 
 109
 
 TITO 
 
 and asked calmly, "How comes it that thou 
 shouldst call me by my name? I had not told 
 thee." 
 
 "Answer me!" A subordinate would have 
 quailed before the officer s tone. 
 
 Tito, undisturbed, chuckled gleefully. He did 
 not underestimate the look of interest and of ad 
 miration on the faces of the spectators. "You can 
 guess my name, then shouldst thou know that I 
 was on deck to see that everything was right 
 Thou mayest have observed that there is a storm 
 without and much wind, and the ship s boats are 
 loose on their davits. Look to it, that they are 
 made fast. Wouldst thou have me tell thee more ? 
 If it pleases thee, I will return to the hole below. 
 There will I teach the cattle to pray more loudly. 
 The Madonna cannot hear with the storm." 
 
 "You little fiend, I will report you to the cap 
 tain." 
 
 "I can save thee that trouble. When the wind 
 dies, I shall go on to the bridge. I think it will 
 please me." 
 
 "What is your name?" This from a sympa 
 thetic passenger. 
 
 "Does not my face tell thee? Angioletto Tito, 
 for short. If neither name pleases thee, ask him of 
 the gold braid and brassy tongue. It clangs like 
 a bell that the sheep wear. He had wit enough 
 to guess truly Little Devil. Now shall I go. I 
 can hear them praying even here. I would join 
 them." 
 
 no
 
 TITO 
 
 The intervention of the passengers appeased the 
 officer s wrath, and Tito was led away to the steer 
 age, his laugh, which the roar of the storm could 
 not wholly drown, dying into a musical echo. 
 
 The storm spent its force and died into fretful 
 complaining, and the wind and the sea agreed that 
 calm should reign. The sun, with a mighty effort, 
 dissolved the gloom; and those below, assured that 
 life was yet for them, crept sheepishly to the deck, 
 and forgot the danger that had awakened their 
 lusty religious fervor. From a night of storm and 
 prayer they turned to the joy of basking in the 
 warm sun ; and as far as their purses and the rules 
 of the ship would admit, celebrated their deliver 
 ance in man) - and devious ways mostly with a 
 double allowance of Italian wine. 
 
 But all was not pleasure for Tito. In the quiet 
 of the night, when the mid-ocean stillness held 
 sway, and the spell of limitless space was upon 
 him, he stood by the rail in a secluded spot, watch 
 ing the moonbeams dance on the water. At these 
 moments he thought long and seriously of the 
 land he was nearing, and the life before him that 
 would make or mar his future. With all his scof 
 fing disregard for the material side of life, he real 
 ized that his prospects were by no means bright. 
 Exuberance of spirit and perfect health were much, 
 but he did not lose sight of what he was to face, of 
 what he was to overcome alone, almost penniless, 
 his only stock in trade indomitable pluck, and a 
 determination to overcome all obstacles in the mis- 
 
 ITI
 
 TITO 
 
 sion before him, for the fact that he had a purpose 
 in life to find his father was fixed and unalter 
 able. What steps he should take to that end, he 
 had never considered. Opportunity would guide 
 him the result, should he be successful, he had 
 never questioned. Fate had willed to him a mis 
 sion, terrible in its working out, and horrible in its 
 fixity of purpose, this he would accomplish. 
 
 He was now of an age when his reason should 
 hav^e called a halt; when possible consequences, 
 should his quest for his father be successful, would 
 entail punishment that should turn him from his 
 purpose; but no thought for himself or his safety 
 crossed his mind. The old woman had sown the 
 seed of hate and revenge deep and well. But one 
 idea had taken possession of him ; and that, should 
 he succeed, meant to him the end of all. 
 
 He had been softly chanting one of the songs of 
 his boyhood ; then, for some moments, he watched 
 the moonbeams dance across the pathway of light, 
 while the water on the side of the vessel kept time 
 to the throb of the wheel. The hours went by. 
 Below they slept; and the whispering of the sea 
 was the only sound that disturbed his thoughts. 
 In memory he was wandering again through the 
 woods and the green fields of his own Tuscany. 
 He felt the cool of the water as, sitting on the bank 
 of the Arno, he dangled his bare feet in the stream, 
 and listened to the birds and the bees with a thrill 
 of delight. He fought again his childish battles, and 
 his nerves, even then, tingled with the shame that 
 
 112
 
 TITO 
 
 had been heaped upon him. The old woman s 
 rasping tones rang in his ears, and the splash of 
 the water on the prow of the ship seemed an echo 
 of her voice. Remember thy oath, my Tito. 
 Thou wilt not forget what they call thee, Piccolo 
 d Ignotif Thou wilt not forget? I, too, shall 
 go to America, and see him when his own son 
 has struck him, aye, even to death." And her 
 laugh seemed to come from the depths of the 
 funnels of the ship, and was lost in despairing ca 
 dences in the rigging above. "Thou shalt know, 
 my Tito/ continued the voice in his ears, "thou 
 shalt know when the time comes: but not now, 
 not now." The sighing breezes picked up the 
 ghostly refrain and bore it seaward. "He is rich," 
 came the voice again, "as rich as a noble; and he 
 would disown thee, my Tito. Is thy blood of 
 water? Remember thy mother! I hated him, not 
 less than he hated me. And thou hast his accursed 
 fair skin. Could I flay it from thee, boy, would I 
 not do it? But by it he shall know thee when thou 
 shalt stand before him. Ha, ha, ha." 
 
 Was it the voice of a siren that seemed to laugh 
 in his ears, or was it a memory that would not die? 
 His blood ran cold, for the sound seemed to come 
 from the sea, and the old woman s uncanny fea 
 tures rose from the shadow cast by the hull of the 
 steamer, the sunken eyes glowing in their watery 
 sockets. The sight and the sound froze his blood, 
 and the watchman s call roused him from his 
 lethargy of fear.
 
 TITO 
 
 Again the voice: "Thou wilt look for him 
 among the rich, my Tito, by the great park, for I 
 have followed him to his very door. Did he think 
 he could hide from me? Ha, ha, and we were so 
 happy, we two, so happy." 
 
 The moon sank slowly and dipped into the sea, 
 and darkness fell quickly over the watery course. 
 With a sigh the boy went below, and the wind 
 whispered softly through the rigging. 
 
 114
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 TEN years had passed, and time had not dealt 
 lightly with Vanburg. His hair was touched 
 with silver, and each succeeding year had 
 added a wrinkle or line to his face, which was 
 prematurely aged. He was not the Vanburg 
 whom we have known nearly every feature 
 seemed to have undergone a change, and only his 
 eyes, and his fine physique, told that the wreck 
 was not yet complete. Dissipation had attacked 
 his body, but his mind, speaking through his eyes, 
 proclaimed that it had withstood the ravages of 
 the wasted years. His face had assumed a gross- 
 ness that had changed his features into such that 
 his friends would, with difficulty, have recognized. 
 He wore a full, croppy beard which completely 
 disguised his chin and mouth, and to former ac 
 quaintances, should they not hear his voice, he 
 would have passed as a stranger. But apart from 
 an added fulness, his voice was that of Vanburg 
 the clubman, the banker, the aristocrat. When 
 not under the influence of drink, his eyes laughed 
 with the same engaging frankness, and his smile 
 was as a remembrance, a glimmer of his old self, 
 a flashlight through a past that was a living night 
 mare, for he had lived through years of unspeak 
 able torment.
 
 TITO 
 
 After Vanburg s rupture with his father and his 
 resignation from his club, his social world saw him 
 no more. He could have withstood his father s 
 taunts because of his marriage, but his honesty had 
 been questioned, his honor assailed, and he re 
 nounced his social world and all past associations. 
 For him there was no intermediate course and he 
 flung himself madly into a whirl of excesses. The 
 nature of the ordinary man, under a charge as 
 unjust and unfounded as Vanburg had faced, 
 would have become embittered, but after the first 
 sting had passed his old time smile returned. But 
 his laugh betrayed the cynicism of one who has 
 lost faith in humankind. 
 
 The principal and income from property in his 
 own name lasted but two years ; what was left was 
 interest, payable monthly, from a fund beyond his 
 control. When he reached the end of his 
 private fortune he drifted about the country 
 from town to city, until, at last, he returned 
 to New York, where he lived, while his monthly 
 income lasted, in the oblivion of drink. After he 
 had broken off his social and family ties, there had 
 been no gradual descent, for he had plunged to 
 the bottom, to the lowest stratum of dissipation. 
 
 Yet through it all, underneath the veneer, the 
 outward semblance of the man, lost to all sense of 
 pride, even of decency, there still remained the 
 sunny disposition, the considerate gentleness, the 
 cool reserve, the lion-heartedness of the Horace 
 Vanburg that had made him, in the eyes of the 
 dead Bettina, a god. Even those with whom he 
 
 116
 
 TITO 
 
 daily fraternized, men whose mental capacity and 
 feelings were as those of beasts paid him the 
 tribute of respect that unquestioned integrity and 
 undoubted courage commanded. Instinct taught 
 them that he was not of their kind, and his easy 
 familiarity had never entirely broken down the 
 social barriers which they were discerning enough 
 to realize existed. 
 
 It was late afternoon and the warmth of an 
 April day was still in the air ; the sun s rays leaped 
 over the towering buildings and danced on the 
 water of the East River to the Brooklyn side. 
 Down-town the activity of the day was merging 
 into the quiet of early evening. A dark, turbulent 
 stream of humanity was moving in mighty pro 
 cession across the bridge, and at the entrance of 
 the East River ferries, human vortexes converged. 
 
 Vanburg, in the garb of a longshoreman, had 
 just stepped from one of the wharves and, accom 
 panied by McGlennon, walked up South Street. 
 Entering a saloon, they took seats at one of the 
 tables, and ordered refreshments. 
 
 "Mack," said Vanburg, jocularly, "let us make 
 an accounting of our assets. You are, to my best 
 knowledge and belief, broke." 
 
 "Right you are," replied McGlennon, "and 
 Saturday s three days off." 
 
 "True," said Vanburg. "To me the gods have 
 been most kind, for I boast of two whole Ameri 
 can dollars in silver. These, my friend, repre 
 sent my measure of ability for lifting boxes onto 
 a truck, and pushing them from the deck of the 
 
 117
 
 TITO 
 
 steamer to the wharf. That is a profession which 
 you were good enough to teach me. Gratitude 
 prompts me to tender you one-half my capital 
 as a loan." 
 
 His companion laughed. "I ll not refuse; but 
 you" 
 
 "But I? You forget that to-morrow I revel in 
 the princely sum of fifty dollars a monthly pit 
 tance I am not above accepting. That means un 
 licensed luxury for four whole days, the where 
 withal to woo forgetfulness and " 
 
 "Twenty-six days of hell," interrupted his com 
 panion. 
 
 "No, not quite that simply days of pushing 
 boxes, when we have work, and the inclination to 
 do it." 
 
 "Kent, you re a fool." 
 
 "My dear McGlennon, you have told me that 
 often. Time, I trust, will change your views and 
 furnish you with a more elegant appellation 
 human ingenuity could not invent a truer one. 
 On a painfully limited capital you will observe, we 
 are paying ten cents for what can be had at 
 Death House Joe s for five. When I cannot enjoy 
 the best, experience has taught me that the next 
 best is the worst. Joe s is superlatively bad its 
 effect quick and lasting." 
 
 McGlennon laughed. He looked not a day 
 older than when he had shaken Vanburg s hand 
 upon his first visit to his home in company with 
 Madge Hollander and her brother. He had seen 
 much of Vanburg during: the past two years, but 
 
 118
 
 TITO 
 
 neither referred to the time when they were both 
 men and gentlemen. They met daily, for there 
 was much in common in their lives; but the older 
 man still had the tie of his daughter s love to bind 
 him to a life of indifferent respectability, while 
 Vanburg had long since abandoned all restraining 
 influence. A further bond of comradeship was the 
 knowledge, which each possessed, that the other 
 was of gentle birth ; for both had been educated to 
 a degree that fitted them for any social plane they 
 might have chosen. Only at intervals did either 
 man refer to his past life Vanburg but seldom, 
 and then in a spirit of jocundity; the other, in 
 serious moments involuntarily suggesting the 
 thought that regret was yet keenly alive. 
 
 They walked slowly, laughing at their experi 
 ences of the day, Vanburg, with evident enjoy 
 ment, relating the methods by which, because of 
 his inexperience, he had been forced to shoulder a 
 double burden of the hardest work. Entering a 
 resort on the East Side near the Bowery they 
 seated themselves at one of the tables. 
 
 In addition to regular customers who were com 
 ing and going, there were six or eight loungers 
 standing about the place waiting an invitation to 
 drink, a possibility sufficiently remote to cause 
 them to watch closely those who incautiously dis 
 played any amount of money. Their faces bore 
 but slight resemblance to those of human beings; 
 and their vicious tendencies, controlled only by a 
 wholesome fear of the law, at times turned them 
 into human brutes. Their shifting glances wan- 
 
 119
 
 TITO 
 
 dered about the room, and, as Vanbitrg and his 
 companion entered, a hush followed. Being well 
 known, both men were treated with a respect born 
 of fear. 
 
 In the rear of the room one of the patrons, the 
 most villainous looking of the gang, indicating 
 Vanburg with a nod of his head, addressed the 
 loungers near him. 
 
 "Yer shud a seen m th other night! Micky de 
 Pinch was getting in his work on a guy wid a 
 load. Micky had his hand in de bloke s pocket an 
 had connected wid de roll. He wus a drawin it 
 as slick as yer hand sheds a silk glove, when his 
 giblets over there gits on. Well, what does he do 
 but jest grabs Micky by the nap of th neck, and 
 he didn t do a t ing but slam him against th per- 
 tition, an then laid de Pinch flat on is back. Say ! 
 It jest made de fountain start in me glimmers ter 
 see Micky drop de roll. Now yer know de Pinch 
 can do a good five-minute turn wid is fists, an I 
 t ought there wus somethin a comin ter his 
 Jokers over there. Well, Micky looked im over, 
 an pon me word! would yer believe it! out 
 Micky walks. Nary a word. Two months afore 
 de Pinch was goin tru an Easy Thing when his 
 giblets takes th long green from Micky an gives 
 it back to de find. Micky couldn t open his 
 blinkers fer two days. Oh, he s a peach ! He s 
 de real t ing, he is ! 
 
 The two men, meantime, had drunk deeply, and 
 their good nature expanded. They talked of 
 
 120
 
 TITO 
 
 their varying experiences, and of times when good 
 fortune had seemed to pass them, without even an 
 indication that it would ever return. McGlennon, 
 contrary to his usual custom, was in a reminiscent 
 mood, and for the first time during their intimacy, 
 which dated back two years, spoke of his past life. 
 Vanburg listened to the man, who, under the influ 
 ence of drink, referred to times the memory of 
 which lent refinement to his language and the 
 tones of his voice, even elegance of manner and 
 diction, in striking contrast with his present ap 
 pearance and surroundings. He knew Vanburg 
 only as one whom chance had thrown in his way, 
 and in whom he recognized a kindred spirit ; for 
 Vanburg had never enlightened him of the visit to 
 his home. 
 
 "It was after my marriage," McGlennon was 
 saying, "that life at home became unbearable. I 
 was the elder of two brothers; the estate was not 
 entailed I was cut off with the proverbial shilling. 
 I was told that J could contest the will: more, I 
 was assured by the best legal authority in Scot 
 land that I could break it, but I would not consent 
 to the attempt being made. Then I was left alone 
 with my little girl we came to America. There 
 is nothing left to tell. I joined company with 
 drink, and," he laughed, "I have never deserted 
 the jade except when I hadn t the price to woo 
 her." 
 
 "The jade has used you kindly," said Vanburg, 
 "you appear not a day older that when I first met 
 you." 
 
 121
 
 TITO 
 
 "Two years ago this month. You asked me to 
 take a drink. I remember it well, for I needed it." 
 
 "And that is what you recall as our first meet- 
 ing?" 
 
 "Yes," answered McGlennon. 
 
 Vanburg smiled. "Go back nine years," he 
 said, "you lived in Shadow Alley." 
 
 "Yes," the other answered. 
 
 "And your daughter was then about eight years 
 old, frail, and pretty Bill you called her." 
 
 McGlennon looked surprised. He did not an 
 swer, but listened expectantly. 
 
 "You remember one day when, having drunk 
 more than was good for you, you returned home 
 to find a lady and two gentlemen in the house?" 
 
 "Yes," said McGlennon eagerly, "yes, and one 
 of the gentlemen offered me money." 
 
 "And you were foolish enough not to accept it," 
 laughed Vanburg. 
 
 "No, I would do the same to-day; but how do 
 you know all this ? Who told you ?" 
 
 Vanburg laughed. "You said when you refused 
 the money that you wanted to meet the man again. 
 Tell me why?" 
 
 "Though I don t know how you came by the 
 information, I ll tell you. I had a feeling, some 
 how, I don t know why, that the young fellow was 
 wild, and I wanted to talk to him, to warn him. 
 You see I knew where drink could land a man. 
 Look about you," he laughed, "here we are ! Well, 
 I took a liking to the young fellow but never saw 
 him again." 
 
 122
 
 TITO 
 
 "Would you know him if you should see him?" 
 asked Vanburg. 
 
 "Yes, he was of your build, with a smooth face, 
 but a fine looking young man." 
 
 Vanburg smiled but did not reply. He knew 
 Madge Hollander still visited McGlennon s home 
 and, if no other reason existed, that one fact was 
 sufficient to decide him to keep his identity a secret. 
 Nine years had elapsed from the time of their first 
 encounter until the two men again met ; and Van 
 burg had remained silent as to his former friends, 
 guarding such information as would disclose his 
 identity. 
 
 The evening was well advanced before they left 
 the place and, turning into the Bowery, pro 
 ceeded uptown. They walked erect, and it was 
 only by an excess of good nature, a loquacious 
 tendency, that their condition would suggest that 
 they were not entirely sober. 
 
 They came to Madison Square, and crossing 
 there, turned up Fifth Avenue. Vanburg was 
 seldom drawn to this former familiar locality, but 
 a longing to again visit old-time scenes came over 
 him with a force he could not resist. They had 
 gone on without remark as to their destination, 
 for neither of the men had an intention of going 
 home. Often when Vanburg s funds were low, 
 and he had to choose between a bed or spending 
 his last few cents for a drink, he accepted the latter 
 alternative; for walking the streets through the 
 long night gave him no uneasiness. When the 
 weather made these voluntary vigils irksome, he 
 
 123
 
 TITO 
 
 had recourse to the rear rooms of the saloons in the 
 worst section of the city, where, in the company 
 of thugs and thieves of the lowest cast, he spent 
 the hours until morning, wringing human philoso 
 phy from lives of squalor and vice. Imperturbable 
 and uncomplaining, he did not fail to grasp the 
 humorous side of such existence; and their stolid 
 indifference to hardship and ill-luck he viewed with 
 something akin to respect. He was always con 
 scious that his lot in life was of his own making 
 the result of his own acts, and he was satisfied to 
 take what came to him, and smile at the worst. 
 Looked upon with some degree of wonder by 
 those who had the capacity to study him and made 
 the effort, he balked their curiosity, their desire, 
 to know who and what he was, for his smile, his 
 mask-like expression, and a temper which no one, 
 under any circumstances, had ever seen disturbed, 
 baffled even those whose profession it was to read 
 human faces and human weaknesses. His pres 
 ence was a surety for good order and fair dealing, 
 and an angry flash from his eyes rarely seen 
 spoke a language which those who knew him un 
 derstood and respected. His word went unques 
 tioned, and among those who had reason to fear 
 the law. carried with it a weight that any judge 
 might envy. 
 
 Walking leisurely up the avenue, the two men 
 paused before a brilliantly lighted building. The 
 uncontrollable desire to visit scenes of old asso 
 ciations, which in the human race, from king to 
 criminal, is irresistible, had led Vanburg before 
 
 124
 
 TITO 
 
 the very door he had often entered into the very 
 shadow of the building, in the rooms of which he 
 had once been the equal of any man who crossed 
 the threshold. 
 
 "There," said Vanburg, indicating the club 
 house with a movement of his head "there, the 
 man who came to your house once was an hon 
 ored member. I knew him well better perhaps, 
 than any living being. It seems but yesterday 
 that he, too, mounted those very steps, as those 
 whom we now see are entering. There he had 
 the same desires, and, at one time, the same ambi 
 tions that they now feel, until Fate interfered with 
 his plan of life, and he surrendered,. without even 
 an effort, to influences which blotted out every 
 semblance of his birthright." 
 
 "You knew him well," said his companion, 
 "then you were of his class of his life?" 
 
 "Yes, I knew him as no other knew him. I 
 know him as no other can or will. You saw him 
 once, but even then he was wandering on the 
 brink of the confines, in whose depths he has found 
 a living hell." 
 
 A canvas canopy had been raised from the street 
 curb to the entrance, before which carriages 
 stopped, and the occupants many of them ladies, 
 alighted and entered the building. From where 
 the men were standing, they could see the faces 
 of those who passed into the brilliantly lighted ves 
 tibule. 
 
 "Ladies night," said Vanburg, "a public re- 
 
 125
 
 TITO 
 
 ception." Grasping the arm of his companion, he 
 said earnestly: 
 
 "Yon recognize that lady who is just going in 
 with the tall gentleman?" 
 
 McGlennon looked eagerly. "Yes," he said, "it 
 is the one who comes to see Bill, my daughter, and 
 once the gentleman you speak of came with her 
 he who offered me the money. What of him ?" 
 
 "He is dead," replied Vanburg, "to all intents 
 and purposes, dead. Yet he lives, if you can call it 
 living, for his hope in life is blotted out, and noth 
 ing remains but an existence that is a torment. 
 He was married, and his wife " he caught his 
 breath sharply and his voice was husky as he con 
 tinued "enough that he loved her as woman was 
 never loved, and he looked forward to the birth of 
 his child my God! He dreamed of holding it in 
 his arms, of listening to its voice, as a fulfilment of 
 all that Heaven could give. But Fate, with a two- 
 edged sword, must strike the child was born 
 dead, and its mother gave her life at its birth. He 
 had his struggle, but the future, for him, was a 
 blank in a night, hope and ambition withered, 
 and he surrendered to influences which he made 
 no effort to combat. With wife and child gone, 
 nothing remained ; and now, now he is waiting 
 the pleasure of the executioner. He, the yellow 
 devil, toys with him, giving him moments of mad 
 delirium, forgetfulness, that the mental torture 
 may be the more exquisite. Pity is not for him, 
 my friend, for he is not worthy. None know that 
 better than he. If the child had only lived " 
 
 126
 
 TITO 
 
 The words seemed to die on his lips, and silence 
 followed. McGlennon was about to speak. 
 
 "Come," interrupted Vanburg, "Death House 
 Joe cures all diseases of the mind, and we have a 
 dollar left. That, my friend, means a night of ob 
 livion and " 
 
 "And to-morrow 
 
 "To-morrow shall be considered when it comes. 
 It would be an impertinence to anticipate it." 
 
 Silently they went back as they had come. 
 
 127
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 TITO S arrival in New York had been marked 
 by events which, in one so young, one of a 
 sensitive, imaginative disposition, made an 
 impression not easily forgotten or erased. With 
 little or no knowledge of English, no friends, and 
 only such acquaintances as he had made on ship 
 board, the prospect before him was not alluring, 
 and to one less self-reliant it would have been dis 
 heartening. He was met on all sides by a disdain 
 ful lack of interest. No one seemed to know or 
 care who he was, whence he had come, whither he 
 was going; if he had a purpose or a mission in life, 
 that was his own affair, and no one appeared con 
 cerned in him, or took cognizance of the fact that 
 he existed. His last penny gone, he looked the 
 world in the face, and demanded of it the living 
 that it owed him; but none heard, or if one did, 
 no one took the trouble to heed. Then he 
 laughed. It was the old mirthful, ringing, youth 
 ful laugh with just a shade of the world s bitter 
 ness which is not good to hear from one so 
 young. 
 
 But he was learning that the world does not 
 consider those who have nothing with which to 
 woo its favor: he was receiving his first lesson in 
 the great school of experience, whose post-gradu- 
 
 128
 
 TITO 
 
 ates have left their whitened bones scattered on the 
 highway of life. Then he grew disdainful. He 
 had no marked fondness for an empty stomach, 
 and it had become a chronic complaint; a bed, all 
 too soon, became an almost forgotten luxury ; his 
 clothing was shabby, even ragged, and his toes 
 peeped through his well worn shoes. Watching 
 the boys of his own age selling papers on the 
 street, regarding them, meanwhile, with unwhole 
 some scorn, he \vondered if he, too, would be 
 crying the news. They amused him, and, laugh 
 ing riotously, in broken English he loftily de 
 manded of one his bundle of papers, that he might 
 sell them for him, incidentally assuring the sur 
 prised urchin that he would teach him the art of 
 his trade. The young news vender, partly 
 through jest, mostly in obedience to the haughty 
 demand, surrendered his wares to the arrogant 
 stranger taking care to keep the boastful Tito 
 within arm s reach, should he have designs on his 
 stock in trade and the patronizing tones of the 
 newcomer s voice changed to one of confident se 
 ductiveness. 
 
 "Paper, sir?" His voice rose in a musical 
 cadence, supplemented by a few bars of a popular 
 song, while his eyes laughed with mischievous glee, 
 and his smiling countenance, with a fair beauty 
 that was magnetic in its confiding candor, drew a 
 second look, an answering smile, and the papers 
 went as fast as he could hand them to eager pur 
 chasers. The boy condescendingly smiled upon 
 his customers, and they departed well pleased, for 
 
 129
 
 TITO 
 
 all the world is irresistibly drawn to those who woo 
 it with a laugh. 
 
 The last paper gone, he turned the money over 
 to its owner, scornfully refusing to divide the prof 
 its; then, with head high, sauntered off humming 
 the tune with which he had coaxed the pennies 
 from the admiring crowd. Though he scorned to 
 take his share of the profits, he was hungry, and, 
 with a confident stride, entered a restaurant in the 
 Italian settlement near Bleecker Street, on the 
 West Side. There were fifty or more of his own 
 countrymen in the room, and he looked around 
 with an air which said plainly that, if they duly 
 appreciated the good fortune that was theirs, he 
 might consider them worthy of his distinguished 
 company. 
 
 "I would eat," he said blandly to the proprietor, 
 "for which I will singf." 
 
 "You may eat," replied that prosaic individual, 
 "but you will pay." 
 
 He regarded Tito with a doubting eye. He re 
 ceived in return a condescending stare. 
 
 "If I sing not well, then will I not eat aye, even 
 though thou give it me." 
 
 "I like your nerve, boy; sing on!" 
 
 Tito smiled. He knew, in the glance with which 
 he swept the room, by the faces before him, to 
 whom he was to sing to a man they were of the 
 Italian peasant class, and he sang a folk-song dear 
 to the hearts of his countrymen sang it with 
 pathos, expression, and in tones of marvelous pur 
 ity. When he began, the clatter of tongues and 
 
 130
 
 TITO 
 
 of dishes ceased, and he ended in a silence that was 
 a tribute to his art. There followed a demonstra 
 tion that an artist might envy; but Tito smiled 
 condescendingly and addressed the proprietor, 
 who stood nodding his approval. 
 
 "Do I eat?" queried Tito, with a merry twinkle 
 in his eyes. 
 
 "Yes, and well, with wine." 
 
 But a dinner was not all, for a handful of coin 
 was placed before him, assuring a week of good 
 living. 
 
 He rarely resorted to this method of earning 
 money only when his last penny was gone, and 
 then more from a feeling of boyish bravado than 
 for the money he invariably received. He had not 
 lost sight of the object of his coming, and many a 
 night, when without food, and compelled to walk 
 the streets or sit in one of the parks, he remem 
 bered him whom he sought; the hardships which 
 he himself endured kept alive the flame of hate. 
 The clays and the nights bred within him feelings 
 that rankled in his heart, filling him with an over 
 powering desire to find the father who was the 
 cause of his ill-spent youth; for contact with the 
 world had awakened him to the fact that, so far, 
 his life had been wasted. But the sunny disposi 
 tion, the light-heartedness, the buoyancy of youth 
 could not be crushed, and through good or bad 
 fortune, foul or fair weather, he refused to view 
 life except through the rose-tinted lens of youth, 
 and he laughed at the ill luck that seemed to pur 
 sue him, accepting as his right such good fortune
 
 TITO 
 
 as came his way. Tito was endowed with an un 
 derstanding of men and things that, in one so 
 young, one who had received no education, whose 
 moral and mental training had been left for chance 
 to direct, was remarkable, almost supernatural. 
 Pie was a keen observer, suspicious of imposition, 
 chary of bestowing confidence, yet heroic in his. 
 ideal of right, and with a romantic standard of the 
 sacredness of friendship which was founded on 
 justice that was inborn. 
 
 The second month after his arrival, his finer in 
 stincts, and his ignorance of the ways of the police, 
 the uncrowned kings of the Metropolis, nearly got 
 him into serious difficulty. Sitting in Washington 
 Park in the early evening, he was sketching some 
 of the human wrecks sitting on the benches. Op 
 posite him was an old man with a face blanched, 
 wrinkled, emaciated, and hair whose whiteness 
 should have been his shield against abuse. Tito 
 had just completed his sketch of the forlorn crea 
 ture, when an officer, observing that the old man 
 nodded in sleep, first striking him on the feet with 
 his club, grasped him by the collar and sent him 
 reeling along the walk with such force that he fell 
 to the pavement, where he lay stunned and bleed 
 ing, unable to rise. 
 
 On the instant the boy rushed forward, his eyes 
 blazing, his face scarlet, all the fierceness of his 
 nature roused by the inhuman act. Forgetting 
 that he was not in Italy, where age is respected, 
 where the police are the servants of the people, 
 with clenched hands he was ready to champion the 
 
 132
 
 TITO 
 
 cause of the old man. He did not stop to consider 
 his own safety, or the consequence of his interfer 
 ence, and, with eyes that shot gleams of fire, stood 
 before the officer, the Tito of the valley of the 
 Arno. 
 
 "You beast !" he cried, "to misuse the old man. 
 Were I big enough, I would beat you with your 
 own club." 
 
 For an instant the officer was so surprised he 
 could not find voice, and he scowled angrily at 
 the daring Tito. He was, however, but momenta 
 rily disconcerted, and he swooped down upon the 
 boy. With his hand on Tito s collar, he rewarded 
 him with a shaking such as he had never received 
 the officer s choice vocabulary being taxed to 
 furnish names sufficiently vituperative to meet the 
 exigency of the case. In short, the warm-hearted 
 Tito was under arrest, and, after a night spent in 
 a cell, was asked by the magistrate what defense 
 he had to offer to the two charges alleged a 
 breach of the peace and interfering with an officer. 
 
 The boy s eyes flashed. His first experience 
 with the arm of the law, or the impressions so far 
 made upon him of its majesty, filled him with un 
 wholesome disdain, so pronounced as to augur ill 
 for his escaping severe punishment. With impas 
 sioned fervor, he related in broken English, and 
 the purest of Italian, when the vernacular failed 
 him, the story of the officer s assault upon the old 
 man. His voice rang clear, and his tones carried 
 conviction to the justice on the bench, who, be 
 lieving the boy, and realizing that his advent in 
 
 133
 
 TITO 
 
 America had been of recent date, was so far lenient 
 as to allow him to give his version of the affair in 
 his own way. A New Yorker would not have 
 dared to assume the tone in which Tito stated his 
 case. The spectators listened, well pleased, de 
 lighted at the boy s audacity, though fearful that 
 he would receive double punishment for his 
 freedom of speech. 
 
 "See!" concluded Tito, drawing from his pocket 
 the sketch which was passed to the judge, "there 
 is the picture of the old man. I drew it as he sat 
 on the bench, as poor as I and I had not a penny 
 not even one ; as hungry as I, and no food had I 
 that day; yet was I happy, with no complaints 
 for am I not young ? While he couldst thou, Mr. 
 Judge, see him as I saw him, beaten by that " 
 He turned fiercely to the complaining officer. 
 
 "Enough !" spoke the court, "discharged ! Boy, 
 come here." 
 
 Tito, with a glance of triumph at the officer, ap 
 proached. 
 
 "You drew this it is your work?" asked the 
 judge, holding up the sketch. 
 
 "Yes, sir," answered Tito, respect in his tone 
 his idea of American justice had grown rapidly 
 "I drew it." 
 
 "It is well done. You will do more of this. Be 
 a good boy, and remember you are not in Italy." 
 
 Tito walked from the room with the stately 
 stride of an ambassador. 
 
 He did not underestimate the good fortune of 
 his escape, and though his encounters were many 
 
 134
 
 TITO 
 
 his arrogant independence and quick temper 
 constantly getting him into trouble the magic of 
 his ready tongue and fair beauty seemed invariably 
 to turn his encounters to his advantage, and the 
 feeling grew that, somehow, by some occult power 
 he was conquering the world. 
 
 But in the night stillness, sitting in one of the 
 parks, he brooded over his loneliness, his solitary 
 existence, his present life, which, young as he was, 
 he realized was slipping by, with no ambition 
 other than the consummation of a boyish dream of 
 revenge ; and there were times when, had he been 
 thrown in the way of redeeming influence, he 
 would have surrendered body and soul to his nat 
 ural instincts for good. But at such moments his 
 mind, by a process that was as the ebb and flow of 
 the tide, drifted back to the days of his childhood, 
 and the blood mounted to his cheeks at the remem 
 brance of the words of insult, the anathema of deg 
 radation that had been his ; ringing in his. ears 
 a far away echo of the land he loved. The breezes 
 whispered to him, stirring his memory to activity, 
 recalling the fragrant woods, the smiling fields, 
 the turbulent, dancing Arno ; and he sighed for the 
 joys that had gone golden flashes of a past to 
 which time only lent a brighter hue. Then the 
 old woman s features interposed, fierce, vindictive, 
 uncanny in their ghostly outline against the black 
 ness of the night. He shuddered at the memory of 
 her voice, cold, rasping, freighted with malign 
 hate : her words yet ringing in his ears as if it were 
 but yesterday that he had listened. 
 
 135
 
 TITO 
 
 "Thou hast his accursed fair skin, my Tito but 
 by it shall he know thee. We were so happy, 
 we two I and my beloved B ." 
 
 "Bettina," murmured the boy softly, "my 
 mother ! I shall keep my vow." Taking the pict 
 ure from his pocket he kissed it reverently. 
 
 136
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 TIME had fulfilled the promise of Madge Hol 
 lander s girlhood, and her beauty was fuller, 
 more mature than when we last saw her at 
 the home of the McGlennons. A trifle more 
 stately, with an added air of sedateness this was 
 all that marked the years that had gone, for her 
 smile was as frank, her eyes as fearless as when we 
 first knew her. At times you could see the vivac 
 ity of youth merge into an almost matronly seri 
 ousness. She had seen much of the world in the 
 past ten years, much that had appealed to emo 
 tions other than self-indulgence, much that had 
 awakened in her feelings almost of contempt for 
 the weakness of human nature and the hypocrisy 
 of a world she had long since learned to despise. 
 
 She had not met Vanburg for many years, but 
 though she seldom spoke of him, she had not for 
 gotten the friendship of their youth. She knew, 
 as did all his former friends and acquaintances, that 
 he was socially dead; but her faith in him was the 
 faith of her girlhood, her hope lived on in the 
 belief that he would yet be turned from the life he 
 had chosen. 
 
 The club-room was crowded with a representa 
 tive New York gathering : men of wealth, of note, 
 of national reputation men whose names were 
 
 137
 
 TITO 
 
 enrolled in the financial history of the country; 
 women celebrated on two continents for their 
 beauty, their brilliancy. 
 
 Madge and her brother, with others, were 
 standing before a frame in which were the pictures 
 of past members of the club, Vanburg s among 
 the number. His name was mentioned, and Madge 
 looked quickly at the speaker, the blood mounting 
 to her cheeks. 
 
 "Yes," he was saying, "Vannie is irredeemably 
 lost, in every social sense, and for all purposes, 
 though I hear that he is living somewhere in 
 town." 
 
 "It were better that he were dead," another re 
 plied, "when one reaches his level there is nothing 
 left" 
 
 It was not the words so much as the tone of 
 voice that made the blood tingle in Madge s veins. 
 Those who were now condemning him were once 
 Vanburg s closest friends. They had enjoyed his 
 confidence, his hospitality; his trust in them had 
 been complete, and, as Madge listened, she felt the 
 sting that ingratitude had the power to arouse, 
 for she contrasted their remarks with what Van- 
 burg would have been prompted to say had his 
 position and that of the speakers been reversed. 
 She was aroused to a feeling of indignation, and, 
 as she replied, her eyes, more than her words, told 
 that she was moved in no small degree. 
 
 "You wrong Mr. Vanburg," she said with 
 warmth, "doubly so as he is not here, or in a po 
 sition to defend himself. How can you judge of 
 
 138
 
 TITO 
 
 the causes that led to his downfall ? How can you 
 say, with truth, that he will never again take the 
 position in society that he should occupy? I do 
 not know what led to Mr. Vanburg s fall, but I 
 am satisfied that there was some cause, some 
 misfortune, the knowledge of which would 
 prompt us to speak of him with greater kind 
 ness. He was one who would not yield to 
 temptation simply for the enjoyment of irrational 
 excesses ; but," she turned to the last speaker, "do 
 you think it charitable to speak thus scoffingly of 
 him? My knowledge of the world is not pro 
 found, but observation has taught me that men 
 can be most unkind, most unjust. How many 
 men, think you, who maintain the outward sem 
 blance of marked respectability, could, should 
 their social mantle, in an unguarded moment, slip 
 from their shoulders, afford to speak slightingly 
 of the gentleman under discussion? I may safely 
 say but few; yet men, judging each other, are the 
 most uncharitable of human beings. Let one 
 fall below their social plane, and they crowd 
 each other to trample on him. In my presence, 
 I beg of you do not speak slightingly of Mr. Van- 
 burg. I knew him as my brother s friend, as a 
 gentleman. Whatever his walk in life, I believe 
 him such still." 
 
 Madge s color had deepened, and the earnest 
 ness of her tones left no other alternative than to 
 change the topic under discussion, which was ad 
 roitly done by one of the ladies. The gentlemen 
 
 139
 
 TITO 
 
 looked crestfallen, and, after some small talk, the 
 group scattered to different parts of the room. 
 
 "Madge," whispered her brother, "you re a 
 brick ! Poor Vannie needs all the champions who 
 will volunteer for him. Anyway, Davis is a 
 vicious cad, and never had a good word to say for 
 Van. Won t you have an ice, Madgie? You look 
 tired." 
 
 "No," she replied, "let us go; it is suffocating 
 here." 
 
 An hour later the last of the invited guests had 
 departed, the rooms took on their customary as 
 pect, and only the regular club habitues remained. 
 
 Around a card table were seated, almost to a 
 man, the same party that were present one night 
 more than ten years before. The game had been 
 in progress some time, to the accompaniment of 
 wine and much laughter. 
 
 "Gad !" said Harriman, "I never saw a man so 
 neatly crushed as Davis was to-night. Said some 
 thing nasty about Vanburg, and Ned Hollander s 
 sister, in the most artistic manner possible, an 
 nihilated him. Davis hasn t recovered from the 
 shock yet, eh ! Davis ?" 
 
 "Did sort of take my breath away," Davis re 
 plied. "Said only what everyone knows. He s 
 done for and gone to the dogs." 
 
 "Ha, ha!" laughed Harriman, "Davis looked 
 like an eight-dollar-a-week dry goods clerk when 
 he s given his walking ticket. By the way, where 
 is Vanburg now?" 
 
 140
 
 TITO 
 
 "Don t know. Someone said that he s in town, 
 but no one seems to know where." 
 
 "He draws a monthly allowance, doesn t he, 
 Davis ?" 
 
 "He has a fixed sum from a bit of property, but 
 that s forwarded through a middleman. No one 
 is aware of his movements. His father knows 
 nothing of him. Vannie s dead to the world." 
 
 "All I can say," said Harriman, "is that, with 
 his prospects, he s a fool." 
 
 Vanburg and his companion, meantime, were 
 walking leisurely down the Bowery. Neither were 
 in a reminiscent mood, and each respected the 
 other s disinclination to talk. The sight of the 
 clubhouse, and the friends that were once his, had 
 roused in Vanburg memories that rankled in his 
 brain and would not be stilled, bringing home to 
 him the realization of his present position. Some 
 thing akin to regret started a train of maddening 
 emotions. For a few minutes he was conscious of 
 his awful social isolation, and McGlennon, divining 
 his thoughts, believing that the mystery which 
 surrounded his companion was, somehow, associ 
 ated with those that they had seen entering the 
 clubhouse, waited for him to speak. 
 
 It was not yet midnight, and the customary 
 crowd made the Bowery throb with life. The 
 lights flared and fell upon the faces of all nationali 
 ties stamped with varying degrees of viciousness 
 and crime. Homeless youth, tremblingly fear 
 some, taking the initial step in a downward career ; 
 old, hardened offenders who, with furtive glance 
 
 141
 
 TITO 
 
 or brazen stare, betrayed the guilty acknowledg 
 ment of the craft. that they would hide, or flaunted, 
 with derisive leer, that they were post-graduates 
 in the realm of debauchery and crime these min 
 gled with honest mechanics and housewives, on 
 their way home from one of the cheap places of 
 amusement; young girls whom poverty and hardy 
 self-reliance had taught to pass vice unheeding, 
 and with but slight feeling of interest, repulsion or 
 fear. Human vultures, with lightning eye, singled 
 out those upon whom they could prey; and each, 
 with glance quickened by suspicion, and trained 
 by a knowledge of humankind, recognized those 
 better or worse than himself, regulating to a nicety 
 his social status. And while the world grows in 
 hypocrisy, while debasing tendencies, like a con 
 tagious disease, are spread abroad, the gulf be 
 tween the high and low, the good and the bad, 
 expands into illimitable space. 
 
 Vanburg and his companion entered Death 
 House Joe s and drank two or three times in quick 
 succession. There was the customary crowd com 
 ing and going, loungers leaning against the wall, 
 and one, "Micky de Pinch," in a darkened corner 
 of the saloon, indicating Vanburg with a nod of 
 the head was saying: "Ef you fellers 11 promise 
 ter stay wid me, say ! I ll do em for fair ! When de 
 other bloke breaks away well, I fink we can put 
 im ter sleep fer keeps !" 
 
 "Micky de Pinch" had a deep and growing 
 grudge against Vanburg, and bided his time until 
 he could pay an old score that had dated from 
 
 142
 
 TITO 
 
 Vanburg s interference with his acknowledged 
 profession thieving. 
 
 Though Vanburg was aware of the "Pinch s" 
 intention, he treated the danger for he was not 
 blind to the fact that it was within the power of 
 the thief to do him bodily harm with a contemp 
 tuous indifference that tended only to further en 
 rage the man, who had openly boasted that he 
 would kill him the first opportunity that presented. 
 When Vanburg had entered the saloon, in the 
 quick glance with which he swept the room, he 
 recognized the "Pinch/ but bestowed upon him 
 no further notice than upon the other loungers. 
 He had seated himself at a table opposite McGlen- 
 non his back to the group of men whom "Micky 
 de Pinch" was haranguing. Not indicating by 
 word or look that he was conscious of being the 
 subject of discussion, his ear was alert, and he was 
 satisfied from the tones of their voices, and the few 
 words he could hear, that there was trouble ahead. 
 He smiled faintly, for he knew their kind, knew 
 that, apart from being taken unawares, he had 
 nothing to fear, and he held them in wholesome 
 contempt. 
 
 There was another in the room, sitting on an 
 old bench behind which the "Pinch" was standing, 
 who was a silent though much pleased observer of 
 all that was taking place. His back was against 
 the wall, his knees in the air, serving as a rest for 
 a note-book in which he was sketching the room 
 and its occupants. Seemingly intent upon his 
 work, his willing ear took in what the "Pinch" 
 
 143
 
 TITO 
 
 was saying, and he chuckled with evident delight, 
 for, though he did not understand all he heard, he 
 was satisfied that there was trouble brewing, and 
 his smile was one of joyful anticipation. He had 
 transferred the villainous visage of the "Pinch" to 
 his sketch-book, and he regarded his efforts with 
 a critical eye, yet with a glow of pleasure the 
 likeness would have done credit to a trained hand. 
 His eye again sought the scowling features of his 
 model the low forehead, wrinkled and scarred, 
 the short, thick neck, set on massive shoulders, the 
 croppy, yellow beard, the bleary eyes that flashed 
 hate, which he made no effort to hide, at the man, 
 who, chatting and laughing with McGlennon, was 
 apparently unconscious that his life, even at that 
 very moment, was in danger. Tito had, with mar 
 velous exactness, caught the expression of set de 
 termination on the face of his subject, and with a 
 sigh of satisfaction, turned his attention to Van- 
 burg and his companion. With a deft hand he 
 sketched the two men McGlennon s face in pro 
 file, his good-natured, open countenance wreathed 
 in smiles as he listened to Vanburg s jocular re 
 marks; of Vanburg, sitting with his back to the 
 young artist, nothing was shown but the outlines 
 of his robust form, and his head thrown back while 
 he laughed. 
 
 Young Tito, while rounding out a background 
 to the picture with swift but firm touch, was drink 
 ing in the scheme of the men who, with a minute 
 ness worthy of nobler deeds, were planning their 
 line of attack upon Vanburg. 
 
 144
 
 TITO 
 
 "He s a robber, dat s wot he is!" the "Pinch" 
 was saying. "When I had de long green in me 
 hand an I tell you twas as slick a job as me 
 fingers ever worked he lays me out flat, and th 
 dead easy gets his coin back. What do yer t ink ! 
 Say ! Me blinkers wer closed fer two days ! You 
 take care of de big bloke, an I ll give im de cold 
 between de ribs." 
 
 For an instant the "Pinch" considerately dis 
 played a knife with a blade six inches long, but it 
 was sufficient time for the industrious Tito to add 
 this bit of realism to his already completed picture 
 the bar with its mirrors and rows of bottles, the 
 one bar-tender, the sporting pictures on the walls, 
 the men at the table, the glasses in their hands, 
 their heads thrown back, laughing over the good 
 joke that they had money left for only two drinks. 
 The motley gang in the rear of the room the boy 
 had drawn with skill and daring: "Micky de 
 Pinch," with a devilish scowl on his face and a 
 knife in his hand, in the foreground his eyes 
 turned on the man who seemed unconscious of his 
 danger. But "Micky de Pinch" had not reckoned 
 on the mirror that faced Vanburg, in which, by the 
 dim light, he had seen enough to make him keenly 
 alive to what was taking place behind him of all 
 but the boy, who was hidden by the forms of the 
 men who were planning the attack. 
 
 Tito viewed the result of his work with a thrill 
 of pride ; but he did not like the looks of the knife, 
 and he bestowed a scowl of disapproval upon the 
 man who had displayed it.
 
 TITO 
 
 The young nomadic artist had been in New 
 York for one short year, but what experiences had 
 been his! His eyes laughed the same, his smile 
 was the reflection of youthful exuberance, grip 
 ping you with a power you could not resist, for it 
 was Nature proclaiming to all the world that the 
 heart within was of gold of the purest coinage. 
 One look at the laughing, mischievous eyes, one 
 sound of the rollicking mirth, that tingled in your 
 ears, setting the heartstrings of joy within you 
 rioting madly, and you put all worldly cares from 
 you and laughed with him. 
 
 Still, life had been far from rose-colored since, 
 almost penniless, he had landed in New York. 
 His first efforts were directed toward gaining a 
 livelihood, but these were perfunctory, and only 
 when driven by hunger, or the necessity of procur 
 ing a lodging, did he bestir himself to earn suffi 
 cient for his needs. In the Italian settlement he 
 was received with open arms, for he could sing, 
 but this did not please him. He looked upon the 
 squalid dinginess of "Little Italy" with something 
 akin to disgust, and after the first few weeks he 
 would have no more of it, preferring to rove about 
 the city, loiter in the parks, doing such work as 
 presented with a completeness and dispatch that 
 brought immediate and generous reward refus 
 ing to work again until his last penny was gone. 
 He was never without his pencil and sketch-book, 
 they had become to him his companions, and 
 hunger had no terrors, nor had a night spent in 
 the parks the power to depress or to do more than 
 
 146
 
 TITO 
 
 inconvenience him. While the daylight lasted, 
 and he could put on paper the scenes representing 
 the ludicrous side of life that, like a moving pano 
 rama, were presented to his young, imaginative 
 mind, he was content. His dress was shabby; his 
 face had lost its roundness, and, though his color 
 was fresh, his face bore evidence of lack of the good 
 nourishment to which he had always been accus 
 tomed. 
 
 As he stood beside Vanburg and laid the sketch 
 on the table, his smile was as frank as of old, his 
 voice a musical echo of the Tito of the fields of 
 Tuscany. 
 
 "Is it good?" he asked. "Then shalt thou pay 
 me, but " he indicated with a grimy finger the 
 "Pinch" with the knife in his hand "likest thou 
 that? Yet it is as I saw him. What thinkest 
 thou? It is meant for thee." 
 
 Vanburg looked at the sketch before him, then 
 into the eyes that laughed into his own. Tito s 
 tone was bantering, but while he spoke, Vanburg 
 had directed a keen, searching glance at the men 
 in the rear of the room, who, even then, were pre 
 paring for an immediate attack. 
 
 "You did this?" Vanburg asked, incredulously. 
 He was filled with wonder; the portrait of Mc- 
 Glennon seeming to laugh right out from the 
 paper, his head thrown back, his eyes twinkling 
 with merriment. 
 
 "Yes," answered Tito. "Also this," he added, 
 pointing to the knife, "that is for thee. I heard 
 him say as much." 
 
 147
 
 TITO 
 
 Vanburg looked again at the boy, then, after 
 glancing quickly at the mirror opposite, spoke to 
 McGlennon in an undertone. 
 
 "I have been watching them for some time," 
 McGlennon rejoined, "they mean mischief. Noth 
 ing would give me greater pleasure than to brush 
 the floor with them. Unless I mistake, that is the 
 thief, Micky, whom I heard boasting that he would 
 do you up. Have a care, Kent, bar-room rights 
 are not to my liking nor," he added, "to yours." 
 
 There was a movement in the rear of the room, 
 a sudden rush, muttered imprecations, and imme 
 diately Vanburg and McGlennon were on their 
 feet not, however, before a knife in the uplifted 
 hands of "Micky de Pinch" was within a few 
 inches of Vanburg s breast. 
 
 But there was one on whom they bestowed little 
 attention who, at the sight of the knife, had, with 
 cat-like agility, sprung forward to grasp the arm 
 of the would-be assassin. Tito, recognizing Van- 
 burg s danger, with sturdy courage, interposed be 
 tween him and the enraged "Micky de Pinch," and 
 the knife, which he was successful in diverting 
 from Vanburg, sank into the fleshy part of his own 
 left arm. For the space of a minute or two Van 
 burg and McGlennon stood shoulder to shoulder, 
 and delivered such punishment as the gang little 
 expected; but it was of short duration, for since 
 the knife had failed in its purpose, as soon as they 
 could pick themselves from the floor, they scram 
 bled over each other by front and rear doors to 
 escape the sledge-hammer blows delivered by the 
 
 148
 
 TITO 
 
 two men, who, with Tito and the smiling bar 
 tender, were in possession of the field. 
 
 Tito s wound was severe, but only by the pallor 
 of his face and a set expression about his mouth 
 determination not to give way to the pain occa 
 sioned by his injury, was it manifest that he was 
 hurt. 
 
 Vanburg, with a startled look, saw the blood 
 trickling down the hand of the boy, and gently 
 drew Tito to him. 
 
 "Poor little fellow, so you received the blow 
 meant for me. Let me remove your jacket." 
 
 Examining the cut, he ordered the bar-tender 
 to procure some clean, white cloth, and, with Mc- 
 Glennon s assistance, bandaged the wound. 
 
 "Where do you live?" he asked, gently. 
 
 "Here," replied Tito, with a quizzical smile, 
 "while I am here; when I am not, on a bench in 
 the park." 
 
 Though he made a brave effort, weakness nearly 
 overcame him, and, unconsciously, he fell back 
 upon his native tongue and spoke in Italian. 
 
 "A.nd have you no home?" Vanburg asked in 
 Italian. 
 
 "Ha!" replied Tito, evidently pleased, "you 
 speak my language, but you fight like an Ameri 
 can! Now, I shall like you. If you would have 
 me truly grateful, teach me the art that you know 
 so well that I may " 
 
 Under the influence of a glass of brandy which 
 the bartender had given him, his strength re- 
 
 149
 
 TITO 
 
 turned, the color again stealing slowly to his 
 cheeks. 
 
 "Home !" he continued, with his old time laugh, 
 "the round world is my home, and the sky is the 
 roof. You have the picture?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes," Vanburg replied, "to-morrow you shall 
 have twice its value, yes, ten times its worth. Boy, 
 your courage nearly cost you your life. Thank 
 Heaven you are safe, I have enough to answer for 
 without that. Come," he said, turning to Mc- 
 Glennon, "we will take the boy to my room ; for 
 tunately I have it paid for a week in advance. I 
 can wheedle some doctor into looking at the cut, 
 on a promise to pay to-morrow." 
 
 "Pooh!" laughed Tito, "it is nothing a 
 scratch ! Yet it has taught me how it feels, for 
 there is one whom I, too, shall sometime prick 
 with my knife now I know how it will hurt." 
 
 Together they left the saloon and turned east 
 the son listening with evident delight to the new 
 found friend, who spoke Italian with the soft, 
 though sonorous, inflection of a Florentine noble 
 the father whose life the boy had sworn should 
 wipe out his own disgrace. 
 
 150
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 VANBURG and the boy entered a building on 
 a short street which paralleled the Bowery. 
 The place was old and dilapidated, the stairs 
 rickety, and tenants of the poorest class were hived 
 together, living lives of squalor, penury, even 
 hopeless misery. Here the lowest stratum had 
 been reached, and only death released the dwellers 
 of this heart-sickening abode for human ambi 
 tion died at its threshold. 
 
 McGlennon left them at the door to seek a phy 
 sician, assuring Vanburg that one whom he had 
 known many years a Dr. Remo would come 
 at his bidding he had employed him many times 
 to treat his daughter Bill. 
 
 Vanburg and Tito mounted the stairs Van- 
 burg s arm around the boy, who, though he strug 
 gled manfully, could not entirely hide a growing 
 weakness. 
 
 Entering a room on the second floor in the rear 
 of the house, the sickly flame of an oil lamp dis 
 closed the barren emptiness within. A single 
 chair, a wash stand, and a bed, scant of covering, 
 with one pillow, comprised the furnishings of the 
 room one window relieving its prison-like ap 
 pearance.
 
 TITO 
 
 Vanburg arranged the pillow and gently bade 
 the boy lie down until the arrival of the doctor. 
 
 Tito lay at full length on the bed, and his weak 
 smile gave place to a sigh of satisfaction, for had 
 he been compelled to remain on his feet another 
 ten minutes, nature would have set his courage at 
 naught, and weakness forced him to surrender. 
 
 They talked of Italy, of the boy s arrival in 
 America, and Tito, with laugh and jest, recounted 
 his trials, his struggles to earn sufficient to meet 
 his needs, his inability to procure work, and the 
 prospect of a future that promised no better re 
 sults. Gleefully relating his encounter with the 
 officer in the park, he dwelt with feeling upon the 
 kindness of the court in granting his release; but 
 his experiences, whether good or bad, were related 
 with the same light-heartedness, and a disposition 
 to view his misfortunes in the light of a joke. 
 Vanburg listened in his eyes an expression they 
 seldom reflected. The soft, musical voice of the 
 boy, cheerful, though his wound would have struck 
 terror to the heart of an ordinary man, filled his 
 companion with a sense of pleasurable delight. 
 The tones to which Vanburg listened sent his 
 memory back into a past that he endeavored 
 to forget; but he tried to put such thoughts from 
 him as a trick of the imagination, a fantasy, a 
 dream. 
 
 Still the boy talked on. He was drawn to the 
 man who, sitting beside the bed, listened with 
 eager ear to tales of adventure, as Tito recounted 
 his experiences with boyish fervor. Turning his 
 
 152
 
 TITO 
 
 head on the pillow, the boy s eyes, with engaging 
 frankness, met the almost sorrowful expression in 
 the face of the man beside him, while the voice 
 melted into a cadence, soft, languorous, again 
 as a twinge of pain reminded the speaker of his 
 hurt, sinking to a whisper. 
 
 What was there in the voice that seemed to 
 thrill the very depths of the man s soul? What 
 magic that could send his mind drifting back to the 
 years that he would forget; what likeness that 
 raised the ghost of the past that he would bury? 
 He could not tell, yet he seemed to have heard the 
 voice before at a time when he was a man, a gen 
 tleman. Why should it arouse memories, almost 
 forgotten? What note had been tuned to the 
 tones to which he now listened? He was puz 
 zled, confused, but the memories would not be 
 stilled, and struggled to assert themselves. He 
 looked at the fair beauty of the face on the pillow, 
 the light, wavy hair tossed back from the brow, 
 the eyes that laughed, though the pallor of the face 
 told of physical suffering. Rising, he walked from 
 end to end of the room, nervous, excited, irritated, 
 yet he could not account for the conflict of feel 
 ings that possessed him. 
 
 As suddenly as he had arisen he again seated 
 himself beside the bed and took the boy s hand in 
 his own. 
 
 "Tell me," he said gently, "does it pain you 
 badly?" 
 
 "Not much," answered Tito, with a smile, "not 
 more than when T fought in my own Italia. They 
 
 153
 
 TITO 
 
 were bigger than I and would never fight me 
 singly. Wilt thou teach me to fight as thou didst 
 to-night ? Oh, it was grand ! How the beasts did 
 fall before thy blows!" He laughed softly, and 
 his admiring eyes turned to Vanburg. 
 
 "My poor child, I can teach thee nothing that 
 would be good for thee." 
 
 Tito looked at him with wondering eyes. Be 
 fore he could reply, steps were heard ascending the 
 stairs. Vanburg rose with a sigh and opened the 
 door. McGlennon and Dr. Remo entered. 
 
 The doctor, without speaking, approached the 
 bed. Bending over Tito, he unbandaged the 
 wound, and, without loss of time, began dress 
 ing it. 
 
 "A flesh wound," he said, "not serious, but pain 
 ful. You must have some knowledge of surgery 
 to have dressed it so well. I could not have done 
 it better." 
 
 "The first principles of surgery I learned when 
 at school," Vanburg replied. 
 
 When the doctor had entered the room he had 
 not noticed Vanburg, but had at once approached 
 the bed to examine his patient. He now turned 
 quickly, almost with a violent start, and stared at 
 him in astonishment. 
 
 For an instant neither spoke. Dr. Remo broke 
 the silence. 
 
 "I did not understand," he faltered, "you say 
 you studied surgery?" 
 
 "The elementary principles," Vanburg replied. 
 
 Having finished dressing the wound, the doctor 
 154
 
 TITO 
 
 gave directions for its care. Laying his hand on 
 Tito s forehead, he looked at him searchingly for 
 a full half minute. 
 
 "Your son?" he asked, turning to Vanburg. 
 
 "No," laughed Vanburg, "he is not my son. I 
 am not so fortunate. He is a courageous little 
 devil who turned away a knife meant for my 
 throat. We both met with misfortune by his act. 
 I escaped and he received the thrust." 
 
 Tito laughed gleefully. The doctor smiled, his 
 eyes fixed on Vanburg s face, his manner per 
 turbed, his voice betraying that he was laboring 
 under excitement. 
 
 "Have you lived long in New York?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes, for the past ten years," Vanburg an 
 swered. 
 
 Again Dr. Remo looked at him looked with 
 questioning, eager glance, until Vanburg, feeling 
 ill at ease under the eyes which rested upon his 
 features in a prolonged, questioning stare, turned 
 his attention to the boy. The action seemed to 
 recall the doctor s faculties and he prepared to go. 
 
 "I shall send you your fee by Mr. McGlennon," 
 said Vanburg. "Allow me to thank you for your 
 kindness in coming." 
 
 Again the doctor stared blankly at him. The 
 sound of Vanburg s voice seemed to paralyze him, 
 and for an instant he stood quite confused, in the 
 centre of the room ; then recovering himself, he 
 bade them good-night, and, accompanied by Mc 
 Glennon, descended the stairs to the street. Here 
 
 155
 
 TITO 
 
 he plied the Scotchman with questions as to Van- 
 burg s past, but he could learn little. 
 
 When they were left alone, Vanburg again 
 seated himself beside the bed. 
 
 "You feel better already?" he queried. "Your 
 color has improved." 
 
 "Yes," answered Tito. Then, with a laugh, 
 "How comes it that thou knowest my name? I 
 had not told thee." 
 
 Vanburg looked perplexed. "No, you have not 
 told me; neither do I know your name." 
 
 "Yet thou hast told it to the doctor. Little 
 Devil/ it was that thou hast called me. That is 
 why I laughed. Thou hast guessed rightly. They 
 have always called me Little Devil. 
 
 "But you have another name?" 
 
 "Yes," came the laughing response. "Tito, 
 that s all just Tito; but no one calls me by that 
 
 name, they like Little Devil or Little / but 
 
 I won t tell thee of that not now." 
 
 "And my name is Kent, Horace Kent. My last 
 name is what I am known by, the world has for 
 gotten the other. Tito that s a pretty name. I 
 shall not call you Little Devil better Little 
 Saint or Little Godfather, for did you not save 
 my life?" 
 
 "Pooh!" protested Tito, "that pig could only 
 have scratched thee, and I received the scratch, 
 wherefore have I not a bed to sleep in? When I 
 again see the villain, I shall thank him for the 
 favor. 
 
 Vanburg smiled. "What a brave little chap you 
 156
 
 TITO 
 
 are, indeed ! Well, we are both fortunate, not that 
 I escaped, but that I have you here; for were I 
 alone I should be spending a sleepless night, and 
 now you shall sleep for both of us, and it is time, 
 for morning is most here." 
 
 Vanburg lay beside the boy, and almost immedi 
 ately Tito fell into a sound slumber. 
 
 Minutes became hours, and the boy s regular 
 breathing was the only sound ; but the man beside 
 him did not sleep, for his brain refused to be 
 quieted, leading him a mad journey through years 
 that he had forgotten, and running through it all 
 was the echo of the boy s voice: a vibrant note, 
 but the words were stamped on his brain "Hor 
 ace, my love, let me hear your voice. Tell me 
 again what I know so well that you love me." 
 
 He made no further effort to woo sleep, lying 
 quite still that he might not disturb the boy, until 
 the sun, hours high, awakened Tito. 
 
 Vanburg rose and the boy smiled a good morn 
 ing. His cheeks were aglow, his eyes clear, and 
 the fever of the past night had left him. 
 
 "You are feeling better?" inquired Vanburg. 
 
 "Yes, I think I will get up." 
 
 "No," said Vanburg, quietly, but with an au 
 thoritative tone, "you must not." 
 
 Without protest, Tito obeyed; then he won 
 dered at his compliance with Vanburg s order; it 
 was not a request, it was a command. 
 
 "Now, little man," said Vanburg, gently, "I 
 must leave you for an hour. There is breakfast for 
 you to consider, and to-day God is very good, for 
 
 157
 
 TITO 
 
 it is the fifteenth of the month, otherwise you 
 would go hungry, wherefore Heaven is kind. Had 
 I not the funds coming, I think I think " he 
 laughed softly "I think I should steal that you 
 might eat; though that crime cannot, as yet, be 
 laid at my door. But, as I said, God is good ! We 
 shall eat. You will not be lonesome while I am 
 gone?" 
 
 "Lonesome? No! While thou art away I shall 
 see again, in memory, the fight, thou and the big 
 fellow standing together and oh ! how thou 
 didst strike out; and the vermin ran fighting 
 with each other to see who would get out first !" 
 
 Tito s merry laugh rang out clear, musical, 
 hearty, and Vanburg forgot all but the joy of the 
 moment and, with equal zest, joined in the mirth. 
 
 With a caution to lie quiet and not disturb his 
 arm, Vanburg went out. 
 
 " Heigh-ho!" said Tito with a grimace as the 
 pain darted down his arm into his finger tips, "thus 
 does bad fortune bring good. Have I not a bed, 
 and a breakfast to come, and a good friend? I 
 wonder who he is ! He talks like a noble and he 
 fights Madonna Mia! How he can fight! Now 
 I know he is of gentle birth. No clod of the fields, 
 no one but a gentleman could fight as he. Beauti 
 ful ! His fists went out straight : biff biff biff 
 and they fell before him like a row of ninepins. 
 The swine! and one, that villain of the yellow 
 beard, would knife him ! And the big fellow ! But 
 he strikes overhand as they swing an axe. If the 
 thieves had only had more courage it would have 
 
 158
 
 TITO 
 
 lasted longer; but they ran like women sheep. 
 Bah !" 
 
 He looked about the room, but there was little 
 to interest him barren walls, torn paper hanging 
 in strips, on which the dust of years remained un 
 disturbed. 
 
 I w r ould much like to look out of that win 
 dow," quoth Tito, "but he told me not to move, 
 and I must do as he tells me I, who was never 
 made to obey. He s very nice, and gentle, but he 
 looks very grimy and savage with that beard ; but 
 why is he here?" 
 
 Vanburg entered, carrying a tray on which was 
 a dainty breakfast. 
 
 "Now, little man, you must eat. See!" Van- 
 burg uncovered the tray. "Coffee, rolls, fresh 
 from the baker this morning, an omelet, and " 
 
 "And thou," interrupted Tito, "thou hast not 
 eaten." 
 
 "It is too early for me," protested Vanburg. 
 
 "Then / shall not eat," said Tito, stoutly, "not 
 unless thou wilt eat with me." 
 
 "Then we will both eat," laughed Vanburg, well 
 pleased. 
 
 They ate the food to the last crumb, chatting 
 and laughing together, Tito relating his boyish 
 escapades, Vanburg listening with new-found 
 pleasure, laughing when the boy laughed or listen 
 ing with deep, sympathetic interest while Tito re 
 lated his story of the days without food, the nights 
 without shelter. Then drifting back to his own 
 Italy, he spoke of Florence. 
 
 159
 
 TITO 
 
 "Florence," murmured Vanburg, dreamily, 
 "dear Florence, I can see it now, with the soft twi 
 light flooding the tower of the Palaccio Vecchio. 
 Ah ! boy, you don t know what Florence is to me." 
 
 "Thou lovest it?" asked the boy in a subdued 
 tone. 
 
 "I love the memories with which it is associ 
 ated," replied Vanburg, sadly. 
 
 A silence followed, broken by Tito. The men 
 tion of Florence brought to mind his stolen purse. 
 
 In an instant his eyes shot fiery gleams, and, as 
 he related the story of the loss of his purse, Van- 
 burg listened, first with interest, then with aston 
 ishment ; for it was the Tito of Tuscany who spoke, 
 his cheeks aglow, his voice trembling with passion, 
 his language a stream of invectives hurled at the 
 culprit who had defrauded him. 
 
 Vanburg looked at the boy in wonder. "What 
 a little firebrand you are!" he said, with a laugh. 
 "Who would have believed there was a volcano 
 burning within ? Now I know why you are called 
 Little Devil, but I like you best as Tito when 
 you smile,^ when you laugh, when your voice is 
 soft, full of joy, like a wild bird in the early morn 
 ing. When I hear that note in your voice I think 
 of dear Florence ah ! boy, you cannot under 
 stand, but I have reason to love it, yet greater rea 
 son to be sad at the remembrance." 
 
 Thus passed the day, Vanburg listening to the 
 boy, as one listens, when, after years of absence, 
 the voice one loves, fills one with joy. 
 
 He tended the boy with gentle, even womanly 
 1 60
 
 TITO 
 
 tenderness, and McGlennon s coming in the early 
 evening seemed like an intrusion to be resented. 
 
 When Vanburg had gone out in the morning 
 for Tito s breakfast, he had given McGlennon the 
 money with which to pay the doctor. The Scotch 
 man, after the customary greeting and inquiry 
 as to Tito s injury, handed the money back to 
 Vanburg. 
 
 "You did not see him, then?" Vanburg asked. 
 
 "Yes," replied McGlennon, "I saw him. I 
 asked him what his fee was, and he said, Nothing. 
 When I pressed it on him, he got hot; said he 
 would look in at the boy to-night, but he would 
 not take the money." 
 
 "What is the meaning of it?" asked Vanburg. 
 "I will not accept service without paying." 
 
 "Well," replied McGlennon, "you must talk to 
 him, he ll be here to-night. I m not to blame." 
 
 "True," laughed Vanburg. 
 
 "I know," chirped the voice from the bed, "it 
 was because of the fight. / would not take money 
 from one who can fight as thou canst. Now I shall 
 like the good doctor." 
 
 "You will not work until the boy is well?" asked 
 McGlennon, as he was about to depart. 
 
 "No," answered Vanburg. 
 
 161
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 AT the end of a week Tito, against the advice 
 of the physician, and unheeding Vanburg s 
 earnest entreaties and protestations, pro 
 nounced himself well again. With a touch of his 
 erst-time imperiousness, he gave forth his edict. 
 His arm would heal while he sought work, also 
 while he continued a search which, as yet, had 
 been productive of nothing but disappointment. 
 With eyes which spoke a tenderness he did not 
 seek to hide, with his hand in Vanburg s, he 
 thanked him, expressing his gratitude as those of 
 his own country voice feelings that are near to 
 their hearts in language half romantic and wholly 
 tender. 
 
 Vanburg was moved, more deeply moved than 
 outward appearances indicated, and, when satisfied 
 that the boy would not be turned from his pur 
 pose, wrung from him a promise that he would 
 corne to see him, that, if he needed assistance, he 
 would not hesitate to send for him. 
 
 To Vanburg, the past week had been as a week 
 of holy life seven bright days in the ten years that 
 had been a blot, a mar, a nightmare in the life 
 which had begun with the death of Bettina. It 
 had been to him a week of peace, of contentment, 
 of a yearning desire to keep the boy forever with 
 
 162
 
 TITO 
 
 him the boy who had entered his life by the 
 stroke of a knife in a drunken brawl. He could 
 explain the feelings that drew him to Tito only by 
 the belief that life seemed less lonely, that his pres 
 ence, his cheerfulness, his laugh seemed to dispel 
 the gloom a gloom which, when alone, when not 
 under the influence of drink, hung over him like a 
 pall. Yet, when this gleam of light had entered 
 his life, when a hope was held out to him that in 
 the dreary world there might be one who would 
 learn to care for him, again must that hope follow 
 those already dead. Again must he pick up the 
 life which had been interrupted by this boy, and 
 after he had taken one draught of the cup of happi 
 ness, when the promise of a new life was held out 
 to him, must he dive into the depths of the hell 
 that, for one brief week, was but a memory that 
 he would stifle. What was this new found joy? 
 What power had this boy that he could awaken 
 memories long since dead ? Why should his going 
 stir the very depths of his heart, and kindle again 
 the yearnings, the hopes, the desires which he had 
 put forever from him? He could not tell, no an 
 swer came to him, and Tito laughingly consented 
 to his almost passionate appeal that he stay one 
 night more and start in the morning. 
 
 On the boy s part, he was loath to go, for the 
 unfaltering care, the tenderness he had received 
 from Vanburg, awoke within him gratitude which 
 grew into affection, and, as the days went by, the 
 unfailing attention he received touched his young 
 heart and started a train of emotions which, to him, 
 
 163
 
 TITO 
 
 were altogether new and strange. But, young as 
 he was, he realized that the money which Vanburg 
 was daily spending for his comfort he could ill 
 afford, for he had procured for the boy luxuries 
 with which he never indulged himself. Tito s 
 pride would not bow to Vanburg s request that he 
 prolong his stay ; and at the assurance that his in 
 come was sufficient for both, the boy laughed and 
 shook his head. 
 
 "What will you do?" asked Vanburg. "You 
 cannot work till your arm heals." 
 
 "I can sell papers," answered Tito, stoutly. 
 "The American boys screech the news ; I sing a 
 bar or two only, but the customers hear, for they 
 like the song! Then they buy." 
 
 "You sing the pennies out of their pockets," 
 said Vanburg, smiling. 
 
 "True," the boy answered. "Thou knowest 
 Italy and Italian well; then shouldst thou know 
 this." 
 
 He sang a folk-song dear to the heart of every 
 Tuscan sang softly, with tender pathos, the last 
 note dying into a tender appeal. 
 
 Vanburg listened enraptured. 
 
 "Just Heaven !" he muttered under his breath, 
 "the very song she used to sing, her very voice, the 
 same tenderness, expression, beauty. Tell me, 
 boy, where did you learn that song?" 
 
 "We of Tuscany all know it," answered Tito. 
 
 Vanburg rose and walked the floor. There was 
 silence for some moments, then he asked, "Will 
 you sing it again, Tito ?" 
 
 164
 
 TITO 
 
 "Yes, of course," laughed the boy. 
 
 He sang again, giving rein to his voice and his 
 passion, and when he had finished, Vanburg bent 
 over him and kissed him lightly on the forehead. 
 
 Neither spoke, for Vanburg was visibly affected. 
 It was a song Bettina had sung for him times with 
 out number, and Tito, divining his feelings, re 
 mained silent. 
 
 "Tell me, boy, why you will leave me? What is 
 this mission of which I have heard you speak, aye, 
 even in your sleep? What is this search that is 
 before you? Tell me, that is, if it is something 
 you may tell." 
 
 Tito did not immediately reply. "Yes," he said, 
 softly, "I may tell thee. I seek my father, the 
 father whom I never saw, the father whom I do 
 not know, who gave me no name. I search to ask 
 him why they call me Piccolo d Ignoti? 
 
 His voice ended in a sob, and his head fell upon 
 his arm. Vanburg strode to his side, and, laying 
 his hand upon the boy s head, asked gently : 
 
 "Is it then as bad as that ? Poor Tito, the fault 
 is not thine; it is for him to weep, not for thee." 
 
 Walking the floor, he spoke again, his voice 
 shaking with emotion. 
 
 "Oh, God, if I were that father, what would I 
 not give to call him son, to swear by the holy 
 book that he was mine by right of Heaven. To 
 clasp him in my arms and feel his lips touch mine 
 in forgiveness. To hear his voice when he would 
 say, My father, I forgive you. But that is not for 
 me. I am one of those leprous things that Fate 
 
 165
 
 TITO 
 
 pursues. In all the world is there no single heart 
 beat which, by right, I can claim as my own. For 
 me the past is dead, the future what ? And now, 
 that Fate should jeer at me, that I may feel with 
 keenness the full despair of a life, childless, alone, 
 I m told some fiend there is who would disown 
 this boy, while I my soul might be damned 
 through all eternity if I could only take him in my 
 arms and call him mine." 
 
 Overcome by emotion that was almost mad 
 ness, Vanburg had spoken in English, forgetting, 
 for the time being, that he was not alone. Tito 
 had listened, at first with surprise, then with fear, 
 for Vanburg was filled with overpowering passion 
 sweeping all before it in its intensity his voice 
 dying into a husky sob. While the boy did not 
 grasp the meaning of the words, the emotions 
 spoke to him a language he understood, and he 
 knew, though he could find no reason for it, that 
 it was his reference to his father that had called 
 forth this outbreak of feeling. 
 
 "Hast thou ever had a son?" asked Tito, gently. 
 
 "No, no, that was denied me," came the answer. 
 
 "But thou wouldst have been a good father, that 
 I believe," said Tito. 
 
 "By God s grace, yes, but this I know that you 
 would be a good son. And you would have loved 
 your father, little man, had he taken the trouble to 
 teach you what love was. Did good exist within 
 him he would have directed your young mind into 
 other channels, and higher ideals would have ap 
 pealed to you, ideals now hidden by unnatural 
 
 1 66
 
 TITO 
 
 desires aims, that, in you, are born of external 
 influences foreign to your nature. What you now 
 feel, boy, the hate and the passion that move you, 
 are the barnacles that want of care and want of 
 love have allowed to grow. They will not always 
 remain with you, for your heart is pure. These 
 emotions are but rank growth, and like the hull of 
 a ship after it has been scraped clean, so will your 
 heart be cleansed by love that will purify your 
 being." 
 
 Tito s luminous eyes were riveted on the speak 
 er s face, and the sorrowing inflection of the voice 
 moved the boy deeply. They talked far into the 
 night, and for the first time in Tito s young life, he 
 was drinking in words of advice and sympathy that 
 sank into his heart ; and seed was sown for a won 
 derful fulfilment of good that neither had the 
 power to foresee. They lay on the bed the boy 
 to sleep, Vanburg to stare blankly at the ceiling, 
 listening to the boy s breathing, and anticipate the 
 morrow that would bring with it loneliness, the 
 thought of which made him heartsick. 
 
 The long hours of the night wore away; sleep, 
 fitful, dream-ridden sleep came only with the 
 dawn, and with a start, he would wake, always with 
 the consciousness that some misfortune awaited 
 him on the coming day. 
 
 The boy slept on, and when the sun stole 
 through the window and the first slanting beams, 
 blades of golden light, shot across the room, they 
 struck upon Vanburg s heart, as would the cry of 
 a sentry proclaiming the hour of execution. 
 
 167
 
 TITO 
 
 Quietly he turned on his side, that he might watch 
 the sleeping boy, whose cheeks were aglow with 
 health and youth, sleeping the sleep of one whose 
 mind is yet untouched by the wormwood of the 
 world s bitterness. The sunbeams shifted and fell 
 aslant the face of the sleeper and he awoke 
 awoke with a laugh, and, springing out of the bed, 
 with a cheery Good-morning," asked Vanburg if 
 he had slept well. 
 
 "Yes," answered Vanburg, with a smile. "As 
 well as usual. As well as usual." 
 
 "And I had such a wonderful dream." Tito s 
 eyes rivaled the sunlight dancing through the win 
 dow. "We thou and I, were in dear Florence; 
 we were wandering through the galleries; after a 
 time we left the city behind and we could hear the 
 Arno singing its song, far away in the valley where 
 I lived ; and we walked through the woods and the 
 fields, and the birds were singing I wonder if 
 dreams ever come true?" 
 
 "Yes, I believe they do, sometimes; anyway, 
 boys dreams do ; but what says my Tito to coffee, 
 hot rolls, and some fruit the Tito who is going to 
 leave me?" 
 
 "Good," laughed Tito, "very good, but thou art 
 far too kind; already thou hast done too much 
 for me and besides, shall I not see thee again? 
 Yes, and often. I shall not forget my good 
 friend." 
 
 Vanburg brightened. 
 
 "You will not forget you promise? 1 
 
 168
 
 TITO 
 
 "I never made a promise I did not keep, nor a 
 vow I shall not fulfil." 
 
 "I shall hire this room for a month," said Van- 
 burg, "though it is a mean place, so that you may 
 know where to find me; and I shall always be ex 
 pecting you to come back; and when I hear a 
 laugh on the stair I shall say that s Tito ! He has 
 come back to me again now for breakfast ! You 
 must have patience, little man. To-day I must 
 have the choicest fruit, the hottest rolls, the richest 
 cream for the coffee. This breakfast you must 
 remember." 
 
 "That 1 will, I doubt not," answered Tito, "for 
 to-morrow it will be black bread and a glass of 
 water, or perhaps, the water without the bread. 
 Then shall I think of thy breakfast, but," he 
 added, gravely, "it will remind me how good thou 
 hast been." 
 
 "Good!" echoed Vanburg. "Ha! Good!" and 
 he hurried off for the breakfast. 
 
 During the meal Tito chatted and laughed with 
 magpie volubility, but when they had finished, and 
 it was time to go, his voice faltered, and the liquid 
 tenderness of the dead Bettina shone from the eyes 
 that sought Vanburg s. The past week had 
 wrought a change which, with the heedlessness of 
 youth, he had not paused to analyze, and it was 
 when he was preparing to go that he had to call 
 upon his courage and his manliness to choke back 
 the tears. 
 
 "Don t forget Tito, the Little Devil/ " he said 
 with a laugh that ended with a jar and a half sob. 
 
 169
 
 TITO 
 
 "Put this in your pocket," Vanburg handed 
 him a sealed envelope, "and when it comes to the 
 black bread and water, open it." 
 
 "It is not money?" said Tito, "for if it is " 
 
 "It is something that will save me hours of 
 misery of hell. Take it, boy, for my sake." 
 
 He was gone, and Vanburg was alone. 
 
 170
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 MADGE HOLLANDER sat in a room in 
 the Hollander mansion, a room that was 
 boudoir, study, library, and general work 
 room, for she was, unlike many of her class, a very 
 busy woman. Here, at an elaborately carved 
 rosewood desk, a relic of a disrupted court of 
 Europe, she sat writing, surrounded by all the 
 requisites of a man or woman of business, for in 
 this room she directed the work of her assistants, 
 women, who, like herself, took a serious view of 
 life and an interest in unobtrusive charity. But of 
 this the world knew little or nothing, for Madge 
 was of the class whose names did not head sub 
 scription lists. Here also she received the personal 
 appeals of the very humblest and the poorest peo 
 ple people who would not have been allowed to 
 enter the ordinary home of the wealthy and exclu 
 sive set to which the Hollanders belonged. 
 
 But Madge Hollander was not an ordinary 
 woman, even measured by the standard of those 
 who moved in the same sphere of social life, and, 
 as she sat at her desk, paper, ink-stand, blotters, 
 and bundles of formidable documents filed away 
 with womanly precision, there was nothing to 
 remind one of opera nights, and social functions 
 
 171
 
 TITO 
 
 that represent the more arduous duties of accepted 
 society leaders. 
 
 It was late in the afternoon and she had nearly 
 finished her daily routine. Her brother had re 
 turned from the office and sauntered into the 
 room. 
 
 "Still at work, Madgie?" 
 
 "Hardly at work," she replied, without looking 
 up from the papers she was arranging. "Just fin 
 ished." Placing the papers on the desk, she turned 
 with a smile to her brother. He was very dear to 
 her her eyes spoke her feelings and spoke them 
 eloquently. 
 
 "You are home early," she said. 
 
 "Yes," he replied, "not much to do in the office, 
 and too fine a day to remain indoors. I walked 
 home." 
 
 "You walked ! Truly you are becoming demo 
 cratic, and sensible. All owing to my very good 
 advice and example," she laughed. 
 
 "Do I receive no credit for the good sense that 
 comes with age? I am no longer young, and 
 Madge dear, now that you speak of it, neither are 
 you, though I believe young ladies do not care to 
 be reminded of that fact." 
 
 "Ned, dear, don t refer to it. I feel but twenty, 
 though," she laughed, "I will confess to a few, a 
 very few years more." 
 
 "A few !" he exclaimed. "Tra la ! But it would 
 be unkind to go into details. With the work you 
 accomplish, you might be twenty and look forty. 
 
 172
 
 TITO 
 
 I will admit, though, considering, I say consider 
 ing well, you hold your own very well." 
 
 "Thanks, Ned dear, for your patronizing con 
 sideration." 
 
 "Now, Madgie, don t get sarcastic and I ll tell 
 you something. I m going in for philanthropy 
 and all that sort of thing." 
 
 She held up her hand with a deprecating 
 gesture. 
 
 "Honor bright," he affirmed, "I have made a 
 beginning. I have entered the field over which 
 you claim to have personal supervision; though it 
 is not quite in line with your charity work. I have 
 made a find a discovery. I have a protege who 
 is a wonder, with a voice of an angel, the face of a 
 cherub, the eyes of a young demon, the form of 
 one of the classic gods and he sings! Madgie, 
 wait, wait till you hear him sing! / discovered 
 him. I ll tell you about it. I frequently run down 
 for lunch to a modest little Italian restaurant on 
 the West Side. It s a nice place, though a bit 
 Bohemian. When I entered, there was my pro 
 tege this young Italian god, with a voice that is 
 a combination of cle Reszke, Van Dyke, and Alva 
 rez, but with a freshness and a beauty of tone that 
 any one of those gentlemen, did he ever possess 
 such a voice, parted with long before he saw the 
 shores of America. There he stood, singing to 
 the accompaniment of a harp and a violin, utterly 
 unconscious of all the world, his eyes turned 
 heavenward, and oh, Madge! I wish you could 
 have heard him ! But you shall." 
 
 173
 
 TITO 
 
 "Where?" she asked, laughing. "Shall I go to 
 your Bohemian restaurant?" 
 
 "No," he answered, "he is coming here." 
 
 "Now, Ned, in what new folly are you going to 
 indulge? Why, these nomads they are little 
 gypsies, and they steal. I believe in charity, Ned 
 dear, but you will observe that my humble efforts 
 are directed to the relief of the indigent poor. 
 Don t bring him here, that s a dear boy; that sort 
 is all well enough for Bohemian resorts, but they 
 earn sufficient money, and oh, you men do have 
 the most ridiculous ideas of talent, to say nothing 
 of art." 
 
 "Well, well, well ! If I ever heard you go on like 
 that before ! Madge, if you are not getting down 
 right practical! If you had put such common- 
 sense notions into practice in your East Side, ill- 
 advised, charity work, I shouldn t have had to part 
 with half my monthly allowance for the past ten 
 years. Never mind, in my case I ll prove you in 
 error. And his name! Such a wonderful stage 
 name! What do you guess it is?" 
 
 "Pietro, of course," she replied with a laugh, 
 "most Italians are called by that name." 
 
 "Pietro," he scoffed, "no protege of mine should 
 be called Pietro. It is Tito! Think of that for a 
 name! Think of that name for the stage grand 
 opera. First appearance of the new tenor, Tito. 
 And I discovered him. But, unless I mistake, one 
 might as well try to harness lightning as to attempt 
 to control my new-found, Italian god. He sings 
 divinely, but he has a vitriolic tongue, and a sur- 
 
 174
 
 TITO 
 
 passing vocabulary of gutter slang which he has 
 acquired with an ease and celerity that is nothing 
 short of wonderful, for he has been in this country 
 only a year. He can rival a Bowery-born, but he 
 hurls it at you with a delicious accent and an utter 
 unconsciousness of its offensiveness. Truly, he is 
 a marvel, but you shall see. He is coming here 
 to sing, that is if he keeps his word, and I believe 
 he will, for I promised that he should be well paid. 
 He condescendingly assured me he was in no need 
 of funds, and he sang only when it pleased him. 
 The little fiend ! He patronized me, looked me 
 over critically, demanded if I were a Noble, and 
 quietly informed me that he would know the aris 
 tocrats, as he was of them." 
 
 "Ned, dear, how you do go on ! Take my advice 
 and leave your Bohemian revelers alone; nothing 
 good comes of interesting yourself in their behalf." 
 
 "How wise we are!" he rejoined, with some 
 warmth. "Yet this boy has more than a stomach 
 he has a soul, else his eyes belie him. Wherein 
 he is superior to your East Side charity-grubbers. 
 What a bewildering amount of worldly wisdom 
 you young ladies absorb in an astonishingly short 
 time. There s the bell! That s he of the voice, 
 the eyes, and the god-like mien don t be shocked, 
 Madgie, at his freedom of speech." 
 
 Tito, hat in hand, stood on the threshold, smil 
 ingly complacent, bowing with the grace of a court 
 courier. 
 
 It was obvious that he had been to some pains 
 to make himself presentable, for his clothing, 
 
 175
 
 TITO 
 
 though shabby in the extreme, gave evidence of 
 having been put in as good condition as the 
 many patches would admit. He reveled in a pair 
 of new shoes, for which he had parted with his last 
 penny, and which, unless good fortune still smiled 
 upon him with her customary grace, meant a sup- 
 perless night and a lodging wherever chance led 
 him. His hair was brushed back in luxuriant 
 waves, and his hands and face, scrupulously clean, 
 glowed with the warmth of his young blood : his 
 eyes proclaiming that, of all the cares in the world, 
 not one was his. When Tito first appeared at the 
 door, Madge looked at him with surprised admira 
 tion, then flashed a look of pleased approval at her 
 brother. The boy s frank, open countenance ap 
 pealed to her, and with kindly concern and evident 
 pleasure she advanced to meet him. 
 
 "Tito," she said, with the intention of putting 
 him at his ease, which was entirely unnecessary, for 
 he was waiting for her to speak, "my brother has 
 told me of you, how well you sing, and of his de 
 sire to assist you." 
 
 "Sit here," interrupted Ned. "Did you have 
 trouble in finding the house?" 
 
 "Oh, no," answered Tito. "I have been by here 
 many times, almost every day. I know it, this 
 street, and well. Here, where the rich live, is there 
 one whom I would find. Ah ! but I have searched 
 until I have said, it is not here he lives/ and I 
 have looked until my eyes have refused to see. 
 But I shall find him; for it is here with the rich, 
 
 176
 
 TITO 
 
 with the aristocrats, that I must seek him, here, 
 where I, too, rightly belong." 
 
 Madge and her brother exchanged glances 
 which said plainly that what they had listened to 
 were but boyish vagaries, perhaps the ramblings 
 of one of unbalanced mind. But as they looked 
 at the boy with his fair beauty, his calm, dispas 
 sionate expression, when they met his eyes, which 
 looked into their own with self-confident, unflinch 
 ing frankness, they realized that they were in the 
 presence of an equal. The unconscious bearing of 
 sturdy independence sat well upon him; they re 
 spected what he had said, as concerning his own 
 affairs, which courtesy and good breeding forbade 
 them to question. 
 
 "Will you sing for my sister, Tito ? She will try 
 to accompany you on the piano." 
 
 "Could she play for the birds to sing?" he asked. 
 It was the Tito of Tuscany that spoke, and his soft, 
 musical laugh charmed his listeners. "I sing as do 
 the birds of the fields, of the woods, wild, un 
 taught ; but as they sing in dear Italia, will I sing, 
 if you wish it." 
 
 Madge sat at the piano and ran her fingers 
 lightly over the keys. At the sound the boy stood 
 as one inspired, in his eyes a dreamy expression 
 that smouldered or flashed into flame as she 
 brought forth a succession of harmonious chords. 
 He began the song he sang the night in Florence 
 when he stood before the cafe, and Madge, with a 
 master touch, and the intuition of the true musi 
 cian, followed the melody and wove a network of 
 
 177
 
 TITO 
 
 harmonies about the simple air. At the end of the 
 verse she dashed into a brilliant interlude, and at 
 its finish, Tito sang the second verse as he had the 
 first, but with an added abandon which thrilled his 
 hearers, ending in a clear, soft, well sustained tone 
 that died almost to a sigh. 
 
 "Where did you learn?" Madge asked, as he fin 
 ished. 
 
 "But I have never learned," he answered. 
 "When I return to dear Florence, then will I seek 
 a master who will teach me." 
 
 "Will you study here?" Ned asked. "I will see 
 that you have the best instructor in the city." 
 
 "Here in New York?" he laughed softly. "It is 
 not for that I came. No. Thou art good, thou 
 art kind; but I sing only when I am hungry 
 when I would eat. Then I work, when I have that 
 which I can do, and with the money I live and 
 search for one whom I cannot find. But," his 
 eyes flashed and his tone was determined, "I will 
 find him, else would I not care to live." 
 
 They noted his changed expression, the tones of 
 his voice, and they realized that, whatever the 
 object of his search, it had power to stir his emo 
 tions, for his eyes told plainly that he was visibly 
 moved. 
 
 "But you will let me help you," Ned asked. 
 
 He was deeply interested in the boy, and real 
 ized that his youth, his ignorance of the ways of 
 Americans, their manners, their customs, placed 
 him at a disadvantage that would be difficult to 
 overcome. 
 
 178
 
 TITO 
 
 "In all the world there is no one who can help 
 me," Tito sadly replied, "no one to feel what I 
 feel, no one to understand, even if he cared. Mine 
 is a task the good God has set for me. It is for 
 me alone. If I fail, then is there nothing left to 
 live for; if I succeed ah! But how can you 
 know T ? Wilt them have me sing more? After 
 which will I go." 
 
 Again he sang, but the memory of his mission, 
 his vow, was with him, and his tones were as the 
 tones of one who has lost all his voice now 
 defiant, ringing with passion, again, tender, linger 
 ing, sighing the words in almost an excess of 
 pathos. 
 
 He did not hear their words of praise; he was 
 eager to go, and a dreamy expression in his eyes 
 told that he had awakened memories that were of 
 his own Italia. 
 
 "Yes, he would come again sometime, and the 
 gentleman could find him often at the cafe where 
 they first met, for the proprietor was of his own 
 province in Italia, and treated him kindly. No, he 
 sang for the lady he would not accept money," 
 and penniless and with slight prospect of supper, 
 he departed. 
 
 "And this," he mused as he walked toward the 
 park, "is where 7 should live. /, Tito, Little 
 Devil/ Piccolo d Ignoti, who have a father who 
 will not give me another name. Even now I may 
 be passing the very house his home where I 
 should live, were I not nameless. I tell Thee, oh, 
 God, Thou hast treated me most unjustly. What 
 
 179
 
 have I done to Thee ? Naught ! But if I ask Thee 
 to guide me to this father, Thou dost not answer 
 me. Wherefore, then, should I not revile Thee? 
 Thy promises Thou dost not keep, for I have heard 
 that if one asks of Thee a favor, Thou wilt grant 
 it. I then ask that Thou leadest me to this beast, 
 father. Dost Thou answer me? No. Wherefore 
 there is no God, or else He will not hear for that 
 I do not go to church and put into the poor box 
 the good silver with which I bought me these ill- 
 fitting shoes. I am hungry, aye, even now, and 
 I ask that He give me soup, bread, fruit, yes, and 
 coffee, for I am very hungry, and my stomach cries 
 loudly. Does He give it to me? Again no! 
 Wherefore, if there is a God for all the world, for 
 Tito there is no God, for He will not hear. Then, 
 Little Devil, must thou depend on thy wits." 
 
 He had entered the park, and sitting on one of 
 the benches, looked upon the passing crowd, at the 
 moving panorama, for the wealthy class were out 
 in numbers, enjoying their daily promenade. One, 
 old, decrepit, with white hair and ashen face, 
 with eyes that saw not the beauty of the world, 
 and heart that rankled with its bitterness, rolled by 
 in an open carriage, propped up with cushions 
 unconscious that a fair-haired lad his grandson, 
 was sitting on a bench not fifty feet away. The 
 boy looked with pitying eyes at the pallid face, 
 wondering if the old man could feel the glories of 
 the late afternoon, that sent a thrill of delight to his 
 own heart, driving from him all desire but to live 
 and to drink in the beauty which the good God 
 
 1 80
 
 TITO 
 
 gave to him the Tito who was penniless, supper- 
 less. 
 
 But no mysterious whisper told the boy who it 
 was that he had watched until the carriage disap 
 peared in the park ; and Vanburg, the grandfather, 
 in moody silence, thought of the son whom he had 
 wronged the son who would never return. 
 
 A policeman, well groomed, well fed and sleek, 
 passed by, and Tito s glance followed him with a 
 disdainful scowl. Tito had a large contempt for 
 these guardians of the public weal, and a flood of 
 invectives rushed to his lips. 
 
 "The lazy swine ! They are well fed and paid by 
 the government, then they make the poor pay 
 again. Well I will talk to the gentleman sitting 
 on the next bench. He looks good-natured and it 
 may be he will amuse me. And to-night I shall go 
 to the place of Joe he who sells bad wine, where 
 that yellow bearded pig struck at my friend with a 
 knife." 
 
 He drew from his pocket the envelope which 
 Vanburg had given him. It was sealed. He felt 
 it gingerly, and a quiet laugh caused the occupant 
 of the adjoining bench to regard him with some 
 little curiosity and open admiration. 
 
 "Here, in this, is there money. I am rich and, 
 by the Madonna, I am also very hungry. My 
 good friend, who gave it to me, said that when I 
 had reached the black bread and water stage I was 
 to open it. Well, I have arrived, but once before, 
 in Florence, have I been so hungry. There are 
 bank bills within." He held the envelope to the 
 
 181
 
 TITO 
 
 light. "He said that I would save him from mis 
 ery from hell. I wonder what he meant? At 
 Joe s he drank much whiskey; never have I seen 
 one drink more in so short a time. And this is all 
 mine to spend as I will. Many good dinners, 
 with wine. Shall I open it? No, that will I not. 
 He had no money the night I went to his house, 
 and he was so kind. I know we shall be good 
 friends, for he was sorry when I came away, aye, 
 of that I am sure ; and so was I. No one else cares 
 for the Little Devil. And I have not seen him for 
 many days. To-night shall I go to the place of 
 Joe Death House Joe s, and should I not find 
 him, I know well where he lives, and if he has no 
 money I shall say, See, my good friend, I have 
 much money ; you shall take it, as a loan, and pay 
 me back with interest. 
 
 Pleased with his own adroitness, he laughed 
 aloud. For the moment he was conscious only of 
 the blue sky, the sighing of the breeze, and he felt 
 as if he were alone in all the great park. The gen 
 tleman on the next bench laughed in sympathy; 
 but at that moment Tito s thoughts were of Van- 
 burg-, and a subdued expression stole over his fea 
 tures, his heart proclaiming that a new born inter 
 est had come into his life an interest in the man 
 who had befriended him. He longed to see him 
 again ; through the days and the nights since they 
 had parted, though he could not explain the emo 
 tions that moved him, his mind had constantly re 
 verted to the gentle, affectionate care this lonely 
 man had given him. Tito, unconsciously, was 
 
 182
 
 TITO 
 
 wrestling with the problem of the mystery of filial 
 love. Without asking himself the cause which led 
 his mind into these channels, his thoughts to con 
 stantly dwell on the deep, though well modulated 
 tones of the man whose touch, gentle as a 
 woman s, even then filled him with a thrill of 
 pleasure, he was aware of a growing desire to see 
 him again. His desire was as that of those who 
 love, a craving that is only satisfied by the touch 
 of lips, of hands, a word of love or an embrace, 
 that fills the heart with a fulness that naught else 
 in this world of passion can do. The ties of con 
 sanguinity, the natural instinct of paternal relation 
 spoke to the boy a language universal, unmistak 
 able; he was following impulses which led him to 
 the portals of a yearning love, of a life that he had 
 sworn to take. Fate had devised her own punish 
 ment, and was laying the foundation for such 
 agony as the heart of man can know, unalterable 
 in its working out, hopeless in its ultimate result. 
 But Tito could not long remain under the cloud 
 of sorrowful remembrance which, for a few short 
 moments, seemed to have taken possession of him. 
 He rose, and, shaking himself, as a terrier shakes 
 the water from its wet hide, turned to the gen 
 tleman sitting on the adjoining bench. Consid 
 ering him a fit subject to interrogate, he ap 
 proached. He would know some things which, 
 at that moment, were not entirely clear to his 
 young mind. This man should tell him. Who 
 better? Tito looked his subject over with discern 
 ing eye. Yes, he believed him good-natured, for 
 
 183
 
 TITO 
 
 his face was amiable in its expression, and his 
 kindly eyes met those of the boy in a quizzical, 
 though friendly greeting. 
 
 "Well, young man, vou have been enjoying 
 yourself hugely; and quite alone. It is good to 
 hear you laugh. Surely, you haven t a care in the 
 world." 
 
 "No," replied the boy, "I haven t for the mo 
 ment. Yet unless Heaven comes to my relief, shall 
 I go to bed supperless. To bed !" His laugh rang 
 out clear, rippling, full of the mirth of a joyous 
 heart. "On a box in a corner," he continued 
 when he found breath to speak, "or a bench in the 
 park, where you dream of downy pillows and warm 
 blankets." Then, with a sudden seriousness, 
 "But a fat policeman will stir you with his stick, 
 for the government doesn t permit you even to 
 sleep in peace unless you pay toll." 
 
 "Yet you laugfh at the prospect?" said the old 
 man. "It does not seem to cause you annoyance." 
 
 "Of course I laugh, for it is so droll. Must I 
 cry because the Fates grant me no better bed? 
 Pooh ! Not I. To-morrow the sun will be 
 warmer, brighter, and, if Heaven permits, then 
 shall I have a breakfast when I earn it." 
 
 "Boy, you are rich in the philosophy of God s 
 word." 
 
 "Ah, no!" answered Tito, stoutly. "I am rich 
 only in what the world has taught me. Why 
 should I not know? I have been kicked around like 
 a ball the boys play with. When I am thrown 
 about, I come down on my feet, and I laugh be- 
 
 184
 
 TITO 
 
 cause the world, which should be wise, knows not 
 more than I." 
 
 The old man regarded him with a degree of awe 
 in which respect mingled. "Who was this youth 
 with the heart of a child and the wisdom of a 
 sage?" With his eyes on the boy he remained 
 silent for a full half minute. 
 
 "What is your name?" he asked, abruptly, 
 though kindly. 
 
 "What matters it?" replied the boy. Then, not 
 ing the questioner s attitude of kindly concern, he 
 added: "Tito; more I cannot tell thee. Perhaps 
 the Fates will give me a better one." 
 
 They talked for some time and, as the boy was 
 about to go, the old man offered him a silver coin. 
 Tito smiled and shook his head. 
 
 "No, I thank thee," he said, quietly. 
 
 "For your supper," the old man insisted. 
 
 "Again, I thank thee," replied Tito, firmly. He 
 stood proudly erect. "Give to some one more in 
 need, to one more worthy. Though I told thee my 
 name was Tito, I have another Little Devil. 
 That thou wilt not like. Then, it is good to do 
 penance and starve some of the little devil out of 
 me! Is it not that which the Church teaches? 
 Then in the morning should I be nearer .the God 
 whom T do not know. Perhaps the penance will 
 please Him and He will remember that there is a. 
 young Tito who, in the crowding of those who call 
 loudly, He has overlooked. Madonna Mia, am I 
 so small that this God they praise so noisily cannot 
 see me?" 
 
 185
 
 TITO 
 
 "I do not believe," said the old man, gravely, 
 "that you mean the disrespect which your words 
 imply. Boy, you do not understand. God is all 
 kindness, all goodness." 
 
 "Then why does He not give me a supper also 
 a place to sleep? When I find both will I believe 
 in Him." 
 
 "He has offered you both through me." 
 
 "That is the charity of man of the world. Give 
 it to those who need it more than I. It is not for 
 me. I but ask a chance to earn my supper." 
 
 His tones rang clear, his proud bearing, as he 
 turned with a respectful "Good-night," moved the 
 old man to lift his hat. 
 
 "Good luck go with you, boy, good-night." 
 
 Tito strode away and the crowd swept him from 
 sight. 
 
 1 86
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 FOR the remainder of the day after Tito left 
 him, Vanburg stayed in his room, silent, 
 moody, brooding over the fate that had 
 thrown the boy in his way, lonely as are those 
 in whom life ceases to be worth an effort, or hope 
 to offer more than that the end come swiftly. 
 
 The past week had been to him one of joy, why, 
 he could explain only by the fact that the boy s 
 cheery light-heartedness, his bright face and rol 
 licking mirth made him forget himself and the life 
 that he led, the existence that he hated. With the 
 boy s departure something seemed to go out of his 
 life. In the short time that Tito had been with 
 him, Vanburg had learned to regard him with a 
 feeling akin to love a love that longed for a re 
 turn of affection, for someone to whom he could 
 cling, who would look upon him as part of his life, 
 one who would create in him a desire to turn from 
 the dissipation that was a torment to him dissi 
 pation that gave him hours of forgetfulness, of mad 
 delirium, followed by remorse, overpowering, 
 heart-sickening. 
 
 He sat by the table, one hand resting upon it, 
 the picture of dejection. 
 
 "Why did he come into my life ?" he asked with 
 savage emphasis, "to stir within me desires that I 
 
 187
 
 believed dead, but that were only smothered by 
 the ashes of hopes that were buried, longings that 
 had been stilled, desires as bitter as dead sea fruit. 
 For a day, a week, the blaze sprang to life, to tor 
 ment, to laugh at me, then, ah, God! What am 
 I saying? I am mad!" He laughed shrilly. It 
 was unnatural, sickening mirth, for it was sepul 
 chral, inhuman. "But it is not the madness of 
 drink that compared with it is sanity. Drink 
 ha! I have not drank for one whole week one 
 week in fifteen years. And this boy ! Had he the 
 power to still the craving, to quench the thirst 
 that, before he came, was insatiable? Yet for one 
 week have I been sober I, who have wallowed in 
 the very depths of depravity. For one week, 
 sober! To what end? For what purpose? To 
 let my hope rise, like noonday heat, only to again 
 have the night chill strike to my heart, to again 
 realize that I am alone, alone, alone. Aye, as one 
 in a desert is alone, as one adrift in midocean, buf 
 feted by every changing wind until, weary, heart 
 sick, he ceases to struggle, and is left, a derelict, to 
 be tossed on a sea of despair. Bettina, darling, in 
 the boy s voice, I heard an echo of thine. Could 
 it only have been true only true ! It is too late 
 to work, even if I had it to do, but at Death House 
 Joe s they are always working. There, for an 
 hour, a day, a night, they cure minds of disease, 
 bodies of all earthly ills, and souls bah! that is 
 not their trade. Each man to his profession 
 theirs is an earthly, not a heavenly one. Joe, of the 
 House of Death, you have much to answer for, 
 
 188
 
 TITO 
 
 much more that you cannot answer. What will 
 you say when you are placed at the bar of the 
 highest court? That you cured diseases of the 
 mind, strangled sorrow for a time, or stifled grief 
 for a night ? Will you cry out that all who carried 
 trouble to your door left it without, that yours was 
 a house of joy, of forgetfulness ? Aye, that you 
 may with truth, for yours is a trade that caters to 
 the earthly present, not the spiritual future. 
 Where," he said, abruptly, "can McGlennon be? 
 For three days I have not seen him I will go to 
 him, where, on the wharf, I shall laugh at him, and 
 ask him if the boxes have grown lighter, and to 
 night, with the money that is left, we will revel in 
 the remembrance of times that were, when we 
 were very much alive. Now, now we are both 
 dead, dead ; only the animal life in us remains." 
 
 An hour later he stood upon the wharf where 
 McGlennon had been employed. He was not 
 there, nor had he been there for several days. No 
 one could give him information, and, knowing 
 where the Scotchman lived, he determined to call 
 at his home. 
 
 He rapped at the door and it was opened al 
 most immediately by McGlennon s daughter, Bill 
 her eyes swollen from weeping, her voice falter 
 ing as she bade him enter. 
 
 Stepping into the room he stood face to face 
 with Madge Hollander. 
 
 Though her surprise was great, Vanburg was 
 even more astonished. He knew she recognized 
 him and, with bowed head, and face scarlet with 
 
 189
 
 TITO 
 
 mortification, he stood before her, waiting for her 
 to speak. 
 
 "Mr. Vanburg, Horace!" she exclaimed, ap 
 proaching him with outstretched hand, "I must 
 admit my surprise at seeing you; the pleasure I 
 cannot express in words." 
 
 With downcast eyes he remained silent, not dar 
 ing to trust his voice, and, for the instant, his em 
 barrassment, his humiliation, covered him with 
 such confusion that he did not see her extended 
 hand. Then, slowly raising his head, he took her 
 hand in his, and with an effort controlled his voice. 
 
 "Madge, I am sorry that you are here, sorry to 
 meet you in my degradation. I feared something 
 was amiss when I could not find McGlennon. Let 
 me go as I came, and forget that you saw me." 
 
 Her fingers tightened about his to prevent him 
 from carrying his purpose into effect. 
 
 "No," she replied with determination, "that I 
 will not allow. You are right in your conjectures 
 as to Mr. McGlennon ; he has met with misfortune, 
 but we will discuss that later. Wilhelmina, dear, 
 will you leave us alone for a little while? I will 
 call you before I go." 
 
 McGlennon s daughter entered the adjoining 
 room, and Madge, motioning Vanburg to be 
 seated, placed her chair beside the table near him. 
 
 "Tell me," she said, tremulously, "tell me about 
 yourself." 
 
 When he spoke his voice was husky, and emo 
 tion nearly overcame him. He had always regarded 
 the woman before him with reverence, as a being 
 
 190
 
 TITO 
 
 far removed, as one of whom he was unworthy. 
 Of all his former friends, she was the person he 
 most dreaded to see, fearing to meet the frank, 
 fearless eyes that were now fixed upon him, in 
 which kindly concern, even affectionate regard, 
 mingled with the pity that she could not hide. 
 
 There is nothing to tell, nothing you do not 
 already know," he said in a low voice. Then with 
 an attempt at his old-time vivacity, "You see me as 
 I am. Surely tongue could not speak more elo 
 quently." 
 
 "You do not know how it pains me to find you 
 as as you are. You cannot realize how sorry I 
 am." Her voice betrayed her emotion, her eyes 
 told that she was deeply moved, and her expres 
 sion of kindly concern, of pity, cut him as words 
 had not the power to do. 
 
 "Yes," he answered, "I know what you feel 
 the humiliation that, in me, has not survived the 
 past years ; but when pride could not arrest me in 
 my downward course, other emotions were of no 
 avail, and I put them from me." 
 
 "Horace, it is not too late. You do not know 
 how your father grieves how he longs for your 
 return, your forgiveness for the terrible mistake, 
 the injustice that was done you. When I see him 
 he talks of you constantly." 
 
 He laughed softly, but with a bitterness un 
 speakable. 
 
 "Madge, as a little girl, you were very dear to 
 me; as a woman, I revere you; but you cannot 
 understand. I know that you have come in con- 
 
 191
 
 TITO 
 
 tact with poverty, degradation; you have sought 
 it in your efforts to do good, and you have suc 
 ceeded where many, many others have failed. But 
 there are levels which you have never reached 
 God grant that you never will. I have found that 
 level, that inner circle where he who enters may 
 never return, for the passport is the surrender of 
 body and soul, hopes of the present are left behind, 
 future there is none; nothing but a life that is 
 a blank." 
 
 She was grieved, shocked, the more so, because 
 she realized the mental capacity, the determination 
 of the man to whom she listened; and she knew 
 that no word of hers could turn him from his pur 
 pose. In his present state of mind, she deemed it 
 best to discuss other subjects, yet she did not de 
 spair, and she again returned to the subject of 
 McGlennon s trouble. 
 
 "Mr. McGlennon has met with misfortune," she 
 said. "It is better that we speak of it when his 
 daughter is not here. She, poor child, is quite 
 heart-broken. Her father is under arrest. There 
 was some terrible affair where a knife was used. 
 Some poor unfortunate, a man who was with Mc 
 Glennon at the time it occurred, is dangerously, if 
 not fatally wounded." 
 
 "McGlennon," exclaimed her listener, "under 
 arrest?" His tone was incredulous. "A knife, did 
 you say? It is impossible ! He is too good a man 
 and, notwithstanding his habits, too much of a 
 gentleman to use one. There is some mistake. 
 Tell me the particulars." 
 
 192
 
 TITO 
 
 "I have not seen him, but from what I can gather 
 from his daughter, he was returning home late at 
 night with a companion. They were followed by 
 two men, one of whom was known to McGlennon. 
 He was one Tinch, " Vanburg smiled "a noto 
 rious fellow, who believed, McGlennon says, that 
 his companion was a friend of his a Mr. Kent." 
 Again Vanburg smiled. "The two men attacked 
 them in a darkened locality, and McGlennon s 
 companion received wounds which, though meant 
 for another, may prove fatal. Being unconscious 
 the greater part of the time, he can tell little or 
 nothing of the affair. McGlennon was arrested, 
 and poor Wilhelmina s heart is nearly broken." 
 
 Poor Mac," said Vanburg under his breath. 
 "He, too, must suffer for me. Have any efforts 
 been made in his behalf? But I need not ask. 
 I know you have done all that is possible. Poor 
 little Bill ! It is she who will suffer most." 
 
 "I have engaged counsel," said Madge, quietly, 
 "the best that can be procured. It seems that if 
 this man, Tinch, could be found, it would go far 
 toward clearing the matter up." 
 
 "Leave that to me," said Vanburg in a confident 
 tone. "I give you my word to produce him when 
 he is wanted." 
 
 "Do you think you can assist the officers in find 
 ing him?" 
 
 Vanburg smiled at her ingenuousness. 
 
 "I could," he answered, "but I will not. I shall 
 find him, I promise you." 
 
 "But he is a dangerous character," she insisted. 
 193
 
 TITO 
 
 "Yes," he agreed, "in a sense, he is; but he is 
 one who strikes from behind; they are seldom to 
 be feared. Rest easy ; before to-morrow morning, 
 I shall, unless I very much mistake, hand him over 
 to the authorities. When is the hearing?" 
 
 "I understand it was continued until to-morrow. 
 I shall go with Willie. She has not slept since this 
 unfortunate occurrence, and I have been with her 
 constantly." 
 
 "My dear Madge, it is not for me to thank you, 
 that shall be for the father; yet let me add my 
 word of praise, of gratitude for your goodness. I 
 should not ask, it would be presumption, but tell 
 me of Ned, of your friends." 
 
 His request again suggested the subject that 
 was uppermost in her mind, and after talking of 
 her brother, her home life, she again returned to 
 the discussion of Vanburg s position and the bril 
 liant prospects he had surrendered. 
 
 "Horace," she said sadly, "you will listen to me, 
 and think of the future that might have been yours, 
 that may yet be yours." 
 
 "I know what you would say. I can anticipate 
 it almost to a word. Think you that I have not 
 considered it, have I not thought until madness 
 seemed to beckon to me, until I longed for my 
 mind to give way and become a blank ? Can you 
 understand what the years have been to me the 
 days, the nights? No, no! you cannot, you 
 cannot! But it is too late! The road I follow 
 leads nowhere. Once become entangled in the 
 labyrinth of its byways, there is no turning back. 
 
 194
 
 TITO 
 
 Madgie," his voice was tender, entreating, "you 
 are to forget that you met me to-day, forget me 
 as I am, forever to forget you are to remember 
 me as I was, for now I am as one dead, dead to 
 those whom I called friends and loved." 
 
 She did not reply. Tears glistened in her eyes, 
 and when his voice died to a whisper, her glance 
 fell that he might not see how his words had af 
 fected her. She could not deceive herself longer, 
 for the agony that filled her cried aloud that she 
 loved him loved him as women of her steadfast 
 principles and lofty nature love unchanging, 
 with a loyalty that even the years of his degrada 
 tion had not the power to alter. Neither spoke 
 again but, for an instant, her hand lay in his. 
 
 "Good bye, Madge," he said, "and God bless 
 you." 
 
 Hurriedly he ran down the stairs and through 
 the court to the street. 
 
 195
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THAT night Vanburg started out on his quest 
 of "Micky de Pinch." Knowing his haunts, 
 feeling certain that within a few hours, if his 
 man were in the city, he could locate him, he went 
 about his task leisurely, with no thought for his 
 personal safety and a determination that, before 
 morning, "Micky" would be in the hands of the 
 authorities. 
 
 Vanburg was acquainted with the habits of many 
 of the craft of which "Micky" was an adept. He 
 had moved much among them, enjoyed their confi 
 dences, knew their haunts, and from long observa 
 tion, and knowledge of the inner workings of the 
 police, he was satisfied that it would be unsafe to 
 call upon them for assistance in apprehending the 
 "Pinch." He felt assured that if they became 
 aware of the fact that the thief was wanted, by 
 means known only to the officers, the man he 
 sought would be notified, and his escape be a 
 matter of certainty. 
 
 He went at once to Death House Joe s, and 
 here, it was his first visit since his meeting with 
 Tito, he ordered whiskey, drinking three or four 
 times in quick succession. 
 
 Since his interview with Madge he had been de 
 pressed as he had not been in years. She had 
 
 196
 
 TITO 
 
 brought before him memories that rankled, and he 
 longed to forget in the delirium of drink what his 
 encounter with her called to mind. Though know 
 ing the "Pinch" was far too crafty to venture here 
 if he believed the man he had attacked was not the 
 one he intended to knife, yet he was satisfied he 
 would learn of the "Pinch s" whereabouts, or pick 
 up a clew that would lead to the discovery of his 
 hiding place. His ear was alert and it was not long 
 before his patience was rewarded : the "Pinch s" 
 name was mentioned, and rising, he lighted a cigar 
 at the counter and took a seat nearer the speakers. 
 
 "Micky is too fly to be caught," one of the 
 speakers was saying. "D yer t ink he s on clis beat 
 an don know what s goin on? De Pinch s ears 
 grow down ter d groun . He can hear a whisper 
 in der front office. Oh, he s got er pull, he has! 
 Why, de roundsmen isn t in it wid im! Not fer a 
 minit ! He wouldn t bodder talkin to em ! It s 
 th captain wid em ! Well, de Pinch always was 
 a lucky guy. Dey ain t wantin im very bad. 
 He s down ter Kelly s workin an easy t ing he 
 picked up." 
 
 Having obtained all the information needed, 
 Vanburg went quietly out and, as it was now mid 
 night, hurried on to Kelly s, a resort of the worst 
 character in the city, to make sure that his man 
 would not elude him. 
 
 He knew the place well. There were two en 
 trances, one in the rear, leading to an alley-way. 
 Whoever left the place must go by way of the 
 street, and if the "Pinch" was in the saloon, Van- 
 
 197
 
 TITO 
 
 burg determined to wait outside until his man 
 appeared. 
 
 Looking over the swinging door into the saloon 
 and not seeing the "Pinch," he entered. Standing 
 at the end of the bar by the rear door, he ordered 
 a drink, and his smile of satisfaction was in answer 
 to the voice of the "Pinch," exhorting his "easy 
 thing" to beware of the light-fingered gentry of 
 the city. 
 
 "Say," Micky s voice was tearful, "it ain t safe to 
 be found asleep wid de roll yer a luggin , yer ought 
 to leave it at home wid th missus ter take care of. 
 The guys in the profesh don t play on th fair." 
 
 Vanburg heard a maudlin response. "I can t 
 act as guardian to that poor fool," he muttered. 
 "My first duty is to McGlennon. Should I go in, 
 the chances are that Micky will not attend the 
 hearing to-morrow, no," he said, glancing at the 
 clock, "to-day it is most one o clock; though I 
 could save the drunken lout from being robbed. 
 However, I ll take a look at him, and return him 
 his money, if I can find him, for later, guileless 
 Micky will deliver it to me, though at the moment 
 he may not believe it." 
 
 Sauntering by the rear door, he could see the 
 "Pinch" and his victim, "Micky" doing the honors 
 by helping his companion to whiskey from a bottle 
 on the table. Vanburg lighted a cigar, then going 
 out of the saloon, waited on the opposite side of 
 the street, from where he could command a view 
 of the rear entrance. He was certain what would 
 happen; it was a process old enough to have 
 
 198
 
 TITO 
 
 warned even those whose brains were muddled by 
 drink. 
 
 It was closing time, there was a scuffle in the 
 room at the rear of the saloon. "Micky s" victim 
 was thrown violently into the alley-way, the lights 
 were extinguished, and the "Pinch" hurriedly leav 
 ing the saloon by the front door, walked rapidly 
 east. 
 
 Entering a semi-respectable tenement building, 
 the outer door of which was open, the "Pinch" 
 hurriedly mounted the stairs, closely followed by 
 Vanburg. The thief s tastes were, comparatively, 
 luxurious, and he scorned the abodes of the ordi 
 nary thief, believing that his standing in the profes 
 sion called for an outward show in keeping with 
 his unquestioned skill. 
 
 What took place after he entered the building, 
 occurred in an incredibly short space of time. 
 
 After mounting the stairs, he went through the 
 darkened hall to the rear, opened a door and struck 
 a match, leaving the door ajar while he lighted the 
 gas. 
 
 In this "Micky" was unwise, for when he turned 
 to close the door Vanburg stood within the room, 
 the door shut and locked, the key in his pocket. 
 At the first flash of light Vanburg shot a quick 
 glance about the room, the one article of interest 
 to attract his attention being a revolver on the 
 dresser, almost within arm s reach, but nearer to 
 him than to "Micky," who stood as one stupefied, 
 under the gas jet in the centre of the room. 
 
 Instantly Vanburg had possession of the re- 
 199
 
 TITO 
 
 volver, which he noted, with satisfaction, was 
 loaded in every chamber. 
 
 Now "Micky" was adroit, quick-witted, and 
 years of practice had trained him to act with 
 promptness and certainty: qualifications which had 
 placed him in the front rank of his trade. His alert 
 mind, and ever ready wit, grasped the situation in 
 stantly, and he realized that, in the dark, with his 
 trusty knife, the chances were as ten to one in his 
 favor. When he had turned and confronted Van- 
 burg, involuntarily he had advanced a step toward 
 him, but when Vanburg grasped the revolver, he 
 stood motionless. He then directed a quick 
 glance at the light, but his visitor divined the 
 thief s intention, and the spring he was about to 
 make to turn off the gas was arrested by the click 
 of the hammer of the weapon in Vanburg s hand. 
 
 "Micky," his hand in the air, his eyes blazing, 
 his face livid, was unable, through rage, to control 
 his utterance. Vanburg smiled, and with the re 
 volver covering the man before him, motioned him 
 to step back. 
 
 "I know it s unfair to take this advantage of 
 you, Micky, " he said. It was only with an effort 
 he could refrain from laughing at the thief s rage 
 and chagrin. "It s also a low down act to come 
 into a man s private room without being invited. 
 I trust you will waive these little breaches of good 
 breeding. The fact, is, I wanted to talk to you, and 
 I knew you were not so kindly disposed toward 
 me as formerly. I don t trust you as I once did, 
 Micky. I must, therefore, ask you to take that 
 
 200
 
 TITO 
 
 knife out of your hip pocket and lay it on the 
 table." 
 
 "What ter hell d yer t ink, I m a jay?" 
 
 "Right on the table, Micky, " said Vanburg in 
 a quiet tone, his eyes fixed on the "Pinch." 
 
 The thief s face was convulsed, the muscles 
 twitched, but he had a large respect for the man 
 who smiled with quiet self-confidence, and a whole 
 some fear of the revolver, which he had reason to 
 believe was in perfect working order. Reluctantly 
 he laid the knife on the table. 
 
 "And, Micky, said Vanburg soothingly, 
 "while you are about it, you might place that roll 
 of bills beside the knife the money you were 
 thoughful enough to take from your latest find 
 this morning at Kelly s. I will relieve you of the 
 responsibility of taking charge of it and see that 
 it is returned to its owner." 
 
 The "Pinch" glared. "Say " he began, chok 
 ing with rage. 
 
 "On the table," smiled Vanburg. 
 
 With an oath the money was thrown on the 
 table. 
 
 "Now," came the quiet command, "I will 
 trouble you to stand as far back as the wall. You 
 are of an impetuous disposition, Micky, and, can 
 didly, you ll bear watching, that is, when there is 
 money in sight. Right over there. That s it. Be 
 docile and we ll get on much better." 
 
 The "Pinch," with muttered oaths, did as di 
 rected, and Vanburg, after possessing himself of 
 knife and money, returned to his former position, 
 
 201
 
 TITO 
 
 taking care that the impulsive "Micky" should 
 always face the muzzle of the revolver. 
 
 "Now," Vanburg s tone was conciliatory, "you 
 will please listen to me attentively. We have had 
 one or two little scrimmages before. You may re 
 member." "Micky" did remember, his eyes said 
 so almost audibly. "Well, heretofore we have 
 settled our little differences fairly, each having 
 an equal opportunity, each of us relying on his 
 own merits. Isn t that so?" 
 
 "Say, what th devil s all dis about?" "Micky s" 
 eyes were bloodshot, his voice husky. "Yer ve got 
 th stuff I took from de bloke, why don t yer take 
 a sneak? Yer can t pinch any more from me." 
 
 "Don t be impatient," was the reply. It was not 
 the words which enraged "Micky," it was the tan 
 talizing smile, and the calm, unruffled air of his 
 questioner that filled the thief with murderous de 
 sires. "As I was saying," Vanburg continued, "we 
 have had our little differences, and I have always 
 endeavored to be fair with you, for you fight well, 
 though clumsily, and notwithstanding that you 
 have an exceeding fondness for using the knife, 
 always, however, from behind. That is a practice 
 of which you should break yourself. It is a vul 
 gar habit, much too low for a gentleman of your 
 prominence." 
 
 "What are yer givin me?" demanded the 
 "Pinch." "Are yer gettin over the jims, or 
 what?" 
 
 "My dear Micky, we are to talk till morning, 
 that is, as you are not in a particularly amiable 
 
 202
 
 TITO 
 
 mood, I shall endeavor to do the talking. As my 
 subject, so far, doesn t seem to awaken the interest 
 in you I could desire, I will change to another. Let 
 me see ! Ah ! I have it ! You may remember that 
 some two months ago there was a break up in 
 Westchester County ? Am I right as to the time ?" 
 
 "Micky" glared, but refused to reply. 
 
 "I think I am correct," Vanburg continued, his 
 tone one that would wring confidence from a stone. 
 <l l fix the date by the attempt to rob a national 
 bank the same night. This, however, failed, but 
 the gang were more successful at the local post- 
 office; their only reward postage stamps. Think of 
 it! Penny stamps! Micky, I wouldn t have 
 believed it of you." 
 
 "Say now, look ere! I m sick of this, I am. 
 What s yer lay? Yer ve got the green that I 
 pinched at Kelly s, what more do yer want? If 
 yer don t quit and git, I ll make a holler! D yer 
 hear? a holler, an I ll have every bloomin cop 
 in the precinct ere in five minutes. I ve got a pull 
 that ll get me out all right; now jest notice that 
 an leave me me tools an git out." 
 
 "What, Micky, make a noise, a holler as you 
 say? With the postage stamps in this room?" 
 "Micky" winced. "The police would search this 
 very comfortable apartment, and the stamps 
 that s a ten to twenty years offence. No, Micky, 
 you ll keep quiet. It s most morning. Later in 
 the day I shall ask you to take a walk with me." 
 
 Throughout the night Vanburg talked banter- 
 ingly or sat silent, never moving his eyes from the 
 
 203
 
 TITO 
 
 man who watched for an unguarded moment to 
 spring upon him. But the thief s respect for the 
 courage of his captor guided his judgment, for he 
 regarded Vanburg with fear and a degree of awe. 
 The ever ready revolver lent him a caution which 
 controlled his impulse to escape, and the night 
 wore away. Toward morning, Vanburg, after a 
 long silence, addressed his prisoner. 
 
 "Now, Micky, you are going out for a walk, 
 and before we start, a word of advice. I know 
 something of these little affairs up country. Your 
 reputation would not, should you come before a 
 criminal judge, assist you. It is, in fact, odorifer 
 ous. The postoffice break is good for a trip up the 
 river. I can furnish all the evidence necessary. 
 If you try to bolt well, up the river you go. You 
 will now kindly walk two paces in advance of me 
 to the street. I will direct you as we go, and 
 Micky, to quench any desire of making a break, 
 pray allow me to add that at one time I was the 
 champion sprinter in the state of New York, also 
 in some of the eastern states, where larger schools 
 flourish. I have not forgotten the trick. This 
 may sound boastful, my friend, if so, forgive me; 
 I offer it as a morsel of precautionary advice. Now 
 come." 
 
 Within twenty minutes "Micky de Pinch" was 
 in the hands of the authorities. 
 
 At ten o clock the hearing began. Madge Hol 
 lander, with Wilhelmina, sat beside McGlennon s 
 counsel. Vanburg was to testify, and sat in the 
 rear of the room. When the judge entered, Van- 
 
 204
 
 TITO 
 
 burg, with a shudder, recognized an acquaintance 
 of his early life, a member of his club, a gen 
 tleman who had been identified with his father in 
 many business transactions. How could he meet 
 this man who might recognize him? This was the 
 hardest ordeal he had been called upon to face, and 
 the blood of humiliation surged to his cheeks. 
 
 The hearing was short, almost informal; the 
 victim of the assault, having identified "Micky de 
 Pinch" when he had been brought before him, 
 McGlennon s discharge was a certainty. Vanburg 
 was called to the stand. 
 
 He answered the questions in a low voice, tes 
 tifying as to what he knew of "Micky de Pinch." 
 The judge s eyes were fixed upon him in a pro 
 longed, incredulous stare. Vanburg was looking 
 straight before him, but he felt the glance; he 
 knew that his identity had been discovered. 
 
 "What name did you give, Mr. Witness?" 
 Madge Hollander s face became suddenly livid. 
 She was trembling, and leaned forward to catch 
 Vanburg s answer. 
 
 "Horace Kent," came the firm reply. Still his 
 eyes were leveled at the rear of the room. 
 
 "Kent," repeated the judge. "Your voice is 
 that of a Vanburg I once knew." 
 
 Vanburg turned his head, and his eyes, unflinch 
 ing, held those that were directed toward him in 
 a steely, searching glance. 
 
 "The man of whom you speak," replied Van 
 burg, "is dead." 
 
 The voice was that of a gentleman, quiet, cul- 
 205
 
 TITO 
 
 tured, and he stood erect, his eyes meeting those 
 of his questioner. 
 
 "Yes," came the reply in halting tones, "I 
 believe he is dead." 
 
 The case against McGlennon was dismissed, but 
 he was held as a witness and paroled in the custody 
 of his attorney. 
 
 Madge and Wilhelmina sought Vanburg to ex 
 press their gratitude. He had gone. 
 
 206
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 ON the day of McGlennon s acquittal, Van- 
 burg disappeared. For the three days fol 
 lowing the trial, at Madge s request, Mc- 
 Glennon searched for him, visiting the places that 
 he frequented, inquiring of those who knew him, 
 but to no avail. To his friends he was as com 
 pletely lost as if he were at the bottom of the East 
 River, and, at times, such a possibility suggested 
 itself to McGlennon ; but Madge would not enter 
 tain the thought. "He is the last man in the 
 world," she declared, "to seek a coward s refuge." 
 Still, the ugly fact remained, and could not be con 
 troverted not the slightest clue of his where 
 abouts could be found to indicate where he had 
 gone, or when, if ever, he would return. 
 
 Madge wished to thank him for what seemed to 
 her the extraordinary capture of "Micky de 
 Pinch" ; for the officers had reported before the 
 hearing that the thief was not in the city, or to be 
 found, and that it was more than probable that he 
 had left the country, all of which made Vanburg s 
 feat of producing him the more remarkable. But 
 this was only an excuse, for it was her desire to 
 make one more appeal, once more to beg, to im 
 plore him. for the sake of his future, to return to 
 his former life. 
 
 207
 
 TITO 
 
 On the fourth day she relaxed her efforts, but 
 she did not despair, and begged McGlennon, 
 should Vanburg return, to communicate with her 
 through his daughter. 
 
 But here another surprise was in store for her. 
 McGlennon replied, "Miss Hollander, you know 
 that I appreciate to the fullest extent what you 
 have done for me, and for my daughter, Bill; 
 but don t ask me to do that, which, were I to 
 promise, would make me false to myself and to the 
 friend whom I respect. That, I cannot, I will not 
 do, neither will I deceive you by a promise. 
 Should Kent return" he knew him by no other 
 name "and did he ask me not to inform his 
 friends even you I would respect his request as 
 I would an oath. Don t think me ungrateful, but 
 I know the man, and it is my belief that he has 
 disappeared to escape those who have his welfare 
 at heart. Who he is, what his past station in life, 
 I know not ; but I could not betray him. It would 
 be Judas-like, and I believe you will not ask it of 
 me." 
 
 "No," Madge replied, "I respect your feelings, 
 your principles. We shall be all the better 
 friends." So she took up her routine of work, 
 and McGlennon returned to the lifting of boxes. 
 
 Bill, gentle, observing, amiable little Bill, for 
 her bodily growth had not kept pace with the 
 wisdom that had come to her pondered what she 
 had seen, what she had heard during the past week. 
 Who was the mysterious friend of her father s 
 whom Madge seemed to know, her Madge, the 
 
 208
 
 TITO 
 
 beautiful, the fairy god-mother, whom she had 
 watched, had listened to, whose tell-tale face had 
 disclosed the secret that she believed was locked 
 in her own heart. Bill had discovered it that 
 Madge loved Vanburg, fondly, passionately. Bill, 
 with jealous insight, had read it in her eyes, in the 
 unguarded tones of her voice, and after Madge had 
 gone she smiled with a sweet joy, because she 
 should share the secret with her benefactress, who 
 would never know. 
 
 When Vanburg had left the court-room, it was 
 almost with a feeling of rage that Fate had played 
 him such an unkind trick that he should have 
 encountered Madge, whom he esteemed above all 
 women, that he should have been recognized by his 
 old acquaintance and friend the judge of the 
 court. He had but one desire to get away where 
 he would not again be in danger of meeting those 
 he had known, of enduring the humiliation of be 
 ing reminded that forever he must be as one dead. 
 
 He drank, he drank deeply; and he went on and 
 on to i distant part of the city. In his present state 
 of feeling, he did not wish to see those whom he 
 was satisfied would seek him not even McGlen- 
 non. To be alone was his one desire; then his 
 thoughts filled him with rage rage at his own 
 madness, chagrin, shame, and he drank, drank 
 again and again, whiskey always, and always more. 
 At last his nerves became quiet, his brain refused 
 the effort to think, and, though outwardly he 
 appeared sober, a stupor settled over him and the 
 rebellious mind succumbed to the influence of the 
 
 209
 
 TITO 
 
 liquor his thoughts were stilled. The first day of 
 this madness, for madness it was, he forgot to eat ; 
 the succeeding two days, the thought of food filled 
 him with disgust. His nights were sleepless, and 
 on the fourth clay, when he returned to his room 
 he was verging on nervous and mental collapse. 
 
 Lying on the bed he tossed through hours of 
 mental torture, and the day wore into the night. 
 He determined, for that night, to drink no more, 
 and as the hours went by, the reaction began to be 
 manifest. Lack of food, loss of sleep, and the 
 waning effect of the stimulants were doing their 
 work; the nervous system was in a chaotic state, 
 and, with a start, he would sit upright in the bed, 
 at times fancying the room peopled with crowds of 
 the murderous class of which "Micky de Pinch" 
 was the leader. The madness of delirium was with 
 him, and his fevered imagination led him through 
 scenes of terror, carnage, bloodshed then the 
 mind, by an heroic effort, would again become 
 normal. With the sweat standing in beads on 
 face and brow, he would laugh as they laugh who, 
 when by a trick, an evolution of the mind, the mad 
 ness they long for eludes them, are hurled back 
 into the realization of hopeless sanity. 
 
 During the long night he struggled for the sleep 
 that would not come. The hours went by, hours 
 of fanciful illusions, visions filled with horror 
 journeys through limitless space, pursued, tor 
 tured, escaping only to again take up his never 
 ending flight. His eyes would close for a few 
 seconds, a minute seemed ages, centuries of time, 
 
 2IO
 
 TITO 
 
 then, with a cry of agony, he would beat the air 
 with his clenched fists, to ward off the blows that 
 in fancy were being rained upon him, while spectre 
 hands, long, gaunt, the bony fingers twitching 
 with convulsive eagerness to seize him, yet 
 ever the same distance from him, drew from 
 him a cry of fear, piercing, sickening. Again, 
 trembling with affright, his senses were in com 
 mand, and, with a moan, sinking on the pillow, he 
 would close his eyes to shut out the awful sight. 
 In a lethargy, he was falling through space, 
 falling, falling since the beginning of time, grasp 
 ing at air, through clouds, through tempests, while 
 the world rocked and the universe was disrupted, 
 but ever going down, down, until the end of all, of 
 eternity. 
 
 A clock striking the hour in a nearby church 
 tower, was the booming of cannon that he heard, 
 and he could see the shells bursting over fields of 
 carnage, bloody, distorted faces, filling him with 
 dread, with fear, sounds of agony, of anguish, 
 appeals of the dying ; until a cloud shut in the hor 
 ror, and his journey through space was resumed. 
 
 The morning sun brought the first fitful sleep, 
 for nature was exhausted and the over-tasked 
 nerves found rest. 
 
 At nine o clock he arose, weak, unrefreshed, 
 and after bathing face and hands, sat on the edge 
 of the bed. 
 
 "What a night of horror horrors!" he ex 
 claimed jocularly. "We all reach that stage. 
 It s only a question of time and constitution. Mine 
 
 211
 
 TITO 
 
 must be of leather toughness. Ach ! But it was 
 terrible ! I had a touch of the em ! I don t like 
 to mention it ! There on the table is the knife 
 and revolver that Micky de Pinch was considerate 
 enough to deliver over to me. How easy it would 
 be," he mused, as he looked at the weapons. "One 
 touch on the trigger of the revolver, and then 
 rest, oblivion. They say it s a coward s act I 
 wonder if it really is ! For myself I could soon 
 decide, but there are others to consider one 
 other, and I wouldn t have it said no, I will not. 
 Let me see! When did we eat last? One, two, 
 five days ago. What a vulgar necessity eating is 
 also, at times, drinking. Why can t the scien 
 tists invent something like an essence of life, stored 
 vitality, that one injects as one does morphine, and 
 so do away with this eating." 
 
 A knock at the door interrupted. 
 
 "Come in," cried Vanburg. 
 
 Tito entered. 
 
 212
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 TITO paused at the threshold, smiling, his eyes 
 dancing with pleasure, then his rippling 
 laugh rang up the quiet. Vanburg stared 
 at him almost vacantly. 
 
 "Is this," he muttered under his breath, "the 
 continuation of my night of horror? Do visions 
 still come to me in broad daylight?" 
 
 He rose unsteadily and approached Tito, who, 
 unable to comprehend his action, to understand 
 the look of fear on Vanburg s haggard counte 
 nance, waited for him to speak. Vanburg laid his 
 hand on the boy s shoulder. 
 
 "No," he exclaimed, his voice choking with joy, 
 "no, it is Tito, come back to me." His words 
 ended in a half sob and his eyes moistened. 
 "When I believed that you, too, like all the world, 
 had forgotten me, you come to me again. Oh, 
 Tito, boy, why could you not have come before 
 and saved me? but that is passed." He drew the 
 boy to him, and Tito looked up into the face of the 
 man who held him close. The eyes were blood 
 shot, the lines about the mouth drawn as if from 
 suffering, the face haggard, colorless. The won 
 dering eyes of the boy questioned the cause before 
 the words came. 
 
 213
 
 TITO 
 
 "Thou hast been ill and alone. Ah ! Had I 
 but known " 
 
 "Aye, boy, ill, as the soul is ill, as the mind is 
 diseased. Ill, true, but of my own making. Sick, 
 as those who long to be released, and who cannot 
 be, heartsick, boy an ailment which you cannot 
 know, which you cannot understand. But enough, 
 you are here and I am well again. See," he said, 
 looking down upon the boy, his face as that of a 
 death mask "now am I myself again." 
 
 The lips could not force a smile, but in the eyes 
 that were turned to meet those of his visitor, there 
 was a longing, a craving for a look, a word of 
 affection that the quick, intuitive mind of the boy 
 grasped ; and an answering flash of feeling lighted 
 up his features. 
 
 "Why did I not know that thou wert ill? 
 Would I not have come? Yes, and quickly. 
 Didst thou not care for me as no other ever has?" 
 
 "Care for you ! Boy, you cannot realize ! The 
 days you were with me were the one bright 
 spot in years of darkness. But enough ! I can 
 tell by the twinkle in your eyes that you have not 
 had coffee." 
 
 Vanburg laughed. It was the old-time mirth 
 and was good to hear. His eyes had become 
 clearer, his face had assumed its normal ex 
 pression, a faint color had come into his cheeks, 
 and in the boy s presence he seemed a being other 
 than the Vanburg of a few hours before. 
 
 He went out and returned with coffee, rolls and 
 fruit; and, under the exhilaration of the coffee, 
 
 214
 
 TITO 
 
 they chatted and laughed, Tito, meanwhile, re 
 counting his experiences since he had last seen his 
 companion. At times an expression of abstrac 
 tion stole into Vanburg s eyes. He was enrap 
 tured by the boy s voice, which stirred him as, in 
 years, nothing else had had the power to do. And 
 Tito s eyes, brimming with happiness, lingered on 
 the face of the man, irresistibly drawn to him, the 
 emotions of youth stirring his inner nature into 
 spontaneous outbursts of mirth. 
 
 "Tell me," he said, "thou wert ill? Thou! 
 How can it be? Thou who art so strong, who 
 fought with the thieves, aye ! like a god !" 
 
 Vanburg smiled. "It was the sickness of the 
 mind, the brain. I will not tell you, boy, what 
 occasioned it, for you would think the less of me, 
 nay, you would despise me." 
 
 "Despise thee ! No. Knowest thou that when 
 I came to thee to-day and saw thee again, it was as 
 though a great joy had come to me? Why should 
 it be so?" he asked in the tone of one who would 
 unravel a great truth. "Thou shalt go thy way and 
 we shall not meet again; I shall go mine a way 
 that takes me back to dear Italia; that will be 
 when, without shame, I can go back and meet 
 those who scoff at me. Then thou wilt forget the 
 Little Devil, and I shall remember thee as one so 
 great, as one who fought as I never can hope to 
 but I shall also remember thee as one who was 
 good to me." 
 
 Vanburg remained silent. Again the boy s 
 
 215
 
 TITO 
 
 words brought before him his complete isolation. 
 With an effort he put the thoughts from him. 
 
 "Tell me," he said gently, "of your life in Italia. 
 Remember that I, too, love the flowers, the song, 
 the sunshine: and had I a desire left, it would be 
 that I could once again see the land that gave me 
 the only happiness I ever knew." 
 
 Into Tito s eyes came a dreamy expression. In 
 memory, he was again in the valley of the Arno. 
 Scenes which were stamped upon his impression 
 able mind revolved before him. Then a cloud 
 overspread his fair face, the passion of his child 
 hood was in control, and the quickening blood, 
 dancing to his cheeks, spoke of shame that still 
 rankled in his heart. 
 
 Again he was the Tito of the woods, the fields, 
 his eyes, his voice, his soul in the years that were 
 gone. 
 
 "I can tell thee only of the Tito whom no one 
 would know, for that I could not tell them who I 
 was. When they asked me my name, I could only 
 answer Tito. That was all. Then they would 
 smile and walk away. Then would I go to the 
 river and ask the Madonna why it was so. But 
 no one would answer but the birds, and after I had 
 cried till night had come, I would go home to the 
 old woman she with whom I lived and demand 
 of her who I was, who the father that had brought 
 me into the world to be laughed at, to be called 
 Ah! if you only knew how it hurt! and the old 
 woman would laugh, laugh as they might laugh in 
 hell. But she would tell me nothing only to wait 
 
 216
 
 TITO 
 
 always to wait. And her face as she laughed I 
 can see it now ! It was terrible ! And I would run 
 away into the woods that I might not hear. But 
 little by little she told me all all but his name, all 
 but the one thing that I would know; and ah! 
 how I longed to learn the name that I might stand 
 before him and ask him what he had to say to me 
 his son? Then the old woman died, in the 
 night, alone, and had not told me. But he is rich, 
 this father whom I would find. And I shall ask 
 him of the mother whom I have never known, and 
 then do you know what in my country they say 
 of him who will not avenge a wrong? Do you 
 know they say he is not fit to eat with swine? 
 Think you I would go back and look them in the 
 face could I not say: "Here, on my knife, is his 
 dirty blood?" 
 
 As Tito progressed with his story so grew his 
 passion, and his tones, clear and with a determined 
 ring, filled the room, while Vanburg listened, at 
 first with pity, then with surprise which gave place 
 to astonishment. He had not believed the boy 
 possessed of such depth of feeling, and the eyes 
 that flashed gleams of hate told him he was listen 
 ing to a boy in years with the soul of a man. 
 Vanburg was about to reply but, with an imperi 
 ous wave of his hand, Tito interrupted. 
 
 "Thou wouldst say that I am wrong. How 
 canst thou know who have never suffered the 
 shame, the sorrow? Canst thou tell me why he 
 should not answer me? No, thou canst not, thou 
 canst not." 
 
 217
 
 TITO 
 
 "Would to God that I could, boy, so that you 
 might heed me. What can I say, what can I do 
 to turn you from your awful purpose ? Tito, boy, 
 listen to me. It is not of this father of whom I 
 think, but of you. His life, even now, is on the 
 ebb, rushing out, perhaps, with the fast tide. His 
 may be but the wreckage of a. life that drifts, no 
 one knows where, no one cares. Your life is in 
 the bud, opening into life, with promise that the 
 gods might envy; but this passion will blight it, 
 and the soul within you will live in torment, it will 
 become shrunken, deformed. All that is good in 
 you will die, the music will leave your voice, the 
 light your eyes, and you will not care for the beau 
 ties of your own Italia; for on every leaf, on every 
 flower will there be a drop of crimson blood, my 
 Tito." 
 
 "Why wilt thou talk to me so ?" wailed the boy, 
 agony in his tones, "thou makest me falter forget; 
 and I would not, I must not. Think of the mother 
 whom I have neA er seen, think of her wrong. And 
 thou wouldst ask me to forget? Madonna Mia, 
 no! Ask me not that I have thought of thee 
 much, aye, each day have I thought of thee. See ! 
 Here is the envelope that thou gavest me. I 
 knew what was within I could tell by the touch, 
 and I said no, it is not for me. Sometime I shall 
 go to him and he will not have money, and I shall 
 have it for him. Thou wilt not ask me to forget 
 my wrong? Thou, who art so brave. After I 
 had left thee I felt the touch of thy lips on my 
 forehead, and I was glad that someone there was 
 
 218
 
 TITO 
 
 who did not remember that I was nameless. And 
 I longed to come to thee again, to touch thy hand, 
 to hear thee speak. But, wert thou the father 
 whom I seek, would I, with this knife, reach thee 
 where the thief failed !" 
 
 He took the knife of "Micky de Pinch" from 
 the table, and held it before Vanburg, who, shud 
 dering, turned his head away. It seemed to him, 
 even at that moment, that he could feel the blade 
 as, with the power of hate, the boy s hand drove it 
 home. Taking the knife in his hand he threw it 
 across the room, where it struck against the wall 
 with a steely ring. 
 
 Tito, boy, with this passion your young life 
 will burn out; it will scorch your very soul. Put 
 these feelings from you, for they are madness; 
 they will lead you to no good ; they will result 
 in the death of all the future has to offer. Who 
 could have instilled such thoughts into your young 
 mind? Was it this old woman of whom you 
 speak ? You do not realize you are rearing a foun 
 dation that will fall and crush you, and the young 
 life that is now so beautiful ! Think what it would 
 be with blood upon your hands the blood of your 
 own father. Think of what I say, boy." 
 
 "Think? Have I not thought until my brain 
 aches ! Through the clays and the nights ! Am I 
 not of a people who right their wrongs with the 
 knife? Can I go back and look them in the face, 
 and then when they say to me, Tito, art thou 
 avenged? must T answer, no, and hang my head 
 with the shame that will be mine? Then shall 
 
 219
 
 TITO 
 
 they call me by another name Coward! Aye, 
 Coward! That would be worse than the other, 
 for I am no coward. No," he cried, as Vanburg 
 was about to interrupt him, "the Fates have willed 
 it so, it is as they direct. I have my mission, it is as 
 clear to me as the sunlight through the window." 
 
 "God grant for your own sake, that you may not 
 succeed. Could I give my worthless life to turn 
 you from your purpose, then would I believe the 
 past years had not been lived in vain. Come, boy, 
 let us talk no more of this. Put it from your mind. 
 You have suffered, aye, sorrow, humiliation, that 
 I believe ; but you can rise above these feelings, for 
 you are blameless. But, boy, there is a sorrow, 
 greater, keener, more relentless than any your 
 young life has known, a sorrow that gnaws at the 
 heart, that never slumbers: sickening, ever and 
 ever with you remorse. What you now feel is 
 but the echo of a wrong that is not yours ; should 
 you succeed, then may you know the torments of 
 the damned. We will speak no more of it not 
 now. It is yet early, and this is a day I should 
 work that we may live, and there is much to do." 
 
 "What is this work that thou must do? May 
 I not also work? See!" Standing, he threw out 
 his arms. "Am I not strong?" 
 
 Vanburg laughed. 
 
 "Yes, but this work of mine requires skill and 
 long training, and and, no, little man, it is not 
 such work as you could do. As for me well, you 
 see, it suits my mental condition." 
 
 "But what is this work ?" queried Tito. 
 220
 
 TITO 
 
 Vanburg was being attacked at close quarters. 
 He smiled at the boy s persistence. 
 
 "It is concerned with the discharge of a ship s 
 cargo from the hold and the propulsion of the mer 
 chandise, by means of a truck, to the wharf. It is 
 a very delicate operation and requires a fineness of 
 judgment in selecting the more accessible and 
 lighter burdens." 
 
 "Em ! I don t know what it is. I don t think I 
 should like it." 
 
 "No," replied Vanburg, "that you would not. 
 You will come to me again, Tito, and soon." 
 
 "Yes," he replied. 
 
 Within the hour Vanburg was pushing heavy 
 boxes on a truck, for he had no difficulty in procur 
 ing work at any time. He went about his 
 labor silently, but he had gained a reputation 
 for prodigious strength, and his willingness and 
 dexterity insured him a day s pay when he cared to 
 seek it. 
 
 Throughout the day his mind dwelt on Tito and 
 what the boy had told him of his quest in America. 
 The boy was possessed of will power and deter 
 mination unusual in one so young, and Vanburg 
 realized that it would be no easy task to turn him 
 from his purpose. He was fully aware of the diffi 
 culty which confronted him, and he decided that 
 when he should again see Tito he would question 
 him more fully as to his past life, to gather infor 
 mation upon which to proceed; and the day wore 
 itself away. 
 
 At six o clock, with McGlennon, he was on his 
 221
 
 TITO 
 
 way to his cheerless room, with the hope that 
 Tito would return. He could not keep the boy 
 from his mind any length of time and, though Mc- 
 Glennon had much to tell, he found Vanburg sin 
 gularly absent-minded and unresponsive. 
 
 At the corner of the street they parted, and the 
 Scotchman, noting his companion s reticence, bade 
 him good-night and proceeded homeward. 
 
 Vanburg had reached the entrance of the build 
 ing where he lodged, and was about to enter, 
 when, hearing his name spoken, he turned quickly, 
 to be confronted by Madge Hollander. 
 
 Her eyes sought his, and her smile of pleasure 
 disconcerted him. 
 
 "You will forgive me for coming here," she 
 said, "but I must see you, if only for a moment" 
 
 "I have no place to which I can ask you to go, 
 where we might talk in privacy." His tone was 
 one of marked courtesy. 
 
 "We can walk," she suggested, "I wished 
 to see you so much ; to thank you for your help in 
 Mr. McGlennon s trouble. His daughter has 
 sought you every day to express her gratitude; of 
 course her father has already done so." 
 
 "He tried to," Vanburg replied, laughing, "but 
 1 checked him." 
 
 "I wrung from Mr. McGlennon, but with great 
 difficulty, the knowledge of where I could find 
 you. Believe me, it was much against his will 
 that he gave me the information ; you will not, I 
 know, lay it up against him as a breach of friend 
 ship, for he was as loath to tell me as you seem to 
 
 222
 
 TITO 
 
 be to keep up our old acquaintance. But I could 
 not help it," her voice was tremulous, "I had an 
 overpowering desire to see you, to speak to you. 
 You can guess the feelings that prompted me. 
 You are not angry?" 
 
 "Angry, Madge, dear! No, I know what you 
 would say, I realize what you feel, but the time 
 has long since passed when I could consider what 
 you would suggest. I have, by my own acts, 
 burned the bridges behind me, cutting off all pos 
 sibility of turning back, destroying all hope of 
 returning to my former position in life. I am as 
 irredeemably lost as if I were, in reality, dead; and 
 it is best so. You could not understand., even were 
 I to attempt useless explanations; suffice it that 
 what made the future something of light, of bright 
 ness, passed out of my life, and I am drifting aim 
 lessly without hope, without desire to escape the 
 maelstrom of a wasted existence." 
 
 "You cannot realize how it pains me to hear 
 you talk so," she said. 
 
 "I have no desire to wound you, I know you 
 are grieved, shocked." 
 
 "Both," she replied. "I hoped to point out 
 a way " 
 
 He smiled at her persistence, her earnestness. 
 
 "No, Madge, dear, no. Let us not discuss it 
 further. It is better, Madge, that we do not meet 
 again; nothing good would come of it, and much 
 as I would like to see you, these meetings fill me 
 with unrest, they stir emotions I would stifle, 
 arousing in me remembrances that are a torture. 
 
 223
 
 TITO 
 
 This is not a locality that you should visit, 
 even for a purpose that one of your pure instincts 
 would pursue. I shall remember you, Madge, as 
 a true comrade; and now I will leave you here, 
 where you can take a car uptown. Good bye, 
 and " his voice shook with emotion "for God s 
 sake forget that I live." 
 
 "Good bye," she replied in a tremulous voice, 
 taking his hand in her own, "I shall remember 
 only that you live, and I shall not despair." 
 
 He stood at the street crossing while she 
 boarded an uptown car; then, with a weary sigh, 
 turned away. 
 
 224
 
 "GOOD-BYE," SHE REPLIED IN A TREMULOUS VOICE.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 VANBURG sat in his room, moody and ab 
 stracted, waiting for Tito to return, but as 
 the hours went by he abandoned hope and 
 determined to go out, for the dreariness of the 
 room was disheartening. His interview with 
 Madge Hollander had not been productive of 
 good, for it stirred memories of his former life, and 
 though he could find no satisfactory reason, his 
 meeting with her had aroused a savage resentment 
 against the world that he blamed for not allowing 
 him to live in peace the life he had chosen. 
 
 He paced the floor with rapid strides. 
 
 "What right," he muttered, "has the world, of 
 which I ask nothing but to live in my own sodden 
 way, to interfere? Am I necessary to its prog 
 ress? No! Do I owe it a duty? Once, per 
 haps I did, but that was when I was of it. Now, 
 I am dead, to all intents and purposes, dead. 
 The man, the soul within me is no more, nothing 
 remains but the shell, the clay that is fast crum 
 bling, the physical life that is burning out." 
 
 He laughed scoffingly. 
 
 "Here I am, one in millions of the vast herd, a 
 speck of dirt, a worm : soulless, hopeless, and yet 
 the world, with its vexatious cares, rinding time to 
 concern itself with my earthly, my earthy being, 
 
 225
 
 TITO 
 
 notes that I am of its figment, and though I have 
 proclaimed myself dead, it insists that I live." 
 
 Again the mocking laugh. 
 
 "I suppose its lease not having expired, it has a 
 lien upon my human carcass, and it is not content 
 unless it records its own measure of suffering. 
 Will you, rotund Shylock, shake up the bones of 
 him whom you will not permit to remain dead, 
 prod the fire to keep the little life-flame from 
 snuffing out? You cannot resurrect me, for I 
 have been dead too long a time. Use caution, 
 for when you become too persistent, you drive me 
 to visit my friend, Death House Joe. He, the 
 sly, calculating knave, has an antidote for your 
 poison. Take heed, then, how you exact your 
 measure of penance ; for the more importunate you 
 become, the more does Joe of the House of Death 
 thrive. He smiled ironically. "Vanburg, you re 
 talking skittles. Thus do they talk who woo an 
 eternal madness, not the madness of drink, 
 that other stage, to which the illusions of dis 
 ordered nerves, is sanity." 
 
 He remained silent for some moments, the 
 rumble of the city, like the sullen growl of a wild 
 beast fretting at its enforced captivity, the only 
 sound. 
 
 "Yet," he continued in a gentler tone, "as far as 
 within me lies, I have one regret Madge. Poor 
 noble-hearted girl, nay," he smiled, "woman, for 
 we are no longer of tender years. What a heart 
 she has! True to the friendship of our youth. 
 She is not of the butterfly crowd, and the years 
 
 226
 
 TITO 
 
 have not succeeded in dwarfing her noble charac 
 ter. In her practicability she is worldliness itself 
 and yet, in her purity of thought and deed, un 
 worldly as a child. Dear Madge, I revere you for 
 what you would do for me, for your goodness of 
 heart, for the conventionalities of your social posi 
 tion you hold as naught, even in contempt; but 
 you have stirred within me the demon of unrest. 
 If I knew where to find the boy, I would go to 
 him," he said abruptly. Tito, yours is a magic 
 power, for you, Little Devil, have, like a vine, 
 wound yourself about my very life. What is it 
 that draws me to the boy? Only the tone of his 
 voice and again I am living the years of hope, of 
 love, of promise. Heigh-ho, that is the way of 
 the weary world. We love, and then, then it all 
 ends, as all things do that are mortal, all but suf 
 fering. That, even before the death of the testa 
 tor, is bequeathed to the next generation and 
 becomes a perpetual legacy. I believe I ll go out 
 and interview Joe he of the House of Death 
 and joy. I am sorry my friend, The Pinch, is de 
 tained by the authorities ; I rather enjoy his com 
 pany at times. To-night happens to be one of the 
 times. There is a vast amount of human philos 
 ophy in Micky, but Fate directed it into vicious 
 channels ; wherefore, Micky is not to blame. But 
 the powers have ruled that The Pinch be de 
 tained, thus, by its arbitrary will, balking my desire 
 to further cultivate that very untrustworthy, but 
 withal, fascinating gentleman. Hence, I am 
 thrown upon my own society, which, in my pres- 
 
 227
 
 TITO 
 
 ent mood, is not what would be deemed pleasur 
 able, or seeking entertainment at the hands of 
 someone less worthy than the nimble-fingered 
 Pinch. Let it be said, to the credit of that indi 
 vidual, that in his hate he is intense, heroic, even 
 rising, at times, to the sublime. Well, if the law, 
 that insatiable monster, has laid a cruel hand upon 
 him, he suffers not alone, for I am deprived of his 
 very charming society. Now then, Joe, I shall 
 look upon the clan that rally to your slogan, five- 
 cent whiskey and the forgetfulness of delirium. 
 What if the boy should return? It is late, too late 
 even to hope, yet will I leave the door unlocked 
 and the light burning. And now to woo the yel 
 low jade." 
 
 When he entered Joe s, it was plain to be seen 
 that there was a commotion within. The crowd 
 was augmented by one or two new faces, and the 
 excited jumble of voices told plainly that there was 
 strife abroad. Gesticulating wildly, they were all 
 talking at the same time, one, whom Vanburg 
 recognized as an expert pickpocket, approached 
 him as he entered. 
 
 "Say," he bellowed in stentorian tones, "here s 
 his giblets as tru Micky de Pinch, as slick a trick 
 as ever I seed done. He s on de square, he is, an 
 I ll bank me life on im. He s eddicated and can 
 talk one uv de cheap guys, holdin down a chair 
 on de bench, off his seat. He kin settle dis ques 
 tion as well as any judge." 
 
 A roar of approval greeted the speaker s propo 
 sition. Vanburg was feared, but his spirit of fair- 
 
 228
 
 TITO 
 
 ness had won him the respect of the most hard 
 ened offender that knew him ; and since his first 
 encounter with "The Pinch," he enjoyed a fast 
 growing popularity. It was a question of thieving 
 ethics that was agitating the motley gathering, 
 and the nyive proposition of the spokesman was 
 that Vanburg should sit as judge, and, after hear 
 ing the evidence, render a verdict in accordance 
 with their unwritten code. 
 
 Vanburg smiled. He was amused at the propo 
 sition, at the seriousness with which it was made, 
 at the earnest, set expression on the faces of the 
 crowd, upon which every degree of viciousness 
 was stamped. Ordering the bar-tender to bring 
 the court a drink, they adjourned to the rear room, 
 and, with a formality gleaned from many and costly 
 experiences, the impromptu tribunal convened. 
 
 McGlennon had entered, and, having heard the 
 thieves proposal that Vanburg act as judge, he 
 joined them when they had pushed through into 
 the rear room. As Vanburg took his seat he 
 caught McGlennon s eye, and an amused, quizzical 
 glance passed between the two men. It was a 
 glance both well understood they would be pre 
 pared for any emergency. 
 
 Now, you guys hear me !" it was the originator 
 of the proceedings who spoke. "His giblets ere," 
 indicating Vanburg, "is de court, and dis is on de 
 level. Don t interfere wid de court ! If yer do 
 say! dere ain t one uv yer he can t dust de floor 
 wid, so just be as dumb as if yer wer doin stunts 
 at two A. M. on a strike-match job. You, Red 
 
 229
 
 TITO 
 
 Sullivan, kin do yer own shoutin ; an yer onto 
 wot dey says of a lawyer as tries is own case? 
 Well, he settles. I t ink I can steer our case 
 t rough. Is de court ready?" 
 
 Vanhurg signified that the court was open. 
 
 "Then let er go! Sully, it s your spiel. No 
 frills now, jest de plain facts! Let er go!" 
 
 "Yer honor," began Sullivan of the red hair, 
 "it s like dis." 
 
 "Are you going to testify?" queried Vanburg, 
 gravely. 
 
 "O 5 course I m goin ter tell me side uv de case ! 
 What d yer t ink?" 
 
 "I think," came the calm reply, "that you will 
 address the court with more respect. You are not 
 now in the criminal division of our city court. The 
 witnesses who are to testify will hold up their right 
 hand and be sworn." 
 
 The hand of every individual in the room, with 
 the exception of McGlennon, shot into the air. 
 
 The court smiled and, with due solemnity, ad 
 ministered the customary oath. 
 
 "You may proceed, Mr. Sullivan." The court s 
 tone was of judicial calmness. 
 
 The prefix "Mr." disconcerted the intrepid 
 Sullivan. All the parties concerned joined in a 
 spontaneous yell of delight and admiration for the 
 court. 
 
 "Say," the voice rose above the roar, "de judge 
 is a peach ! Dat s wot he is !" 
 
 Vanburg, from his raised seat on the bootblack 
 stand, rapped sharply. 
 
 230
 
 TITO 
 
 "If better order is not maintained, the court will 
 be cleared of all but the attorneys and the testify 
 ing witness." 
 
 Consternation and a momentary silence fol 
 lowed, broken only by the responsive breathing 
 of the plaintiff. The court nodded for him to 
 proceed. 
 
 "It s dis way, yer honor," spoke Sullivan, "dis 
 guy ere, indicating the cause of the judicial in 
 quiry with a scornful gesture, me an dis guy and 
 his pal, Bow-leg Sheeny, were out on a little ex 
 cursion, dat s de genteel guff fer it, and when we 
 gets back ter town, we have a job lot er silver de 
 real article, an no plated fake about it. Well, yer 
 honor, no matter how we got it, it was ours when 
 we struck de town ; den when we conies to whack 
 up, de Sheeny squeals " 
 
 "No, I didn t squeal !" The Sheeny pushed for 
 ward. 
 
 The court rapped for order. 
 
 "You there, Mr. Officer, it is time the court had 
 a drink, and Sheeny, I will request you to repress 
 your too evident ardor. You will have an oppor 
 tunity to testify. Mr. Sullivan, continue." 
 
 "It s dis way: Sheeny and his partner got de 
 stuff, an I watched outside, fer yer see it was no 
 easy crack. Now he claims t ree quarters of de 
 rake off. Wot do yer t ink of dat fer a steer?" 
 
 The Sheeny glared. "Wot de hell! Wasn t I 
 up against a gun ? Didn t dey try ter wing me ?" 
 
 "The next time you interrupt the witness," 
 spoke the court in august tones, "I shall fine you 
 
 231
 
 TITO 
 
 the drinks for the crowd. You are already in con 
 tempt, sir." 
 
 "Dere," volunteered Sullivan, "take a sneak! 
 Go back and hang yerself up on a hook in de hall. 
 Don t interrupt a gentleman when he s argerin 
 ter de court!" 
 
 The court drank and was all attention. Sulli 
 van threw back his shoulders and continued : 
 
 "Now, in our profesh , t ings have got ter be 
 done on de square, see?" 
 
 The court manifested that it comprehended. 
 
 "Well, dis is me case: I want de court ter 
 order Sheeny ter split up even on de swag. I did 
 me share of de work " 
 
 The Sheeny was on his feet, shaking his fist 
 alternately at the court and in Sullivan s face to 
 give vent to his outraged feeling of justice. 
 
 "Half de work !" The Sheeny s voice was trem 
 ulous. "Say. do I look like a farmer?" 
 
 The court frowned upon the Sheeny. The 
 judge s voice was ominously calm. 
 
 "Bar-tender, the drinks for the crowd. Sheeny, 
 the court rules that before you will be allowed to 
 proceed, you must pay the costs." 
 
 Muttered imprecations from Sheeny. Then, 
 under his breath: "Dis is w r orse than a holdup 
 in de first session. Yer can fix it dere wid de cop 
 for any old price. Gee ! But dat bloke takes me 
 breat away!" 
 
 Sullivan had finished putting in his evidence, 
 and the Sheeny presented his defence. He re- 
 
 232
 
 TITO 
 
 counted the difficulty in conducting so delicate an 
 undertaking, spoke of his experience that covered 
 years of work, jobs to be undertaken only by ex 
 perts ; dwelt with evident emotion on several mis 
 carriages of justice, when, for terms ranging from 
 thirty days to two years, he had been forced into 
 temporary retirement, sojourning on the island, or 
 up the river. With pitying contempt he desig 
 nated a government that would interfere with a 
 man earning an honest living as unworthy the 
 support of citizens like himself, that had rendered 
 long and honorable service in the conduct of 
 municipal affairs. In eloquent tones he con 
 tinued : 
 
 "Didn t I t row me five votes in different wards 
 at de last election? An den de cops ain t satisfied 
 when dey don t touch yer fer all yer make ! And 
 now when me and me partner takes all de risk on 
 this little job, Sully was down de road on de 
 watch, wot does he say? dat he ought to have 
 an even rake off ! Wot de hell ! and de watchman 
 trying to pump cold lead into me!" Concluding, 
 he addressed himself to the court : "I knows yer 
 a square guy, an I wants yer ter do de fair t ing, 
 see !. Dat s all !" He turned to the bar-tender. 
 "Tip off de court wid a ball." Then in an under 
 tone : "Ef dat spiel don t cinch dis case, den de 
 guy s no good !" 
 
 Sullivan, with a majestic uplifting of the shoul 
 ders, after directing a glance at his adversary, a 
 look of scorn, derision, pity, made a profound bow 
 to the court. 
 
 233
 
 TITO 
 
 "Yer honor, now I ll give yer de t ing straight ! 
 Der ll be no frills in mine. Dem s fer de Sheeny 
 and the cheap steerers down ter de first session, 
 looking for an arrest to make der board out of. 
 I m no oratorier as Hamlet says. I ll give yer de 
 plain story no fake." 
 
 Sullivan dwelt long and earnestly on the facts 
 of the case, maintaining that as he had shared the 
 risk, he should have one-third the profits. His 
 logic was crude, but he maintained his position 
 with energetic ardor, and his peroration was de 
 livered in picturesque language that carried con 
 viction; and if his witnesses had been empaneled 
 as a jury, and not called as experts to testify to 
 the unwritten code of their profession, Sullivan 
 would have won his case on his plea. 
 
 But the court, sitting in equity, was to pass on 
 the law and the facts, and before its opinion was 
 to be delivered, the bar-tender was kept busy, for 
 principals and witnesses felt the necessity of forti 
 fying themselves, also of stimulating the judgment 
 of the court. 
 
 Vanburg swept the crowd with a calm, judicial 
 eye. Turning to his notes to refresh his memory 
 of the evidence, he began slowly, his voice dispas 
 sionate; and his hearers hung upon his well 
 rounded periods with the seasoned judgment ob 
 tained by many and varied experiences in courts 
 of justice. 
 
 "This case," he said, "involves questions of pro 
 fessional ethics, at once delicate and far-reaching 
 in their results." 
 
 234
 
 TITO 
 
 A buzz of admiration from his listeners was an 
 assurance that they appreciated this opening re 
 mark. 
 
 "I am fully conscious," he continued, "that this 
 cause will be a precedent to be followed, and, for 
 tunately, there is no disagreement as to the facts, 
 so I shall confine myself to the logical deductions 
 of the evidence as conclusions of law which should 
 govern the question at issue." 
 
 Vanburg paused to finish a glass of whiskey. It 
 gave opportunity to one of the expert witnesses to 
 remark sotto voce : 
 
 "Say ! If he ain t de whole t ing !" 
 
 "The gentlemen engaged in this controversy," 
 Vanburg resumed, "occupy enviable positions. 
 They are, to my best knowledge and belief, recog 
 nized as experts in the very delicate profession 
 which they so honorably adorn." 
 
 The Sheeny so far forgot himself and the respect 
 due the court to exclaim : 
 
 "Now, yer talkin ! Say! Yer kin just own me 
 shirt !" 
 
 The court scowled its disapproval. Sullivan 
 was incensed. "T row im out !" he yelled hoarsely. 
 Sheeny s offer to the court smacked of bribery. 
 The court raised his hand to command silence. 
 
 "Gentlemen, you will please observe the rules of 
 the court. I can appreciate the keen interest with 
 which you are imbued." ("Gee! where did he 
 collar dem words? They make me head dizzy.") 
 This from an admiring witness, "But," continued 
 
 235
 
 TITO 
 
 the court, "it is the vital principle we wish to 
 reach." 
 
 "Now, yer comin ter it," observed Sullivan. 
 "Is de deal on de square, or isn t it on de square? 
 Dat s wot yer tryin ter say, isn t it, Judge?" 
 
 "Yes," the court agreed, "the only observable 
 difference being the language with which you 
 clothe the thought. In your words there is more 
 zest, more life, less circumlocution." 
 
 "More circumlo-hell," cried the Sheeny. His 
 fist shot into the air. "Big words don t stop the 
 bullets, and dat was wot I was up against on dis 
 job. Say, give us the limit, but give it to us 
 quick." 
 
 Vanburg smiled. He knew the men before him, 
 knew that whatever his decision, the losing party 
 would be aggrieved, and that a free fight was 
 likely to follow. In his present mood he was not 
 averse to the excitement, neither would he turn 
 his back on a personal encounter were it forced 
 upon him. 
 
 They had drunk much. With the stimulus of 
 the whiskey, and the excitement of the trial, the 
 gang was gradually working itself into a state 
 when a word, or a fancied injustice, would precipi 
 tate trouble. But though Vanburg appreciated 
 the temper of the crowd, he disregarded the 
 Sheeny s fiery demand, his threatening aspect 
 and, with an aggravating calmness of tone and 
 manner, prepared to resume. McGlennon s eyes 
 twinkled, and it was with difficulty that he re 
 strained himself from laughing outright. 
 
 236
 
 TITO 
 
 "As I have before stated," Vanburg said, "the 
 question before us is a delicate one, the more so 
 because there are no precedents to guide the court. 
 This is riot a legal question but a moral one, and 
 in arriving at a decision, regard must be had for 
 the sense of justice, and the high standard of honor 
 between gentlemen in the profession of which the 
 principals in this case, as well as the witnesses 
 called by both sides, are honored members. This 
 is not a case for a regular court of justice, for such 
 does not recognize the art which you so ably prac 
 tice ; neither, did you have a standing in a state or 
 federal tribunal, would the court take cognizance 
 of the delicate moral obligations which are not 
 only recognized, but practiced by members of your 
 craft. The province of such courts is to rule upon 
 the law governing the case in hand, and I may 
 safely hazard the opinion that even a court of 
 equity would consider the delicate point raised as 
 too remote, and in its decision would be gov 
 erned by the fixed rules of law, and not by the deli 
 cacies of your unwritten code your code of 
 honor. The claim of the defendant is, that, inas 
 much as he was, upon the night of this er pre 
 carious undertaking, subjected to a fusillade of 
 cold lead, he thereby should be entitled to a por 
 tion of the results commensurate with the danger 
 he ran." 
 
 "Yer don t get right down ter de groun in 
 statin the facts," the Sheeny interrupted, "but 
 yer ve cinched de idea." 
 
 "Exactly," Vanburg resumed, blandly. He 
 237
 
 TITO 
 
 shot a glance at McGlennon, who looked intently 
 at the floor to hide a smile. 
 
 "But I was about to add that, it is my opinion, 
 when this er what shall I term it midnight mis 
 sion was undertaken, all the parties, contemplat 
 ing the danger, entered into it upon equal terms, 
 and it is here, gentlemen, where the unwritten law 
 of your honorable profession governs the case. In 
 legal phraseology, each of you took the risk. This 
 risk was indivisible; it could not be apportioned, 
 and it might well be that the plaintiff could have 
 had the burden thrust upon him of stopping the 
 bullets. Had such been the case, he could not 
 have demanded of the defendants an unequal share 
 in the proceeds of their enterprise. I, therefore, 
 must find that, being equal sharers in the risks, the 
 plaintiff should be entitled to one-third the 
 amount realized by the property in controversy." 
 
 Maddened by the decision, the Sheeny, with a 
 yell, rallied his supporters about him, and a rush 
 was made on Vanburg, and, as among their class, 
 justice they consider their arch-enemy, they 
 fought for a common cause, blindly, furiously. 
 McGlennon, on the instant, was beside his friend, 
 but in numbers they were outmatched five to one. 
 Tables and chairs were overturned, and those who 
 fell before the terrific blows of the two men, were 
 mixed indiscriminately on the floor, where they, 
 in turn, fought with each other. But a blow from 
 a broken chair felled the court, and McGlennon, 
 wrenching the weapon from the hand of the assail- 
 
 238
 
 TITO 
 
 ant, saved Vanburg from further injury. The 
 thieves, having vindicated outraged justice, fled by 
 front and rear doors, leaving McGlennon bending 
 over Vanburg, who lay unconscious on the floor 
 the blood flowing from an ugly gash in his head. 
 
 239
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 IN the wretched room where he lodged, the day 
 following the attack in the saloon, Vanburg 
 lay on the bed unconscious. Dr. Remo had 
 just left, and McGlennon was alone with the sick 
 man. The doctor could find no fracture; the 
 patient had been stunned by a heavy blow, and 
 Nature alone must be depended upon to assert 
 itself. Further, he would not commit himself, and 
 McGlennon prepared to remain throughout the 
 day and see that everything was done for Van- 
 burg s comfort. 
 
 But if Fate had treated him unkindly in bring 
 ing him to his present helpless state, she made 
 amends by directing the steps of Tito to the 
 wretched room, where, unmindful of McGlennon, 
 forgetful of his sturdy manliness, the tears rolled 
 down his cheeks, for he believed Vanburg past the 
 hope of recovery. 
 
 The Scotchman, in gentle, soothing tones 
 quieted his fears, assuring him that the doctor 
 looked for a speedy recovery; and the boy, catch 
 ing at McGlennon s hopeful, confident tone, 
 turned a yearning, wistful glance to the face on 
 the pillow. 
 
 "What can I do ?" asked the practical Tito. "I, 
 too, must do something, some work. I cannot 
 
 240
 
 TITO 
 
 remain with folded hands while he is so near 
 death." 
 
 McGlennon smiled at the boy s earnestness. 
 Like nearly every one who had come in contact 
 with Tito, he regarded him with affection. The 
 passionate, the emotional, side of the boy s charac 
 ter appealed to the rugged Scotchman, and he had 
 noted, in their intercourse, that Vanburg and the 
 boy had been strangely drawn to each other. In 
 fact, even in the little he had seen them together, 
 Vanburg had displayed a tenderness, a fatherly in 
 terest and devotion toward Tito, that the observ 
 ing McGlennon was quick to discern an interest 
 which he attributed to Vanburg s natural warm 
 heartedness, and his longing for someone to fill 
 the void in his childless, lonely life. But he also 
 realized that the boy was old in the knowledge of 
 the world ; and, notwithstanding his youth, the 
 Scotchman himself had become attached to the 
 lad, and there existed between them that feeling of 
 comradeship that draw men closer than ties of 
 blood. It was the freemasonry of human nature, 
 the telegraphy of human hearts and kindred spir 
 its, the touch that makes all the world akin and 
 God a universal divinity. 
 
 "Yes," answered McGlennon to Tito s demand, 
 "you have come in time. There is nothing that 
 I can do, and if you can stay here, I will go to 
 work. If I could be of assistance I would remain, 
 but nothing further can be done for him. The 
 doctor will return in a few hours." 
 
 241
 
 TITO 
 
 "Should Mr. Kent become worse I will send for 
 you. You do not think he will die?" 
 
 With eager, questioning gaze, Tito sought his 
 companion s eyes to read there the answer to his 
 fears. 
 
 No," came the confident response, "he is of 
 rugged constitution as strong as an ox. He got 
 a pretty bad clip, but he ll pull through. There is 
 no fracture, and the doctor believes that some time 
 to-day he will recover consciousness." 
 
 After briefly recounting how Vanburg had re 
 ceived his injury, McGlennon went out and Tito 
 was left alone with the sick man. 
 
 Tito sat beside the bed, his eyes fixed on Van- 
 burg s face, his breathing barely perceptible, and 
 as the boy looked, fear controlled him. Gently he 
 laid his hand on the white forehead, expecting the 
 chill of death to meet his touch. A moan, faint, 
 almost as a breath, brought new courage to the 
 boy, his heartbeats quickened at the sound, and 
 a sigh of relief, of joy, quivered on the air. 
 
 "He will live, that I know, he is so strong, 
 as the big fellow says, as an ox, and his blood is 
 thick and rich ; and the beasts struck him down 
 even as, in my country, they fell an ox. Ah ! but 
 the cowards dare not stand before him and meet 
 his blows ! They fight from behind. How I wish 
 I had been there! I, too, would have taken a 
 hand, and I would have singled out the beast who 
 attacked him, and fixed my fingers on his dirty 
 throat like a bulldog that will never let go." 
 
 Again he looked at Vanburg with a tender, 
 242
 
 TITO 
 
 compassionate glance, and smoothed his hair with 
 touch as light as a mother s kiss on the lips of a 
 sleeping child. The man before him was as a 
 fallen hero, and the strength, the courage that he 
 adored was as naught, his utter helplessness touch 
 ing the boy with a great pity, stirring his heart 
 in which love had taken root. What if he should 
 die, this new friend, this man whose voice had 
 trembled with emotion when he, Tito, the name 
 less Tito, had, after his week s stay with him, bade 
 him good bye? Why should this stranger have 
 cared, why have taken an interest in him? Why 
 had his voice grown husky when he learned of the 
 father who had disowned him, the father whom he 
 sought ? He could not tell, but it was strange that 
 it should be so, and though he had not the power 
 to divine the reason, stranger still that in his own 
 heart there came a thrill of joy that the man should 
 care. And after the boy s illness, when he had left 
 him, the thought was ever alive that there was 
 one who would be glad should he return, in whose 
 eyes he had seen the tears, whose lips had touched 
 his forehead as a father might have kissed him, 
 had that father cared to call him son. And now 
 the good friend whom he had come to see, of 
 whom he had thought through the days and the 
 nights, who had the power to fill him with joyful 
 anticipation of their meeting, was as one dead. 
 Perhaps he would never speak again, and, at the 
 possibility, the boy choked back a sob, and the 
 ready tears glistened in his eyes. 
 
 "I will have him well again," he said aloud, his 
 243
 
 TITO 
 
 tones low, but earnest. "I will pray to the Ma 
 donna. But I do not know how to pray. Would 
 she hear me, rne ? I will try, very hard, and oh ! 
 Madonna Mia, thou wilt listen to me, Tito, whom 
 thou lovest not. But it is not for myself I ask, 
 but for him to be well again and strong. Thou 
 wilt hear me, Madonna, and give him his life back, 
 that he may speak to Tito again. Thou wilt not be 
 deaf when I call to Thee for that I am Tito, the 
 Little Devil? Ah! Thou wilt be good to him 
 who was so gentle to me, and I will learn the 
 words, the words they say when they ask of Thee 
 a favor, and with them I shall thank Thee, and 
 perhaps Thou wilt be pleased, that I, Tito, have 
 learned to pray, to speak the words of Thy Christ 
 Son/ 
 
 The bare walls gave back the tones of his voice, 
 earnest, entreating, rising in supplication, falling 
 in a cadence of piteous appeal ; and, as if in answer 
 to his petition, the head on the pillow moved, the 
 lips parted as if to speak, and the boy, breathless, 
 listened to the one word, uttered in half a whisper, 
 half a sigh "Bettina." 
 
 Tito s lips formed the word but he could not 
 articulate. He remained silent, motionless, wait 
 ing for Vanburg to speak again, but he had re 
 lapsed into his former comatose state. 
 
 "Bettina," repeated the boy, amazed, wonder in 
 his eyes and voice, "how should he know the 
 name? I had not told him. Ah! Tito, thou dost 
 know but little. Is it not a name common in my 
 
 244
 
 TITO 
 
 own country? Does he not know dear Italia bet 
 ter than I ?" 
 
 Sudden alarm, hope, dread expectancy, in mo 
 mentary Hashes, shone from his eyes, as varying 
 emotions swept over him. The quiet of the room 
 filled him with trembling fear. "What if he should 
 die! and I alone?" he mused. Then bending 
 over the pillow he asked in a voice of pathetic 
 tenderness : 
 
 "Can I do naught for thee? Wilt thou not 
 speak to me? It is I, Tito." 
 
 Quick came the response in a tone that died 
 upon the lips : 
 
 "Bettina, love, it is I, Horace." 
 
 Had the boy s voice the power to touch some 
 responsive chord in the brain that was dead to all 
 other sounds? Had the memories of the dead 
 Bettina been the first to respond and awaken the 
 faculties? Could love work a miracle where 
 human science had failed? Perhaps it was so, for 
 again Tito, bending over the pillow, whispered: 
 
 "Bettina." 
 
 "Yes, love," came the reply with an effort. 
 With a convulsive sigh Vanburg opened his eyes, 
 but the effort was accompanied by a painful 
 twitching of the muscles of the face, and almost 
 immediately he sank into his former stupor. 
 
 "Ah! He will live." Joy leaped into Tito s 
 heart, that a few moments before was filled with 
 sorrow, and a fear that was overpowering. 
 
 "Madonna," he said aloud, "Thou hast answered 
 me when I have prayed, and I thank Thee; but 
 
 245
 
 TITO 
 
 Thou must read it in my heart, for my tongue is 
 tied with joy and I cannot find the words. Thou 
 wilt understand, Madonna Mia, for the words I 
 have never learned, and now that Thou hast heard, 
 shall I talk to Thee each day, and I shall learn a 
 prayer, the prayers that they .say in the Mass." 
 
 The color was gradually coming into Vanburg s 
 cheeks. A soft moan escaped him, and again he 
 opened his eyes, but with no sign of returning 
 reason. Tito laid his hand lightly on the forehead 
 of the sick man, then, smoothing the pillow, waited 
 with deep drawn breath some word or sign of 
 consciousness. 
 
 The boy spoke to him gently, soothingly, but 
 there came no reply. Again the dead quiet within, 
 the rumbling roar of the city, hope battling with 
 fear, the faint breathing from the bed a sickening 
 dread again took possession of the silent watcher. 
 
 Suddenly Tito was startled by the voice, the 
 tones clear, rational; but in the speaker s eyes, 
 fixed, staring, there was the vacuity of madness. 
 
 "The old woman always hated me; she could 
 not hide it. Often have I heard her swear by the 
 saints that she would be avenged; but Bettina, 
 love, I did not love thee less." 
 
 Then followed rambling, disjointed sentences; 
 and Vanburg, bit by bit, gave the story of his life 
 in Florence; the joy of his meeting with Bettina 
 after an absence in America, now in the country 
 where they sketched together, again, in imagina 
 tion, wandering through the Florentine galleries, 
 and he babbled on of art and of love, of hopes that 
 
 246
 
 TITO 
 
 were never to be fulfilled, of joy that the hand 
 of Fate had frozen in the bud. 
 
 Tito listened as one turned to stone. He dared 
 not think, he could not reason; his mind was in a 
 turmoil; astonishment gave place to fear, fear to 
 sorrow, conjectures flooded his brain, a thousand 
 questions leaped to his lips, but his courage had 
 deserted him, his faculties were benumbed and he 
 had not the power to speak. A stupor took pos 
 session of him and at last the words to which he 
 listened struck upon his hearing as meaningless 
 sounds. Gradually the voice ceased from exhaus 
 tion, and again the terrible silence, the long drawn 
 respiration of the man, foreshadowing sleep. The 
 boy s quick, gasping breaths told of turmoil, of 
 madness ; still he sat by the bed, silent as those are 
 silent who pause to choose between life and death ; 
 speechless, as are those who dare not trust their 
 voices, that fear their own passion, and know that 
 inaction is their only safeguard. 
 
 The minutes became years, eternities, and his 
 short life was spread before him, seeing it all, liv 
 ing it all, in its pastoral beauty when Nature spoke 
 to him in tones of love that roused within him all 
 his finer instincts, when the fields and the flowers 
 and the birds told to him their story of love and 
 beauty, the gifts of the God he should know, he 
 should love. These had been the companions of 
 his misguided youth, years that had been barren 
 of human sympathy, of human love. To these he 
 had poured out his young heart, his boyish 
 troubles, his hopes, his ambitions. No human 
 
 247
 
 TITO 
 
 hand or heart to guide him; no gentle voice to 
 soothe the bitterness that rankled in his breast, to 
 check the torrents of passion, called forth by the 
 daily taunts, and the shame of being nameless. 
 
 The emotions awakened by the memories 
 blended into sorrow, regret for the fruitless years 
 of his youth, brightened only by the voice of 
 Nature speaking to his better instincts. Like a 
 fetid mist an unwholesome vision rose before him, 
 the remorseless visage of the old woman, each 
 wrinkle in her face a line of hate, every tone of 
 her voice crying her vow of vengeance. In the 
 sullen roar rolling through the open window he 
 heard her words : the cry of a lost soul, damned for 
 the vengeance she claimed, trading her hope of 
 Heaven for the fulfilment of the vow she would not 
 renounce. 
 
 "Remember thy vow, my Tito, remember thy 
 vow do not forget, do not forget !" 
 
 Her words died into an echo, an echo merging 
 with the rumble and the roar. 
 
 With a start and an impetuous gesture he rose 
 quickly and stood gazing at the form on the bed, 
 the faint breathing alone denoting life. 
 
 It is not good to hear the young laugh with the 
 bitterness that comes only when faith in mankind 
 dies, when hope is strangled and whatever is left 
 in life is not worth an effort. Such mirth is for 
 those old in years, old in the world s sorrows, dis 
 appointments, those who have played the game of 
 life to the finish, have staked all on the turn of a 
 card, and have found their ill-fated destinies still 
 
 248
 
 TITO 
 
 in the ascendant, recording in life s notebook their 
 last despairing efforts. 
 
 It was such a laugh that, for a moment, caused 
 Vanburg to stir convulsively; and the boy, stop 
 ping suddenly, listened to hear him speak, but 
 once more he sank into unconsciousness. 
 
 "Bettina, the old woman hated him," Tito s 
 voice was husky. "Why should I think of it! I 
 am mad ! Fool, Tito, thou art indeed simple ! As 
 if there were not many of the name many who 
 hated as the old woman did ; and when I lay here 
 for a week, was he not as gentle as a mother? and 
 now these devilish thoughts come to me! What 
 if it should be true! Ha! I reason like a babe, 
 and he he is as poor as I and I have not enough 
 money to buy him a plate of soup. But he shall 
 have it, aye, that he shall, for will I not go to him 
 who would pay me for singing the one who is 
 rich, whose sister is of the beauty of a goddess. 
 To him will I say, Now will I sing for thee, for 
 thy friends, and if I sing well, thou shalt pay me, 
 that my good friend may have the best, he who 
 gave to me. Bettina, Bettina," he whispered the 
 words, bending over Vanburg, "why wilt thou not 
 wake and tell me? Madonna Mia, let him hear 
 me and speak." 
 
 There was magic in the words, in the voice, and 
 Vanburg s eyes opened wearily, a gleam of intelli 
 gence being followed by a faint smile. 
 
 "Tito, my good Tito." 
 
 His voice was weak, but the words vibrated with 
 tenderness. A great joy sent the tears into the 
 
 249
 
 TITO 
 
 eyes of the boy. He could not trust his voice, and 
 the words he would speak died into convulsive 
 sobs, which, with a manly effort, he choked back. 
 
 "Tito," came the voice again. 
 
 "Ah !" he replied in a trembling whisper, "thou 
 knowest me, thou wilt be well again. The Ma 
 donna has heard, and thou wilt live. Speak again 
 and then I shall know it is true." 
 
 "Tito, dear little Tito, Heaven must have sent 
 thee." 
 
 "Aye, Heaven sent me, but it has treated thee 
 badly. Tell me what I may do that will give thee 
 comfort. Ah ! I feared I feared that thou 
 wouldst not speak again ; but that has passed." 
 
 "How long have I lain here, boy?" 
 
 Vanburg s eyes were closed and he spoke with 
 an effort. 
 
 "Since last night, and it is now late in the day ; 
 the sunlight is fast going. It will soon be night 
 again." 
 
 "I heard your voice, it was the voice of one 
 one who is dead ; but I could not understand. 
 Why could I not have slept on the great sleep, 
 with no awakening ? Yes, Tito, Heaven hath been 
 most unkind : for I wake with memory still very 
 much alive. The fight must still go on, until I 
 worry Fate into reason." 
 
 "But," replied the boy, "thou art not alone, for 
 am I not here? And when thou wert as one dead, 
 did I not pray to the Madonna that thou mightest 
 live? I, who had never prayed before? And the 
 good Mother heard. And when thou didst speak, 
 
 250
 
 TITO 
 
 it was of her whom thou call st Bettina. Thou hast 
 loved her well?" 
 
 "Yes, boy, I loved her well." His voice was 
 tender, the words faltering. "And when you, Tito, 
 speak, it is her voice I hear, your eyes are hers. 
 When you sang, it was her tones I heard, the Arno 
 singing with joy, for her voice was of Heaven." 
 
 "And she was an artist? That I have heard 
 thee say." 
 
 "Yes. And your touch, like hers, is firm and 
 sure, though unskilled." 
 
 "And," Tito faltered, "and thou hast spoken of 
 the old woman, one who hated thee." 
 
 "Poor creature!" was the reply. "Bettina s 
 aunt, she never forgave me for loving her. But 
 her hatred for me was born of her love for Bettina. 
 I forgave her." 
 
 "Did she, too, die?" 
 
 "No," replied Vanburg wearily, "as far as I 
 know she yet lives, brooding over her loss, which 
 was mine ; but even death could not mollify her." 
 
 Tito remained silent, his eyes on Vanburg s face. 
 He longed to question further, but dared not. 
 Again fears and doubts rilled him with tor 
 ment ; again the belief forced itself upon him that 
 Vanburg s Bettina was the Bettina whom he had 
 sworn to avenge. He trembled with emotion 
 that threatened to overcome him: his lips formed 
 the words to wring the truth from the man who 
 might be the one he sought, the father who had 
 disowned him. 
 
 "What if it should be true?" 
 251
 
 TITO 
 
 Instantly he was afire with passion, his eyes 
 glowed, the fever of hate seemed to burn in his 
 veins, his throat was parched ; but a glance at the 
 man before him, helpless as a child, and his mo 
 mentary rage melted into pity, shame, at the 
 cowardice of his own thoughts. But he must 
 know, he must learn whether it were true, or were 
 his fears the madness of childish fancy. How 
 should he learn ? Could he ask him to speak again 
 of her, the mention of whose name awakened a life 
 sorrow? He waited, eager, breathless, for Van- 
 burg to resume his story, but his breathing, 
 scarcely audible, told that his silence was that of 
 exhaustion. 
 
 Vanburg s voice again broke the quiet. Tito 
 bent over him, for his voice was low. 
 
 "You have not eaten, boy. You should be 
 hungry. I have money " 
 
 "No," replied Tito, "I could not eat. I was 
 thinking of all thou hast told me, of her whom 
 thou mournest, of Florence " 
 
 "Ah ! Dear Florence," Vanbttrg sighed. "It is 
 strange, but I, too, was thinking, forever thinking. 
 Does it interest thee, boy?" 
 
 "Yes. When thou art well again, thou wilt tell 
 me more." 
 
 "I shall never be well again. I will tell thee now, 
 boy, if it will please thee, for it is when thou art 
 near me that I think. Thy voice is an echo of the 
 two short years years that were Heaven. Since 
 then, life has been as nearly a blank as I could 
 make it." 
 
 252
 
 TITO 
 
 "But them wert not always as as them art now 
 poor?" 
 
 "No, not always." 
 
 The smile that accompanied the words was as a 
 remembrance of the Vanburg of years that had 
 passed. 
 
 "And thou wert once rich ?" 
 
 "I was rich only in what I lost ; poorer than thou 
 art, my Tito, in the philosophy of the world s 
 knowledge. But of that I cannot speak. That, 
 too, is dead." 
 
 The boy listened while Vanburg told of the two 
 years of his life in Italy, listened with the growing 
 conviction that what he heard was an epitome of 
 his father s and his mother s life during the two 
 years preceding his birth, listened while a hand of 
 ice fastened upon his heart, until at last he paid 
 no heed to the feeble voice that spoke in a whisper. 
 
 "It was in the Palazzo Vecchio that she fin 
 ished her last picture, and with a child s enthusi 
 asm begged me to sign my name with hers. We 
 both signed it, Horace and Bettina/ the letters 
 twined together. What would I not give for it 
 now; but the old woman took it with the rest." 
 
 "Was was it the portrait of the Madonna and 
 the Child?" Tito s voice was unnatural. Van 
 burg opened his eyes and looked inquiringly at 
 the boy. 
 
 "Yes." he replied, his head again sinking on the 
 pillow. 
 
 Tito s hand closed upon the painting which he 
 always carried in the pocket of his jacket, the por- 
 
 253
 
 TITO 
 
 trait that would tell him what he would know. 
 The names, if they were there, had escaped his 
 notice, and the desire to examine it and set his 
 doubts at rest was almost uncontrollable. But 
 there was a further question that he would ask, 
 before Vanburg sank into the sleep of weariness. 
 
 "The old woman and Bettina were all? Was 
 there no child, no son?" 
 
 "No," was the reply. "No." 
 
 The voice died. The reaction had overtaken 
 Vanburg arid sleep shut out all sound. Tito sat 
 as one dazed, unable to move. He could not 
 think, and the minutes went by unheeded. He 
 was conscious that some terrible misfortune en 
 gulfed him ; conscious that his fingers touched the 
 portrait that would tell him all that he would know, 
 yet with the sensation of one who is to hear his 
 death sentence pronounced, he dare not draw it 
 forth to look for the proof. What would he do if 
 the names were on the portrait as Vanburg had 
 described ? "Why, oh, God !" he muttered, "why 
 hast Thou guided me aright? Why didst Thou 
 spare his life when I asked it of Thee, that I, his 
 son, might take it with my own hand? Ah! Ma 
 donna Mia, and I believed Thee kind! When 
 Thou couldst have let him die, and I should never 
 have known, and now Thou hast given him his life 
 and taken my soul. All will be black. And in 
 the dead night will he come to me, and I shall see 
 him as I see him now, sleeping. There will be the 
 awful red stain left by the knife, and I can never 
 hide from it or shut out the sight. Then I shall 
 
 254
 
 TITO 
 
 see her devil s face, hear her voice, but also shall 
 I hear his voice, speaking so gently, Tito, boy, I 
 am glad you have come back, and it will ring in 
 my ears, always, always ; but in the night it will be 
 more sorrowful, and go where Heaven s vengeance 
 may lead me, I can never shut out the sound 
 never, never." 
 
 Unconsciously he had drawn the picture from 
 his pocket, and his trembling fingers held it with 
 the face turned from him. His own face was 
 drawn, haggard, the blood had left his cheeks 
 his features those of an old man. Again he sat 
 silent, his eyes fixed upon the table, where, in its 
 scabbard, lay "Micky de Pinch s" knife. The sight 
 of the knife sent the blood leaping through his 
 veins, he caught his breath in short gasps, his 
 fingers closed upon the picture until the frail wood 
 upon which it was mounted, snapped. For that 
 instant he was the Tito of Tuscany, fierce, vin 
 dictive, one emotion dominating his being 
 vengeance. 
 
 Slowly he reversed the picture and held it before 
 him. His hands trembled, and in the dim, uncer 
 tain light, he could see only what appeared to be a 
 blur in the right hand corner of the canvas. A 
 sigh of relief, a momentary hope, and with a con 
 vulsive gasp of joy he rose and, with quick, lithe 
 stride, stood before the window, and held the por 
 trait toward the light. 
 
 A cry, a moan of despair rang for an instant on 
 the quiet of the room, and the sleeper moved un 
 easily. The hope to which he had clung was shat- 
 
 2.S5
 
 TITO 
 
 tered, for Tito read the names, the letters inter 
 woven in delicate tracery "Horace Bettina." 
 
 He stood motionless, all doubt removed, the 
 terror of certainty with him, for it was the truth 
 that he feared, the truth that made his heart seem 
 as ice, the sweat to stand in beads on brow and 
 face, and despair to set his faculties whirling, leav 
 ing him powerless to move. At last the vengeance 
 he had sought was to be his ; the moment for which 
 he had longed, had dreamed, had prayed for, was 
 here. No need for further search, his mission in 
 life was to be fulfilled, for there, before him, sleep 
 ing, his gentle breathing that of a child, lay the 
 father whose life he had sworn should wipe out his 
 own disgrace. Within the hour had he not 
 listened when, with his own lips, this father 
 affirmed that he had no son? There would be no 
 faltering, his was a duty that waited no more pro 
 pitious time. One stroke of the knife, the thief s, 
 which lay within his reach the knife he had turned 
 away from the man whose life he would now take, 
 and it would be ended. Again could he return to 
 his own Italia, again could he meet those who had 
 looked upon him with disdain, proud in the con 
 sciousness that he had, with his own hand, avenged 
 his honor. No more could they taunt him, and he 
 would let the stain of the blood remain on the 
 knife that they might see, that they might believe. 
 The blood ! He shuddered. What had his father 
 said ? That on every leaf, on every flower, would 
 be a drop of crimson blood the blood of his own 
 father to cry out to him ; and one word would ring 
 
 256
 
 TITO 
 
 forever in his ears remorse, remorse, remorse. 
 And day and night would there be ever before hirn 
 the crimson stain ; it would be on his hands and he 
 could not wash it away, nor hide it, always, al 
 ways there, haunting him, his life one long horror. 
 And when he drove the blade home, and the blood 
 followed the steel as he wrenched it from the quiv 
 ering flesh, there would come a cry a cry of pain 
 that would ring forever in his ears. And the 
 eyes, ere they closed in death, would turn to him 
 in sorrow, reproach, haunting him with the un 
 spoken words: "And it is thou, Tito, who hast 
 done this?" 
 
 He grasped the knife in his trembling fingers. 
 The blade was keen and the touch chilled his 
 blood.. 
 
 "I falter," his voice had the agony of death. "I 
 must not ! Am I of a coward race ? Am I a woman 
 to be won by soft words? Where now is thy 
 courage, Tito, what is it they call thee, Piccolo 
 d Ignoti? Aye, thou craven clod, aye, that is the 
 name by which thou art known. Wouldst thou 
 have another and better? Look to it then that 
 thy aim is true true as this steel blade. Strike 
 once only and deep. See that the knife reaches 
 the heart, where the blood is of a deeper hue ; and 
 now Heaven guide my hand !" 
 
 Slowly he approached the bed and, standing be 
 side it, looked long and intently on the face of the 
 sleeper. 
 
 "Why shouldst Thou have willed it to me, oh, 
 God, to do this deed ? Why could I not have been 
 
 257
 
 TITO 
 
 of the people and worked in the fields, lived as the 
 birds live free ? Then should my mind have been 
 at rest, my heart clean, and I should have known 
 only the joy of living and of loving Thee. And 
 now now Thou hast condemned me to take my 
 father s life, to know but sorrow and the terrible 
 fear that comes to the damned ; and as Thou hast 
 willed, so am I to be forever lost." 
 
 He paused, then looking at the sleeper, con 
 tinued in tones of intense sorrow : 
 
 "I could have loved thee, my father, yes, and 
 well, hadst thou cared to call me son ; but hast thou 
 not just told me I have no father? Yet, ah, God! 
 It is hard! I tremble. What if I should fail! 
 Pietro, I have looked upon thee as inhuman a 
 fiend ! I have hated thee, feared thee, for the Devil 
 is thy master. Now do I ask thee to lend me thy 
 strength, thy courage, thy hate, for my heart sick 
 ens with fear, with dread, with I will confess it 
 aye, to Heaven alone, that I must strike him 
 whom I love. I cannot strike him in his sleep. I 
 will wake him and crv out to him that death is 
 here." 
 
 Firmly he clutched the knife and raised it in 
 the air. Vanburg stirred and his lips parted : 
 
 "Tito," the tones were those of a child. "When 
 you speak, it is her voice I hear Bettina s." 
 
 Tito s hand fell to his side, and, with a choking 
 sob, he turned his head away. 
 
 "I cannot, T cannot." His voice was husky ; in 
 his eyes was the awful fear of those who had faced 
 death and chance had intervened. Vanburg s 
 
 258
 
 TITO 
 
 voice had stirred him to the very depths of his 
 soul; and he realized that the words, spoken by 
 his father in his sleep, had saved him from the 
 crime of parricide. An icy chill swept over him; 
 the impulse to get away became uncontrollable 
 and he looked about him, his eyes dilating with 
 fear the fear that his passion would again steel 
 his heart to the flood of pity, of sorrow, of remorse 
 that had stayed his vengeance. 
 
 Mechanically he placed the portrait on the 
 chair beside the bed, then, tearing a leaf from his 
 sketch-book, scrawled the words "She who 
 painted this was my mother." Signing the name, 
 "Tito," he placed the note on the picture, then, 
 without glancing at the sleeper, rushed from the 
 room. 
 
 259
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 THE dusk of evening was closing in on the city 
 when Vanburg awoke, refreshed, but with a 
 feeling of extreme weakness. The room was 
 quite dark, and with a painful effort he rose and 
 peered through the gloom. There was no sound, 
 and realizing that he was alone, with unsteady 
 step he groped his way to the mantel and lighted 
 an oil lamp. In a dazed way again he looked 
 about him nothing but barrenness within, and 
 the sound of the city chanting its night song 
 through the open windows. Sitting on the edge 
 of the bed he pressed his throbbing temples with 
 his hands. He was confused, his brain was in a 
 whirl and, closing his eyes, he sought to weave the 
 incidents of the past night and day into some tang 
 ible form. 
 
 "Have I dreamed that the boy was here?" 
 He spoke aloud, and the sound of his voice, 
 weak, unnatural, brought a smile to his lips. 
 
 "They must have knocked my reasoning facul 
 ties into a cocked hat, or into a cocked head. I 
 believe the latter nearest to its present condition, 
 for it now is of wood pulp at that, with a filling of 
 lead ; or have I been dreaming, seeing things, hear 
 ing voices. Surely the boy was here, though as 
 surely he is not here now. Certain am I that I 
 
 260
 
 TITO 
 
 talked with him, but I suppose that, too, is one of 
 the vagaries of a cracked head. Heigh-ho! the 
 way of the transgressor but that is too old and 
 worn to quote. I shall be persuading myself that 
 I was not the presiding justice at a certain trial at 
 Joe s he of the House of Death. However, my 
 head will bear evidence of the fact, even if the boy 
 was a myth, a chimera of the brain. There are 
 many conditions of delirium, but seeing peo 
 ple and conversing with them is, in my opinion, 
 if I am now in a condition to form one, most tan 
 talizing. There is no doubt that I am, at the pres 
 ent moment, very much alone ; and my legs are as 
 wobbly as my head. In fact, had I the power of 
 locomotion left to me I would go out, if for no 
 other purpose to collect the shattered ends of my 
 reasoning powers; else my nerves will be playing 
 tricks with me and I shall again be seeing things." 
 
 His hands again sought his head to ease the 
 throbbing, and his glance rested on the portrait 
 the slip of paper on which Tito had written lying 
 upon it. From where he was sitting in the dim 
 light, he did not recognize it, but he knew it was 
 not his, and with a painful effort he placed the pic 
 ture in an upright position on the chair and, taking 
 the paper, sank back wearily on the bed. 
 
 "Now, here is another form of delirium a por 
 trait in oil, and a scrap of paper beside it; a bill 
 probably. Some considerate dealer, knowing me 
 to be a connoisseur in art, has sent me an oil on 
 approval, with a bill." 
 
 He laughed softly. 
 
 261
 
 TITO 
 
 "Well, perhaps that is another form of seeing 
 things that are not. Am I receiving a picture in 
 oil with a written guarantee of the dealer that it is a 
 genuine Titian ? or will I presently awake and find 
 that I have been dreaming again, this time delving 
 into the realms of art?" 
 
 He glanced at the paper and with an effort read 
 the words that Tito had written. 
 
 "I presume," he muttered, "that this is part of 
 the illusion; this that I hold is not paper at all, 
 neither are there words written on it, and the name 
 signed at the foot is a mental photograph, the 
 words being focused in my brain and, by a proc 
 ess unknown to science, thrown upon this paper. 
 What I hold is not paper, neither do I see words; 
 it is all an after-effect of a stroke of a chair, dealt 
 by the gentleman who couldn t agree with my 
 judgment of facts or my knowledge of law. 
 
 "The question now is how much of all this is 
 hallucination, how much reality ? Is this paper that 
 I hold in my hand? Is the name in truth that of 
 the boy Tito ? If it is, then he was here, and on 
 that subject I am partially sane. She who painted 
 this portrait was my mother, he read aloud. Is 
 the boy as mad as I? Surely he must have been 
 here to have left this writing. I wish he would 
 come back and tell me more of himself and his 
 mother, and incidentally to assure me that I talked 
 with him to-day. The picture! What is it like?" 
 
 Taking the portrait from the chair he held it so 
 that the light fell upon the painting. 
 
 262
 
 TITO 
 
 "Now!" he exclaimed hoarsely, "now I know I 
 am mad !" 
 
 Staring at the portrait he sat as one in a trance, 
 motionless, speechless, for a great fear was with 
 him, and beads of perspiration stood upon his fore 
 head. Though his eyes were fixed on the bit of 
 canvas, the colors became a blur, a mist, before his 
 eyes, for his brain was on fire with the thought, 
 even the certainty, that his reason had given way, 
 that what he saw was a mental illusion a vision, 
 having its birth in his disordered brain. Sickening 
 dread took possession of him, for he felt himself 
 trembling upon the brink of an abyss that would 
 blot out his reason, and leave all a blank. 
 
 Again he moved the canvas, and the light, fall 
 ing obliquely upon it, disclosed the beauty of the 
 portrait of the Virgin and the Child in the corner 
 of the painting, his own name, as he had signed it. 
 
 "Just Heaven," his voice trembled with fear, "am 
 I to be condemned to this punishment, to see these 
 visions? Is not the grave of her with whom my 
 love, my life is buried, never to be closed? Am I 
 to be tortured thus has the brain at last begun to 
 give way, reason to rock, leaving me a degree of 
 sanity that will insure the torture of the damned? 
 Be merciful, Heaven, and grant me complete 
 oblivion, blot out the memory and, if my body, 
 with a grim obstinacy, clings to life, let reason 
 die." 
 
 He had placed the picture on the chair, beside 
 it the slip of paper and, with the strength that fear 
 
 263
 
 TITO 
 
 lent him, paced the floor, a frenzy of emotions 
 sweeping over him. His faculties were in a cha 
 otic state, the boy standing beside the bed was 
 to him an apparition, his memory of their conver 
 sation he attributed to the vagaries of an unbal 
 anced mind. But the portrait? This was some 
 thing tangible, something material, a substance 
 that he could feel, could see. He dared not look 
 at it again, for he might then read the proof of his 
 disordered mind, of a> distorted vision, and in place 
 of the Virgin and the Child, perhaps some horrible 
 face would leer at him from out the canvas. He 
 could no longer stand the stillness of the room, 
 there was madness in the air, lurking in the for 
 bidding Avails, and the sound of his own footfalls 
 seemed to come from cavernous depths. He 
 would go out, out into the crowd, where he could 
 feel life about him, movement that would give bal 
 ance to his reeling brain. Even as he paused in his 
 walk, he staggered from weakness. 
 
 A step in the hall halted at the door, which was 
 quietly opened, and McGlennon entered. 
 
 Vanburg, with eyes that spoke his fears, stared 
 at his visitor as if he expected to see him dissolve 
 into a mist; then, approaching, touched him with 
 trembling fingers. 
 
 "Eh, Gad ! You are not dead yet?" McGlennon 
 said in a hearty tone. 
 
 Vanburg grasped him by the arm and led him to 
 a chair, sitting before him on the edge of the bed. 
 
 "Mack, tell me the truth, in God s name, tell me 
 the truth, am I mad ?" 
 
 264
 
 TITO 
 
 McGlennon did not immediately reply, but 
 looked into the staring, bloodshot eyes of the 
 speaker. For an instant the horrible thought came 
 to him that the blow Vanburg had received had, 
 indeed, unsettled his reason ; but in the steady, im 
 ploring eyes that met his own, he read there sanity, 
 distorted by fear, but he saw no evidence of a dis 
 ordered intellect. 
 
 "Man, what the devil s the matter with you? 
 Of course you re not mad; though, upon my soul, 
 the clip you received from that chair might have 
 knocked the reason out of you, for a while, any 
 way." 
 
 "McGlennon, you are a man of honor; I was 
 once, but never mind that. After hearing what I 
 have to say, tell me on your honor if I am mad. 
 i shall understand. You will do this for me?" 
 
 McGlennon laughed long and heartily. Van- 
 burg s face betrayed irritation, the laugh grated on 
 his over-wrought nerves, and he raised his hand in 
 a gesture of impatience. 
 
 "Kent," cried McGlennon, "you re talking skit 
 tles, rank, childish babble! I ll hear no more of 
 it! Tell me how your head feels. Not good, I 
 warrant. No wonder you talk a bit rattled." 
 
 "Listen to me," said Vanburg with some impa 
 tience. "Never mind my head, answer me seri 
 ously. You came home with me after the row? 
 That T assume." 
 
 "Yes, of course." 
 
 "When did you go away?" 
 
 265
 
 TITO 
 
 "This morning, after the boy came." 
 
 "Then he was here?" 
 
 "Yes, I left him here to look after you. Why 
 the devil did he go away?" 
 
 Vanburg disregarded the question. "He was 
 here," he spoke as if he were alone. "That much, 
 at least, is not madness. But the other!" He 
 reached for the paper and handed it to his com 
 panion. "Mack, in Heaven s name, read that. 
 Read it aloud." 
 
 McGlennon read the words, then looked at Van- 
 burg, whose face was colorless, drawn ; in the past 
 hour, ten years had been added by line and furrow, 
 and his expression was that of one whom old age 
 had suddenly overtaken. 
 
 "In that, too, am I sane ; but," he took the pic 
 ture in his hand "it is here that reason has left 
 me! Look at it, man, and tell me what you see." 
 
 With trembling hand he pushed the picture be 
 fore McGlennon, and waited, a look of horror on 
 his face. 
 
 "Speak," he said, in husky tones, while he sup 
 pressed the emotion that threatened to overcome 
 him. "In God s name, tell me if, in this, my mind 
 is unbalanced." 
 
 "It is the picture of the Mother and the Child 
 the Christ," McGlennon said quietly. 
 
 "Read the names signed at the bottom." 
 
 McGlennon read the names, then handed the 
 canvas to Vanburg, and waited for him to speak; 
 but he remained silent. Whatever the import of 
 
 266
 
 TITO 
 
 it all, McGlennon was quick to perceive that his 
 companion was deeply moved. Fear had given 
 place to sorrow, and the disappointments, the pent 
 up agony of the past years seemed to surge, to 
 engulf, to overwhelm him. He held the portrait 
 to the light, and, as his eyes rested upon it in a 
 gaze of sorrow, pity, love, no other sound broke 
 the quiet but his deep, irregular breathing. After 
 all the years this bit of canvas had come back to 
 him, a mysterious message from the grave, a token, 
 a remembrance of the love, of the life he had lost ; 
 it was there to speak to him of the wasted years, to 
 remind him of his sorrow, and to call to life all 
 that he had buried, but that yet lived. How it 
 again had found its way into his life, by what cir 
 cuitous route, by what process of events, by what 
 untoward circumstances Tito had placed in his 
 hands this last memento of the life that he would 
 forget, he could not divine. It was here, the art of 
 the dead Bettina, the last work that she had fin 
 ished. Heaven had, in the working out of its 
 divine will, for a purpose its own given it to him 
 again, and he questioned not its decree. 
 
 For the moment he had lost sight of the mes 
 sage from Tito that lay on the chair; had for 
 gotten McGlennon; had forgotten "all else but the 
 memories that the sight of the picture had awak 
 ened. Gradually the events of the day, the advent 
 of Tito, rose before him, and it was these that 
 caused him to pick up the boy s message and fix 
 his eyes on McGlennon s face, as if to read there 
 
 267
 
 TITO 
 
 the solution of the mystery that confronted him. 
 But his thoughts were confused. He could not 
 reason with any degree of intelligence and he 
 began to speak slowly, mechanically his eyes 
 turned to his companion; but the eyes were those 
 of the blind, for the soul of the speaker was in a 
 world where the past and memory alone existed. 
 
 "There comes a time," he said, "a first time in 
 every man s life when he must open his heart, his 
 very soul, to someone, and, relying on his friend 
 ship, wring his heart dry of the secrets, the 
 troubles, the agonies, that for years, that seem as 
 centuries, have been locked within his own breast. 
 We have known each other long enough, have 
 shared good luck and bad, each having had time 
 to measure the other s worth. Explanations are 
 not needed between us, excuses are unnecessary; 
 yet you have been more frank with me than I 
 merit." 
 
 Rain had begun pattering against the window, 
 and an ominous rumbling of thunder foreshadowed 
 a tempest. Within the room, the measured mono 
 tone of the speaker fell upon the quiet almost with 
 a chant-like rhythm. Vanburg s listener was 
 silent, his thoughts on the cause that had the 
 power to stir the speaker to the very depths of his 
 soul. 
 
 The muttering of distant thunder and the com 
 plaining roar of the city filled the interval. 
 
 "When, on a certain night," Vanburg continued, 
 "we stood before the clubhouse and I told you 
 
 268
 
 TITO 
 
 the story of the man who came to your home, he 
 who offered you money money which you rightly 
 refused, told you of his wasted life, that he was 
 socially dead, I spoke the truth, but I did not tell 
 you all. You know the young wife, she whom he 
 loved, died ; that the child that was his hope, the 
 child he longed for, that was to be the fulfilment 
 of his desires, was born dead. But you did not 
 know that the father, the husband, was telling you 
 the story of his own life ; for it was I, my friend, I, 
 myself, of whom I spoke." 
 
 Another silence followed, for McGlennon did 
 not reply. 
 
 "Then the boy, Tito, entered my life, and his 
 eyes, his voice, his features, brought before me the 
 vision of her who gave her life at the birth of our 
 child, and now " 
 
 He stopped suddenly. Once more his emotions 
 seemed to overcome him. Grasping the paper 
 from the chair, he held it before McGlennon. 
 Despair was in his eyes, in his voice. 
 
 "Tell me, in Heaven s name, what does this 
 mean ? The portrait was painted by my dead wife ; 
 it is one I have not seen since her death; and I 
 find it here, in this room, and beside it this scrap 
 of paper, signed by the boy, saying that she who 
 painted it was his mother." 
 
 Grasping McGlennon by the shoulder, he shook 
 him as if to force him to speak. The Scotchman 
 looked into the ashen face, and the belief came to 
 him that in the eyes he read the madness his com 
 panion feared. 
 
 269
 
 TITO 
 
 "Cairn yourself," he said. Laying a restraining 
 hand on Vanburg, he gently forced him to sit 
 on the bed. "You are overwrought, working 
 yourself into a fever. These things will right 
 themselves. Tell me what you know of the boy. 
 What has he told you? He will come back and 
 you can question him." 
 
 "No, he will not return," Vanburg interrupted. 
 "Something tells me he will not." 
 
 "But you say the child died ?" 
 
 "Yes, I was away in Paris on business. 
 When I returned the old woman told me the child 
 was born dead. The doctor took charge of the 
 body. Bettina, my wife, lay unconscious, but re 
 vived before the end came. She, too, spoke of the 
 child as dead. Mack, in Heaven s name, what can 
 we do? How find the boy? He told me his story, 
 he was sworn to find his father to kill him for a 
 fancied wrong. He spoke of an old woman, an 
 aunt of his mother, of her hate, of her oath of ven 
 geance. That portrait was in the possession of my 
 wife s aunt. Can you not see, man, can you not 
 understand? The boy, how can we find him? I 
 cannot wait " 
 
 "You will lie down and be quiet," said Mc- 
 Glennon. His tone was firm, his manner deter 
 mined. "You are not in a fit condition to think, 
 much less to act. You are ill, man, and no 
 wonder. Rest, and I will go for a hot soup, and a 
 drink of brandy. You need nourishment and 
 quiet. After you have eaten and slept, we will talk 
 of what can be done to find the boy." 
 
 270
 
 TITO 
 
 McGIennon was about to go when Doctor 
 Remo entered. 
 
 The doctor approached Vanburg, who was sit 
 ting beside the bed. "Well," he said, "you are 
 not so seriously injured as I feared. You must 
 have a constitution of iron." 
 
 Laying a finger on Vanburg s pulse he looked 
 at him with concern. 
 
 "Why, man, you should be in bed. Your pulse 
 is of race-horse speed." 
 
 "No, no," answered Vanburg, impatiently, "you 
 can do me no good." 
 
 "He is excited over the disappearance of the 
 boy," said McGIennon. 
 
 "Mac, if I were only in Florence, where I could 
 find the old woman, Mother Malenotti! I can t 
 sit idly here !" 
 
 "Florence ! Mother Malenotti !" repeated Doc 
 tor Remo. "Did you ever live in Florence?" he 
 asked of Vanburg. 
 
 "Yes," he replied, tersely. 
 
 "And you knew a Mother Malenotti a mid 
 wife?" 
 
 "Yes. What do you know of her? Tell me! 
 Quick, man!" 
 
 Vanburg s tone was violent. He was about to 
 rise, but McGIennon laid a restraining hand upon 
 his shoulder. 
 
 "It is as I thought as I feared," the doctor re 
 plied, musingly. Then in a louder tone: "Were 
 were vou related to Mother Malenotti ?" 
 
 271
 
 TITO 
 
 "Her niece was my wife." 
 
 The doctor rose quickly and stood staring at 
 Vanburg. He laid a trembling hand on the back 
 of a chair. His voice was husky and almost in 
 audible. "It was I," he faltered, "who attended 
 your wife when her child was born !" 
 
 With cat-like spring Vanburg freed himself 
 from McGlennon s restraining hand. 
 
 "Answer me one question did the child live?" 
 
 "Yes," came the answer, scarcely audible. 
 "And you" 
 
 McGlennon s arms wound about Vanburg, forc 
 ing him back to the bed where he sat beside him. 
 
 Doctor Remo told what he knew. He laid 
 bare his own duplicity, nor did he try to excuse 
 himself for the part he had taken in the decep 
 tion. Again and again Vanburg sought to 
 wrench himself free from McGlennon s grasp, but 
 the powerful Scotchman held him close, and ex 
 cept by an occasional groan, Vanburg did not 
 interrupt the recital, as the doctor continued in a 
 subdued, even monotone. Had it not been for 
 McGlennon, Vanburg, in his state of semi-mad 
 ness, might have strangled the Italian where he 
 stood, but the powerful arms were about him until 
 he could neither move nor speak. 
 
 "I realized," concluded the physician, "the 
 wrong that I had done you, but it was a question 
 of complying with the. demand of Mother Male- 
 notti or surrendering my liberty. She had me in 
 her power. There had been an accidental death. 
 
 272
 
 TITO 
 
 Though without intent I was at fault. One word 
 from her and I was ruined. I was forced to agree 
 to her terms and report to you that the child was 
 born dead. This was done because from the first 
 there was no possibility of saving the life of the 
 mother. I left Florence the following year, and 
 know only that at the time of my departure the 
 child was living in the country with Mother Male- 
 notti." 
 
 "And you know nothing further of the boy or 
 the old woman ?" said McGlennon. 
 
 "Nothing," was the answer. 
 
 "Go!" said McGlennon, "go! do not come 
 again." 
 
 Silently the Italian turned to go. At the door 
 he paused. "I have offered no excuse," he said 
 in the same low tone. "I realize the enormity of 
 the wrong to the father. I carried out the old 
 woman s will it was that or disgrace." 
 
 He wentput and his step echoed on the stair. 
 
 "Well," said the Scotchman, releasing Vanburg, 
 "that s bad news and good news, more good than 
 bad. Kent, you re weak and excited and God 
 knows you have reason to be. Were you a well 
 man, in a fair fight, I ll allow you could lay me on 
 my back; but to-night you will do as I say. 
 You re going to bed while I fetch you a hot soup. 
 You have a son ! I believe him to be the boy, 
 Tito. Eh, Gad! That s good news enough for 
 one night." 
 
 Vanburg did not reply, and before McGlennon s 
 
 273
 
 TITO 
 
 return the sleep of exhaustion had blotted out the 
 events of the day. Throughout the night the 
 Scotchman sat beside the bed, watching the white 
 face on the pillow, the muscles twitching as if in 
 pain, the fevered brain of the sleeper traveling 
 back through the years, while his lips formed the 
 words, "Tito, Bettina." 
 
 274
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 WHEN Tito had left Vanburg s room, on 
 reaching the street he turned uptown, and 
 went on blindly, not caring where. One 
 desire moved him to get away, as far away, and 
 as quickly, as he could : anywhere that he might 
 escape from his old passion, from the desire for 
 revenge, and the fear that hate would again obtain 
 the mastery. Mile after mile he put between him 
 and the room where lay his father the father 
 whom he had sought, from whom he now fled to 
 escape from the possibility of the crime, the 
 thought of which filled him with horror. 
 
 Night was coming on quickly, banks of threat 
 ening clouds closed in over the city, and when he 
 had left behind him the last straggling lights, it 
 was so dark that he could scarcely see as he stum 
 bled blindly on. The wind moaned ominously, 
 and after he had reached the country, the trees that 
 bordered the road sobbed, as fitful gusts of wind 
 tore the leaves and the branches, and mutterings 
 of thunder told the early breaking of the tempest. 
 
 He could tell by the soughing of the wind 
 through the branches, and the blackness that 
 seemed to close in upon him, that he was passing 
 along a wooded road. A flash of lightning threw 
 a halo of blue flame across his way, and he turned 
 
 275
 
 TITO 
 
 abruptly into a cart path winding under the over 
 hanging boughs. Having eaten nothing since 
 morning he was weak, tired and hungry, but it was 
 his desire to rest in the solitude and seclusion of 
 the wood that prompted him to turn from the road. 
 
 Weary, footsore, he threw himself at full length 
 upon the soft grass and leaves, while the thunder 
 rumbled over his head, and the flashes of lightning 
 peopled the wood with unearthly forms, and from 
 brush and tree, ghastly faces, with staring eyes, 
 peered upon the shuddering figure on the ground; 
 then blackness again shut out the awful sight. 
 The rain began pattering on the leaves over his 
 head, the wind sang a requiem through the 
 branches, and a chorus as of a thousand lost souls 
 chanted a response. Again the thunder pealed, 
 discordant, threatening, until it seemed the uni 
 verse was disrupted tumbling in fragments above 
 his head, falling, to crush him, only to slink away 
 with growls and mutterings, then another flash 
 and tongue of flame would disclose in bush and 
 tree an army of grinning, uncanny dead: on 
 each quivering leaf a blotch of crimson blood. 
 Closing his eyes to shut out the sight he lay quite 
 still, and the rain, falling on his face, cooled his 
 temples, his fevered brain the mad throbbing 
 ceased and again he could think. 
 
 The minutes went by, the rain increased until 
 it became a steady downpour, wetting him to the 
 skin ; but he was unconscious of all but the sound 
 of voices that seemed to cry over his head, wailing, 
 lamenting : 
 
 276
 
 TITO 
 
 "Tito, thou hast forgotten, thou art a coward, a 
 coward, a coward !" 
 
 How they scoffed at him, upbraiding, taunting 
 him, mourning for the vow he had broken, while 
 the wind sobbed and, in the flashes of light, sight 
 less eyes wept, their tears mingling with the down- 
 pouring rain that washed all but the crimson stain 
 from the leaves. Again the thunder roared and, 
 following the army of echoes that rolled away, 
 came the scornful, maddening laugh of the old 
 woman, but it was a sound to chill the blood, vin 
 dictive, reproachful, her words sighing through 
 the moaning branches. "Remember thy promise, 
 my Tito, or thy soul will be damned. It is not too 
 late ; it is not, it is not. Thou shalt be pointed at 
 as a coward, a coward. Tis the dirty blood of thy 
 father that falters. Go back, it is not too late." 
 
 The wind shrieked the voice into silence and the 
 rain kept up its pattering song. 
 
 "Ah, God!" muttered the boy, "Thou hast in 
 deed deserted me. Why shouldst Thou have 
 taught me what love was, why could not I have 
 hated him, then I should not have faltered. Now 
 I must run away like a coward. I must never see 
 him again, and through all the years and the years 
 I shall remember him, not he who wronged me, 
 but as I found him, alone, with the tears of glad 
 ness in his eyes. And when I am a man and try 
 to forget the father whom I should hate, I shall 
 feel the touch of his lips on my forehead; feel 
 my fingers tremble with the joy of his touch, 
 and his words will haunt me through the days and 
 
 277
 
 TITO 
 
 the years Tito, boy, I am glad you have come 
 back to me. 
 
 His voice choked and the tears ran down his 
 rain-drenched face. 
 
 "My mother," he faltered, "thou wilt not blame 
 me. No fault could have been thine, and I know 
 that thou didst love him. If the wrong was his, 
 ihou wouldst forgive him, and I, whom he 
 wronged as he wronged thee, can I not forget or 
 forgive ? Again will I go back to dear Italia, there 
 will I be safe from the fear that the old hate will 
 return. Never again shall I see him, never again 
 shall I hear his voice, and he shall never know that 
 Tito, his son, forgot the vow that he made. To 
 morrow shall I seek the good friend who offered 
 me money that I might learn to sing. Sing! 
 Never can I sing again, for to-night the voice 
 within me died. Yet I must, even though my 
 heart burst. Sing I will, for the money to take 
 me away, to Italia, and when I am there, will he 
 be safe, and I I shall die of shame !" 
 
 His head fell on his arm and his eyes closed. 
 He slept. 
 
 The morning sun was hours high when he 
 awoke, cold, benumbed, with a feeling that some 
 terrible disaster had overtaken him. There was 
 joy in the fresh air, the sunshine quivered through 
 the branches of the trees, kissing the water on the 
 dripping leaves into sparkling gems. He was stiff 
 and scarcely able to move, but he walked into the 
 warm sunshine, his wet clothing clinging to his 
 body, his teeth chattering with the cold. 
 
 278
 
 TITO 
 
 To return to Italy was his one thought. The 
 one desire to get away, to preclude any possibility 
 of again meeting his father took possession of his 
 mind, and with this end in view, he decided to 
 return to the city. Entertaining no doubt as to 
 his ability to accomplish his purpose, his confi 
 dence in his ultimate success was complete; his 
 brain was clear, and his plan of action well defined. 
 Having eaten nothing for the past twenty-four 
 hours, he was weak from lack of food and expos 
 ure, but hunger had no terrors for him often had 
 he done battle with it before. At the cafes in the 
 Italian quarter a welcome always awaited him, for 
 he had sung himself into the hearts of his com 
 patriots, and his sigh of satisfaction was in re 
 sponse to the thought that there he would be met 
 with kind words and smiles coin of the heart s 
 mintage. 
 
 Walking with rapid, swinging gait, he hoped to 
 arrive at the home of Ned Hollander in time to 
 see him before he left for his office. To his rain- 
 soaked clothing he gave no thought, and he was 
 unconscious that he presented a sorry, bedraggled 
 appearance. As he went on, the noise and bustle 
 of the city was as a greeting from an old friend, 
 stirring his young blood, lifting the cloud that 
 seemed to envelop him, and holding out something 
 akin to hope. 
 
 Ringing the bell, the servant who opened the 
 door eyed him with amused suspicion, then, leav 
 ing Tito standing in the outer hall, went in search 
 of his master. 
 
 279
 
 TITO 
 
 Tito almost smiled at his own audacity, yet he 
 was proudly conscious that his mission was not 
 one of charity. He had something to sell the art 
 that the good God had given him, and, when he 
 was bidden to enter, met Ned Hollander s smiling 
 welcome with the easy grace of an equal. 
 
 "Ah, Tito, I am truly glad to see you. A mo 
 ment later and you would have missed me." 
 
 Tito had caught a glimpse of his own forlorn 
 figure in a mirror, and the blood mounted to his 
 cheeks, for his anxiety had crowded out all 
 thought of his personal appearance. 
 
 "I have been out," he said apologetically, "in 
 the rain of last night. Thou wilt not be offended 
 that I am wet " he cast a look of concern at his 
 mud-besmeared clothes and boots "and muddy? 
 But I wished much to see thee. Thou wilt not 
 mind that I look ill?" 
 
 "Not I," Ned laughed. "How comes it that you 
 were out in the rain?" 
 
 "That I cannot tell thee," Tito replied. "It was 
 nothing, only that I look like a sweep. What I 
 would know is, if thou wouldst have me sing 
 sing for thy friends ? I must tell thee that I would 
 go to Italia to my home ; and I must earn money, 
 for I would go soon. Thou wert kind to offer me 
 money that I might learn ; wilt thou be kind now, 
 and, at thy club, for thy friends, will I sing. They 
 are rich, and if I sing well, will they pay me that 
 I may go to Italia." 
 
 "My dear boy, of course I ll help you," was the 
 
 280
 
 TITO 
 
 impulsive response. "If ^ou are in trouble I will 
 give you " 
 
 "No, no," interrupted Tito, stoutly, "that I will 
 not ; but I will earn it, aye, and I will sing as never 
 before, and never again," he added in a faltering 
 voice. 
 
 "To-night, then, at the club. You will come 
 here, come early, and to Italy you shall go. Now 
 isn t there something I can do for you to-day?" 
 
 "Nothing," replied Tito. "You are kind. I 
 will go, and to-morrow could I get a ship to 
 morrow?" 
 
 "Yes, there is a boat for Mediterranean ports 
 to-morrow. But why so soon, Tito?" 
 
 "Ah! that I cannot tell thee, but when I shall 
 have money to pay for the passage, then shall I go. 
 If it were only to-day!" 
 
 His voice and his eyes spoke of sorrow that his 
 listener was quick to perceive. With a parting 
 good-bye, Tito ran lightly down the steps and was 
 gone. 
 
 Attired in a neat fitting suit of clothes, which 
 had been provided by Ned Hollander, who, with 
 delicate tact, had pointed out to Tito that his own 
 was hardly appropriate for the occasion, in the 
 early evening he entered the club-house with his 
 benefactor. 
 
 Here were his father s one-time friends; here, 
 too, was where this same father was wont to come, 
 the equal of any, the mental superior of many an 
 other who had forgotten that he still lived here 
 
 281
 
 TITO 
 
 now walked his son with the unconscious bearing 
 of one to the manner born. 
 
 Many questioning eyes were turned upon him, 
 many were the admiring glances that followed 
 him, as, with his sponsor, he walked from room to 
 room, receiving the same formal introduction, the 
 same courtesy that would be extended to an hon 
 ored guest. Many were the eyes that rested on 
 the handsome face, to which excitement had lent a 
 ready flush, which had power only to soften the 
 expression of sorrow, to veil the look of sadness 
 in the eyes, giving to him a subdued, even melan 
 choly air, an added distinction to Nature s mould 
 of an aristocrat. With an ease of manner that was 
 inborn, he met those who were old in the world s 
 knowledge, fitting into his environment as if lux 
 ury had been his by right ; observing much, saying 
 little, but conquering the hearts of those who saw 
 him and marveled. 
 
 Entering the library with his companion, they 
 stood before the portraits of the past members of 
 the club, Hollander answering his questions, point 
 ing out to him, meanwhile, those of whom the 
 world had heard much. 
 
 Tito listened, silent, for his eyes were fixed in 
 an incredulous stare upon Vanburg s portrait, one 
 of a group in a frame containing twenty or more 
 of the former members of the club. 
 
 "Whose whose picture is that?" he asked, indi 
 cating his father s portrait. 
 
 His voice was unsteady, but he spoke in a low 
 tone. 
 
 282
 
 TITO 
 
 "His name is Vanburg," Ned replied. 
 
 "He he is living?" Tito asked. 
 
 "Yes, I believe he is. He has not been here for 
 many years. Poor fellow, poor Van." 
 
 Thou knew him well? Was there some mis 
 fortune? Thou speakest of him with pity." 
 
 "Yes. His life was blotted out. You could not 
 understand, Tito." 
 
 "Tell me of him." 
 
 The boy s tone was one of entreaty. In his eyes 
 there; was supplication, and in the excitement of 
 the moment his unguarded desire was made mani 
 fest to his companion. Ned regarded him with 
 amused interest. He considered the request that 
 of one whose emotional instincts had been awak 
 ened by his recital of Vanburg s downfall ; and in 
 a few words he told the history of the boy s father. 
 Tito listened, his color, in waves, coming and go 
 ing, his breathing deep, his eyes responding to 
 every detail grief, regret, humiliation, alternately 
 sweeping over his mobile countenance. 
 
 "Ah!" he exclaimed in tones of sorrow, "there 
 must have been some cause, some trouble. Was 
 was he married?" he asked tremulously. 
 
 "No," answered his companion. A convulsive 
 shudder swept the boy s frame. His features hard 
 ened, and turning abruptly away he asked : 
 
 "Wilt thou have me sing now?" 
 
 "Are you anxious to conquer, to triumph?" 
 asked Hollander, laughing. 
 
 "No, but if I delay, I fear that I shall fail. Let 
 it be now!" 
 
 283
 
 TITO 
 
 The voice was steely, the lines about the mouth 
 were drawn, and the eyes told of mental suffering. 
 
 He stood beside the piano, and a few introduc 
 tory notes drew the attention of all to the singer, 
 for it was known that Hollander had made a prom 
 ise which required talent of a high order to redeem. 
 
 The power that had swayed the emotional Flor 
 entine artists, that had stirred the hearts of Ned 
 Hollander and his sister with a new-found delight, 
 that had brought tears into the eyes of Vanburg 
 tears of regret, of love, of sorrow this power 
 seized upon those who listened to the voice that 
 was now tender, now passionate, tones vibrating 
 with love, with hate, sinking to a sigh or rising 
 with the wild abandon of one who flings defiance 
 to the world. In spirit, the singer was alone 
 alone in the fields and woods of Tuscany; the rip 
 pling notes of the piano, subdued, but ever sup 
 porting the voice, was the echo of the Arno 
 through the sunlit summer days, and the evenings, 
 with the purple Apennines touching the sky that 
 was the dome of his world, his heaven. The story 
 he was telling in song was of the heart-burnings 
 of his childhood, of his sorrowful quest, of the 
 father he had found to love to lose. He did not 
 see the faces before him, the soft lights were the 
 reflection of the sun sinking in a blaze behind the 
 mountain peaks of his own Tuscany, melting into 
 a haze of iridescent color as the ready tears filled 
 his eyes. He did not hear the applause, the words 
 of praise fell upon his ears a buzzing sound 
 vague, meaningless. 
 
 284
 
 TITO 
 
 Again and again he sang, but his heart was with 
 the unconscious sleeper whom he had left so short 
 a time before, though now it seemed ages, his life 
 separated from the past by a limitless gulf. 
 
 He was singing, he believed, his last song, for 
 the last time, the one to which Vanburg had lis 
 tened, the one which Bettina had loved, had sung. 
 With an effort he had controlled his voice, but it 
 wavered, faltered, and the last lingering note ended 
 in a sob, the tears streaming down his cheeks. 
 He turned away to hide his emotion, but there 
 were other eyes than his that were moist, other lips 
 that quivered, other hearts that had responded to 
 the pathetic appeal. It was no time for applause ; 
 a sigh, almost of relief, swept his hearers, and the 
 tribute to his art was deeper than words could 
 voice. 
 
 "Let me go now," he begged. 
 
 "Come with me into the cafe," urged Hollander 
 gently. 
 
 Together they entered the cafe and Ned, divin 
 ing Tito s desire, led him to a retired seat. 
 
 Placing a glass of wine before him, he bade him 
 drink and rest until he should return. 
 
 Tito drank the wine, and to those who spoke to 
 him gently, affectionately, he answered with smil 
 ing face but sorrowing eyes; and with Hollander s 
 return he prepared to go. 
 
 A sealed envelope was placed in his hands, with 
 the request that it should not be opened until he 
 returned to his lodgings. 
 
 285
 
 TITO 
 
 "My address is within the envelope," he was 
 told, "you will write to me?" 
 
 "Yes," Tito answered, "thou hast been very 
 good to me. I will not forget." 
 
 "Good luck to you ! God has been good to you, 
 my boy; with your voice, you can command the 
 world." 
 
 "When I am in dear Tuscany by the Arno, I 
 shall never care to sing again." 
 
 He went out into the night and the city sang to 
 him its never ending song. 
 
 286
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 FROM the promenade deck of an ocean 
 steamer, Tito watched the receding shores of 
 America, as they melted into a haze on the 
 horizon his eyes, dreamy, wistful, lingered where 
 the city faded from his sight. He caught his breath 
 sharply, and a sigh of regret was borne back, a 
 last message of sorrowing love. He could not steel 
 his heart against the sorrow he felt at leaving 
 feelings that rilled him with a profound melan 
 choly, crying to him that all hope in life was left 
 behind. 
 
 Too late to return now and answer the prompt 
 ings of the years of hate he had outlived, too late 
 to fulfil the vow he had made and broken, too late 
 to avert the scorn, the shame, the degradation 
 which awaited him on his return. 
 
 He shuddered. He pictured the dark visaged, 
 relentless Pietro, his eyes shooting gleams of hate, 
 as he demanded of him if he had kept his vow. He 
 could see the low, contracted forehead, the ugly 
 scar on the cheek, the thin, compressed lips, the 
 almost beardless face, the set, murderous expres 
 sion, which, in the years he had known him, had 
 never relaxed, nor, in that time, had a smile ever 
 softened its lines. Stamped on the boy s mind was 
 the awful expression, the lips scarcely moving as, 
 
 287
 
 TITO 
 
 at parting, he hissed into his ear a warning never 
 to receive his first communion till he had wrought 
 the vengeance that was his by right, by the will of 
 God. "See!" the old man cried, pointing to the 
 scar that disfigured his face, "this was the mark 
 of one whose life I swore should be the balm to 
 heal it. Years I sought him, till, at last, my knife 
 found his heart. Only then did the scar heal. Thy 
 wrong was greater than mine." 
 
 A chill seemed to creep over the boy, clutching 
 at his heart ; a sensation of horror to take posses 
 sion of him. This, in turn, gave place to compas 
 sion, an indefinable regret, and try as he w r ould, 
 he could not stifle emotions which, unbidden, filled 
 him with a keen sorrow, nor could he banish from 
 his mind the one with whom he had parted forever, 
 whom he had learned to love. Like a spectre, the 
 face haunted him, and the words rang in his ears, 
 "Tito, you have come back to me." 
 
 And now, now he was returning to the life that 
 he should never have left to the taunts and the 
 heart-burnings. He must bear the dishonor hum 
 bly, for was it not of his own choosing? and hav 
 ing relinquished his right to demand satisfaction, 
 he must remain silent, for he had surrendered his 
 claim to manhood. Still the thought came to him, 
 and it thrilled his soul with a new-found joy, that 
 he had spared the life he had sworn to take, of 
 that his defamcrs could not rob him. And his 
 pulses quickened, for the thought was dear, and a 
 wondrous feeling of exaltation took possession of 
 him. 
 
 288
 
 TITO 
 
 The land had disappeared and the steamer was 
 lifting to the ocean swell. Turning from the rail 
 of the ship he descended to the saloon, for he was 
 a first-caoin passenger, and, to direct his thoughts 
 into pleasanter channels, as well as to acquaint 
 himself with the luxurious surroundings, he ex 
 plored the steamer from its upper deck to as far 
 below as the rules would permit. 
 
 When, the night before, Tito had opened the 
 envelope given him by Ned Hollander, at first his 
 amazement had given place to doubt, then to a 
 feeling of guilt that he had, though without his 
 sanction, become an object of charity. This was 
 revolting to him, but after having read, by a labori 
 ous effort, the letter enclosed, his over-sensitive 
 feelings were soothed. 
 
 The envelope contained a first-class ticket to 
 Genoa, and a sum of money out of all proportion, 
 the boy believed, to what should have been his 
 reward. But the letter written by Hollander as 
 suaged the boy s pride, and the following day 
 found him on the steamer in possession of funds 
 sufficient for weeks, even months, to come. 
 
 The days dragged slowly ; for after the first nov 
 elty had passed, his interest lagged, and even the 
 passengers failed to awake more than slight notice, 
 and mental observations that were caustic and 
 sweeping in his disregard for their high-bred as 
 sumption of superiority. Keenly alive to what was 
 new and strange, he absorbed knowledge readily ; 
 ever on the alert, unobtrusive, observing, reticent, 
 a boy in years, with the wisdom of a man. 
 
 289
 
 TITO 
 
 He had leisure now to think, and during the still 
 nights, when a mysterious calm settled over the 
 sea, the steamer forging ahead over the watery 
 waste, the voice of an almighty power whispered 
 its secrets to him. 
 
 When all was quiet below, and the decks were 
 clear, the moonless sky above him, he sat alone on 
 the upper deck, his thoughts with the father, who, 
 perhaps, lay unconscious, perhaps dying. The 
 tears would trickle down his cheeks, and his chok 
 ing sobs were a tribute to his great love. The 
 look in Vanburg s eyes a look of appeal, entreaty, 
 love, haunted him ; and the voice seemed to come 
 from the sea. "Tito, my own Tito." Why had 
 the remembrance the power to wring his young 
 heart, why were the w r ords ever in his ears, the 
 tones gentle as a woman s, while the tender, com 
 passionate look in the eyes of the man as he bent 
 over him when he lay on the bed with a wounded 
 arm, tortured him with a sense of his own ingrati 
 tude. With a start and a sudden resolve he would 
 spring to his feet as though to turn back, to throw 
 himself at the feet of the father who had wronged 
 him and confess all, to beg forgiveness for the vow 
 he had made, to call him father, to see his eyes 
 light up with the joy that his words would bring, 
 and to again hear him cry out, "Tito, you have 
 come back to me." 
 
 But it was too late. Every throb of the screw 
 bore him farther away from him who was waiting, 
 always waiting, his return. He was alone with 
 the night and the sea, and the waves lapping the 
 
 290
 
 TITO 
 
 sides of the ship sobbed in sympathy with his grief, 
 the soft night wind chiding him for the life and the 
 love he had cast aside. What would become of 
 this new-found father, alone in that dreary room, 
 no human being near who had the power to save 
 him from his downward career? For the boy had 
 seen enough to convince him that his father was 
 seeking oblivion in drink. How could it be that 
 this father had wronged him, he, whose voice, 
 when speaking of his mother the dead Bettina 
 shook with emotion? Had he not, when he lay 
 unconscious, and listened to the voice that he 
 thought was hers, awakened ? Had not her name 
 the power to bring him to life? 
 
 Tito pressed his hands against his temples and 
 tried to think, to reason, but the declaration of 
 Vanburg that he had no son, set his thoughts and 
 emotions revolting. Then the recollection of what 
 awaited him on his return rose before him, the 
 taunts, the gibes, the insults, and the old feelings 
 of hate and passion swept over him. The old 
 woman s hateful features seemed to leer at him in 
 the gloom, he saw the scarred, vindictive face of 
 Pietro, and he heard the voices of the night in 
 taunting whispers: "Coward, Piccolo d Ignoti, so 
 you have come back nameless." 
 
 It was the night before the steamer arrived at 
 Genoa. The breeze from the land sighed with 
 languorous warmth, and as they neared the en 
 trance to the outer bay, the sea murmured a greet 
 ing. 
 
 Tito was on deck. Throughout the voyage he 
 291
 
 TITO 
 
 had kept much to himself, repulsing all advances, 
 refusing to enter into conversation with the pas 
 sengers ; and they, in turn, noting his disinclination 
 to talk, after the first few days, left him to himself. 
 
 "Italia, dear Italia," he murmured absently, 
 "much as I love thee, thou hast no welcome for me 
 Tito. Is there not one in all this beautiful land 
 who will be glad to see the Little Devil again? 
 Aye, Maria, and the good artist, in Florence; he 
 will be pleased, yet will he also be sorry, for he will 
 look into my eyes and there will he read that the 
 heart within me is dead. It is as he said, that 
 America would strangle the joy, the soul, and 
 when I would return, the beauty in life for me 
 would be gone. It is even so. The birds will sing, 
 but I shall not hear them; the flowers will be as 
 bright as when I left them, but to me their beauty 
 will be withered. The river will babble as I have 
 often heard it, but it will be a song of sorrow. 
 And it will be saying to me always the words: 
 "Tito, come back to me, come back to me. 
 
 "Why, oh, why does not the ship come to the 
 land, that I may get away ! I shall like better the 
 train when it rushes on and on. The ship is ever 
 going, going, going, and always, always away from 
 him, him whom I shall never see again. Ma 
 donna Mia, teach me what God is, that I may 
 speak with Him, pray to Him ! Would he hear 
 me, me, Tito, the Little Devil? Then will I ask 
 of Him this favor as He gave back the life of 
 him whom I call father, wilt thou, Madonna, guard 
 him, save him ? and if he has erred, if he has done 
 
 292
 
 TITO 
 
 wrong, let me answer for it, Madonna Mia, for my 
 sin is greater than his." 
 
 The lip trembled and the sturdy frame shook 
 with a convulsive sob, yet there took possession of 
 the boy a feeling of peace, of calm, a sweet con 
 tentment for, in his heart, hate had died, and, as 
 if a great light had entered his life, there came to 
 him the wonderful experience of the birth of faith, 
 the mystery of the Divine Being. 
 
 An elation seemed to encompass his heart, his 
 soul ; his pulses throbbed, his heartbeats quickened, 
 and an ecstasy, as though some unlooked-for good 
 fortune had overtaken him, thrilled his being. 
 
 "The good Madonna guard him." 
 
 He whispered the words again and again, and as 
 if in answer to the prayer, as if the telegraphy of 
 human hearts held distance as naught, more than 
 three thousand miles away, a man, lonely and sor 
 rowful, was raising his heart to Heaven in the 
 words: "Be merciful, oh God; Tito, come back 
 to meP 
 
 293
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 AGAIN Tito walked through the streets of 
 Florence. The night was well advanced 
 when he arrived, after a journey from Genoa 
 that was a torture to him. Tired and hungry 
 though he was, he had no inclination to eat, and, 
 walking listlessly along the street, he took but 
 slight interest in what was going on about him. 
 
 Lights flashed, music struck upon his ear, for 
 Florence was alive to its pleasures, and the cafes 
 and promenades were filled with gaily dressed 
 throngs, chatting, laughing in the manner of true 
 Florentines. But all this jarred upon him and 
 fretted his nerves; his face was drawn, his step 
 heavy, and he went on listlessly. 
 
 He was passing by the place where, upon his 
 former visit, he had first discovered the loss of his 
 purse. He stopped in his walk and a smile played 
 about the corners of his mouth. Instinctively he 
 felt for his money, but his experience in the past 
 year had taught him much, and his smile resolved 
 into his old-time rippling laugh. 
 
 "It is here," he said softly, "that I missed my 
 good gold pieces, here also was where I discovered 
 that I was hungry, aye, as never before. Would I 
 not like to meet the clod who stole my money? 
 
 294
 
 TITO 
 
 Aye, that I would ! And I would wreak my ven 
 geance upon his dolt head ! Ah ! But I will have 
 no such good luck! He is in the fields tending 
 swine, yet he is happier than I even better than I, 
 though he be a thief." 
 
 Again he walked on, pausing before the cafe 
 where he had first met his artist friend. Again the 
 strains of music came through door and window, 
 and he listened as he had on the night when he had 
 sung outside on the pavement ; yet now, how dif 
 ferent ! His step was heavy, his eyes expression 
 less, his bearing that of one who had suffered a 
 loss that left his future hopeless. Silently he 
 turned away. No responsive chord in his heart 
 answered to the strains of music, which formerly 
 had the power to set the blood tingling through 
 his veins, his pulses to quicken, his whole being to 
 thrill with delight. The music that was wont to 
 stir him to the very depths of his soul, now fell 
 upon his ear a jargon of meaningless sounds; 
 more, it annoyed him, and turning abruptly away, 
 he hurried on to his lodgings. 
 
 The next morning Tito was astir early. To 
 make a pilgrimage to the original of the painting 
 which he had left with Vanburg, and to visit his 
 friend the artist, were the missions that detained 
 him ; when this was accomplished, it was his inten 
 tion to hurry on to his home without further delay. 
 Knowing what he had to undergo before he could 
 again renew his old life, he wished to meet his old 
 associates, that the worst might be over, and he 
 
 295
 
 TITO 
 
 could then begin life anew. But more than all he 
 dreaded his meeting with Pietro. Night and day 
 he saw before him the fierce scowl, the eyes blaz 
 ing with hate, with passion, with vindictiveness, 
 the old man s voice hissing the words between 
 clenched teeth : "Thou art a coward, a dishonor 
 to thy race !" and the boy knew that he could give 
 no excuse, could utter no word in palliation of his 
 failure, only such as would disclose his love for the 
 father. That he had failed, that he returned doubly 
 dishonored in the eyes of those who knew of his 
 mission this would stamp him a coward; but to 
 acknowledge the cause of relinquishing his vow, 
 would brand him as worse than a traitor. Besides, 
 knowing as he did the spirit of the Vendetta which 
 dominated Pietro, somehow he had a fear lest the 
 old man, with the impulsive ardor of his race, 
 would take upon himself the accomplishment of 
 the vengeance which he had renounced. At the 
 thought terror seized him. What if Pietro should 
 fulfil the vow that he had forsworn? 
 
 With these thoughts in his mind, Tito was pass 
 ing the cathedral, and the organ music, with the 
 chanting of the choir, arrested his steps. Entering 
 the church, he knelt in a pew in the centre aisle. 
 
 The organ pealed forth the Gloria of Mozart s 
 Mass, the choir sang the inspired music with an 
 exaltation of religious fervor, the stately magnifi 
 cence of the ritual of the Roman church, in har 
 mony with the sombre vastness of the grand inter 
 ior and the softened light, lent an unearthly halo 
 
 296
 
 TITO 
 
 to the moving forms on the altar. The service pro 
 ceeded, it was High Mass, and the intoning of the 
 priest was answered by responses that died into an 
 echo. 
 
 Still the boy knelt as one in a dream entranced. 
 His body was of earth, but his soul had gone out 
 to the Unknown groping in the dark at the por 
 tals of the kingdom of Faith. He tried to pray, 
 but his faculties were benumbed, his mind in chaos, 
 and only the words framed themselves in his brain, 
 in his heart : Madonna, forgive me and guard his 
 life. Hear me, Madonna! At last I have found 
 God !" 
 
 The procession on the altar moved on to the 
 left and entered the vestry; the congregation 
 slowly filed out of the church, the music died into 
 a soft tremolo, the last note vibrating through the 
 vast edifice Tito was alone, kneeling in a state of 
 rapture, his eyes fixed on the altar at the far end of 
 the church. 
 
 Was it imagination, a chimera of an over 
 wrought brain, or did a mist form above the altar, 
 gradually increasing until silvery, shimmering 
 clouds seemed to float, to move, to intermingle, 
 the colored lights through the stained windows 
 lending fantastic colors that played upon the mov 
 ing mass, iridescent, scintillating? 
 
 Still he knelt, powerless to move, his eyes, bulg 
 ing from their sockets, fixed on the altar. 
 
 Gradually the moving mass became still, drifting 
 in a cloud, and from its centre appeared what at 
 
 297
 
 TITO 
 
 first seemed the outlines of a human form. The 
 mist thickened, gathered at the centre, and a face 
 of such beauty as he had never seen shone from 
 out the encompassing cloud, the lips parting in a 
 smile as if about to speak. Soon the full figure 
 was outlined in the hazy mist a hand of marvel 
 ous whiteness and beauty pointing above. 
 
 For a minute the vision was poised in the vapor 
 ous cloud, then melted before his eyes, the mist 
 dissolved and nothing remained but the sunlight 
 struggling through the windows. 
 
 He rose, bewildered, but a feeling of quiet peace 
 had taken possession of his heart and mind ; and as 
 he slowly went out into the bright sunlight, he felt 
 that some rare good fortune had suddenly come to 
 him. Going directly to the Palazzo Vecchio, he 
 sought the portrait of Lippi s Madonna, and, 
 standing before the famous painting, again looked 
 upon what had. been the model his mother had 
 used, before which his father had stood when they 
 had signed the portrait. 
 
 "Ah ! my mother," he said, softly, "couldst thou 
 speak to me to-day, wouldst thou not say that I 
 had done right? Thou wouldst not blame me be 
 cause I spared the life of him whom thou loved? 
 Thou wouldst not have me bear the curse, had I 
 wrought the vengeance I had sworn? Thou who 
 wert so beautiful, so good? I know thou wouldst 
 not, my dear mother; and when to-day I prayed 
 to the good God to preserve him, I felt that thou, 
 too, joined with me. It was thou, my mother, who
 
 TITO 
 
 came to me in the church, and thou smiled, for 
 thou wert pleased, and, couldst thou speak, well I 
 know wouldst thou say: Tito, thou hast done 
 right ; henceforth will the good God be near thee. 
 Now will I go to the fields and work, and none 
 shall know, and he will live in peace, this father, 
 even though he will not call me son." 
 
 Sorrowfully he turned away and was about to 
 go out through the main entrance when, in de 
 scending the steps, he was grasped by the arm, 
 and his artist friend, holding him close, warmly 
 embraced him. 
 
 "Tito!" 
 
 Holding the boy at arm s length, he looked at 
 him searchingly. 
 
 "Yes, it is I, Tito," was the reply. 
 
 "It is Tito in the flesh ; Little Devil, it is as I 
 feared! America has killed the soul within thee. 
 The fire in thine eyes is dead. Fanciullo Mio, why 
 didst thou ever go ? Come, this is no place to talk. 
 We will go to the cafe, and thou shalt tell me what 
 I already know that the heart within thee is 
 dead." 
 
 Together they went to the cafe where, once 
 before, in the bright sunshine, the artist had lis 
 tened as the boy poured out the fulness of his 
 young heart. Words were not necessary now to 
 tell the boy s companion that, for him, the future 
 offered nothing on which hope could live. The 
 eyes, the voice, the features, spoke of sorrow that 
 struck into his very soul, and with the instinct of 
 
 299
 
 TITO 
 
 his craft, the artist read the story of a life blighted 
 at the outset. The smile was gone, the fire in the 
 eyes, which a year ago had power to rouse the 
 artist instinct in his companion, was extinguished. 
 Nothing remained but the settled calm of one who 
 had surrendered to the edict of the world s curse. 
 
 " Little Devil/ " said the artist, after they had 
 drunk a glass of wine, "is it not as I have said? 
 Thou hast come back to thine own Italia, but the 
 sunlight has gone out of thy life ; and to thee the 
 beauty of the world is gone, for thou no longer 
 livest. America has strangled thy young life, so 
 young, of such promise ! Madonna, that it should 
 be so! Tell me, thy father " 
 
 "He lives," said the boy simply. 
 
 "Then is the Madonna kind! Thou hast seen 
 him?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 In simple language, in tones that were an echo 
 of the Tito of the Arno, the boy told his story, all 
 that had occurred since he had last parted with his 
 friend. The sorrow in his voice, more eloquent 
 than his words, betrayed his depth of feeling. 
 Calmly, dispassionately, he spoke of his father, yet, 
 unconsciously a note of pride, even of joy, dis 
 closed to his listener more than he intended, and 
 a feeling of confident hope filled the heart of the 
 artist. The man who listened with eager ear, 
 trained to measure men by the varying intonations 
 of the voice, as well as by a judging eye, caught 
 the occasional vibrant note of affection and, with 
 
 300
 
 TITO 
 
 exultation, awaited the termination of Tito s story. 
 In the germ of love that had taken root in the 
 boy s heart he saw the working out of his salva 
 tion, and listened, without interruption, to the end. 
 
 "And now," concluded Tito, "nothing is left but 
 the old life of shame. I return as I went away 
 nameless. That I have a father, yes, but one who 
 says he has no son; so again must I meet the 
 taunts; but I cannot beat them as I did, for they 
 have the right to call me coward. I shall go into 
 the fields and work, and forget." 
 
 The artist smiled. 
 
 "Tito, Little Devil, the good Madonna has 
 guarded thee. When I first saw thee at the church 
 door, I feared thou hadst returned with the curse 
 of blood upon thy hands. If I loved thee before, 
 now thou art, in truth, my son. Thou shalt yet 
 study art with me, for the heart within thee is not 
 dead, this father " 
 
 "No, no," replied Tito, the first sign of anima 
 tion in voice and manner, "no. This father is noth 
 ing to me. Have I not told thee that he said he 
 has no son?" 
 
 Again the artist smiled. Time, he knew, and the 
 wondrous workings of the miracle of love, would 
 accomplish what words could not bring about. 
 After they had eaten they went to one of the gal 
 leries, and throughout the long afternoon Tito s 
 companion talked to him of art, pointing out to 
 the boy what he might accomplish by study and 
 work. 
 
 301
 
 TITO 
 
 Tito listened with growing interest, and under 
 the influences of the cheering words of the artist, 
 forgot his sorrow for the time being. The ex 
 pression on his face changed, his eyes lighted up 
 with the old-time fire, and his laugh rang out with 
 boyish abandon. 
 
 Night found them standing by the Arno, where, 
 a year ago, the boy poured out his life-story and 
 the artist had listened to his vow. The river sang;- 
 its ceaseless song, the last lingering rays of sunset 
 touched the tower of the Palazzo Vecchio, the 
 twilight deepened and night came quickly. And 
 the boy, with voice tuned in harmony with the 
 languorous summer night, spoke of America, tell 
 ing the story of his father s encounter with the 
 thief, and of how, with a woman s tenderness, he 
 had nursed him through his week of illness. Con 
 cluding, his tones thrilling with pride, he described 
 his father as a physical god, a hero before whom 
 all men should bow, and the night shadows hid the 
 smile of pleasure and satisfaction on the face of his 
 listener. 
 
 "Tito, to-morrow you will return home?" 
 
 "Yes," answered the boy, sadly. The thought 
 of home brought to mind the scarred features of 
 Pietro, and his voice reflected his feeling of repug 
 nance as he thought of the welcome that awaited 
 him. 
 
 "But thou shalt not remain there," said the 
 p.rtist, "thou shalt return to me and begfin thy life 
 work. Nay! Do not protest, Little Devil, it 
 must be as I say." 
 
 303
 
 TITO 
 
 They talked far into the night. The moon 
 dipped behind the western hills, the stars, mounted 
 on the crest of the distant Apennines, shone with 
 unusual brilliancy, and the repose of midnight set 
 tled over the city. 
 
 Tito and his companion walked leisurely home 
 ward. They paused before Tito s lodgings, and 
 the artist bade him an affectionate "good-night." 
 
 303
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 IT was high noon of the following day, and Tito 
 walked up the gravel path leading to the door 
 of his old home. The shutters were closed and 
 the door locked, but this he expected, for he had 
 learned at the village that Pietro was away at 
 work, twenty miles in the country, and would not 
 return until the following Sunday. He had re 
 ceived the information with a feeling of satisfac 
 tion, even of joy, for he dreaded the meeting with 
 his uncle. Tito was aware of the affection, the 
 fierce love with which the old man regarded him. 
 It is with such love a wild beast guards its young, 
 it is such love that makes heroes of men, or, when 
 thwarted, turns one of Pietro s nature into a fiend. 
 
 During the years the old woman had trained 
 Tito s mind in viciousness, Pietro had silently 
 watched the growth of the boy s hate, meanwhile 
 lavishing upon him a wild, idolatrous love, only 
 such as those who are childless, who have lived a 
 simple, though semi-barbarous life, can feel, can 
 know ; and there was no time during Tito s child 
 hood that, if occasion arose, the old man would 
 not have laid down his life for the boy, and with 
 his dying breath have thanked the Madonna. 
 
 Maria, too, he must meet ; gentle, trusting little 
 Maria, who had shared his boyish secrets, his joys 
 
 304
 
 TITO 
 
 and his sorrows, his champion who had dared 
 the displeasure of those who had cast aspersion on 
 his birth. She, he knew, would, as she always 
 had, stand by him, and with a thrill of pride, 
 which was love knocking at the door of his young 
 manhood, he anticipated his meeting with her. 
 
 It was no difficult matter for him to gain an 
 entrance to the house, and once inside, he swung 
 open the door and the shutters of the windows 
 the bright sunlight dissolving the gloom within. 
 
 Walking about the room, with a feeling of 
 affection he handled every familiar article and, 
 lovingly, laid them again in their accustomed 
 places. All was as he had left it, even to the 
 broken crucifix on the mantel, where it had lain 
 since the night when, carried away by passion, he 
 had dashed it against the wall. What had come 
 and gone since that day, how his young life had 
 changed ! Then with the arrogance of full- 
 blooded youth, his passion fostered by the old 
 woman s hate, he had listened to the tales of the 
 vendetta that old Pietro instilled into his mind. 
 Now sorrow, remorse; yet, underlying it all, a 
 fire he could not quench, a voice that would not 
 be stilled, the cry of love for his father the father 
 whom he should hate. Try as he might, he could 
 not, for any length of time, put from him the 
 vision of the man lying unconscious on the bed. 
 Even in his dreams his father s words haunted 
 him, and, with a start, he would wake and listen, 
 and believing himself again in Vanburg s room, 
 put out his hand to make sure that his father was 
 
 305
 
 TITO 
 
 not with him. Would this memory live? 
 Through all the years must he hear the voice, the 
 entreating tones striking upon his very heart 
 strings with their longing tenderness? Would the 
 love struggling in his breast die, and the hate that 
 was his heritage return? Or, in the years of sor 
 row, of misery, which lay before him, would the 
 voice, tinged with reproach, ask him why, without 
 a word, he had left him left him while he slept, 
 leaving behind the portrait that was as a message 
 from the grave? 
 
 Tito, standing by the mantel, raised the broken 
 crucifix in the air; a sob preceded his words. 
 
 "Madonna, wilt thou guard him? If he still 
 thinks of Tito, if he should know that the Little 
 Devil is the son he disowns, wilt thou tell him that 
 the hate is dead tell him, Madonna Mia, that 
 that I love him." 
 
 Kissing the crucifix, he placed it on the mantel, 
 then with the tears still glistening in his eyes, went 
 out again into the bright sunlight. 
 
 But one of his years could not long withstand 
 the influences and the beauty of Nature, the roll 
 ing plain sloping to the Arno the Arno of his 
 youth, of his dreams. 
 
 With light foot he ran through the fields, 
 bounding over hedges, plunging into the wood 
 where every tree and stone was as an old friend. 
 Gradually he neared the river singing its song of 
 joy, as when he had sat beside it last. 
 
 "Dear old friend," he said, "thou wilt sing to 
 morrow as to-day. Thou dost not care if all the 
 
 306
 
 TITO 
 
 vows ever made were broken thou, whose song 
 never ceases a song of joy for those whose hearts 
 are glad, tuning thy voice in harmony with those 
 who sorrow. And with thy siren song, those who 
 are tired of the world dost thou woo to thy bosom, 
 enveloping them with thy watery mantle, chant 
 ing a requiem for the dead as they do in church. 
 Sing now to me a tune of sorrow, for the Tito that 
 thou didst know is no more, the songs that he 
 sang for thee he has forgotten, and never again 
 shalt thou hear his voice. Dost thou not heed me, 
 Arno? for thou babbles! on as though sorrow was 
 not for thee. Wilt thou, too, desert me, and be 
 cause of the promises I made to thee, that I have 
 broken, wilt thou, like the others, cry to me that 
 I am a coward? Ah, even now, I can hear thy 
 voice, singing the words: Little coward, little 
 coward. Wilt thou always sing thus to me? 
 Hast thou forgotten how I loved thee? Sing to 
 me those other words that I always hear Tito, 
 come back to me, come back. 
 
 Twilight, like a blanket of gorgeous hue, envel 
 oped the valley when he returned home and, after 
 a supper of bread and wine, lay down and slept 
 sleeping as they sleep whom exhaustion over 
 powers. 
 
 Early the next morning he was on his way to 
 find Maria, for he must tell her all, and hear, from 
 her own lips, that she would not look upon him 
 with scorn. 
 
 Passing through the straggling street of the 
 village, he was met by those whom he knew, and 
 
 307
 
 TITO 
 
 they lost no time in hailing him to learn his exact 
 social status since his return. 
 
 "Well, Piccolo d Ignotir 
 
 Notwithstanding Tito s good resolutions, the 
 offender got no further, for the boy, with blazing 
 eyes and flushed face struck out with lightning 
 quickness, and his tormentor, the blood streaming 
 from his nose, measured his length on the dusty 
 road. He was a head taller than Tito, his senior 
 by several years; and it was only by the sudden 
 ness of the attack that Tito gained the advantage. 
 But his blood was aroused, and the Tito of old was 
 in command. It was not alone the personal insult 
 that he resented, for the words were a reflection 
 on him for whom he would have done battle to the 
 death. His blood was afire; he would deliver an 
 object lesson, and eager to practice the art of 
 which his father was a past-master, before his 
 tormentor was well on his feet, a stinging blow 
 between the eyes again sent him reeling in the 
 dust, where Tito, springing upon his fallen foe, 
 considerately rubbed his nose in the dirt. 
 
 "Now, pig," quoth Tito, to the forlorn looking 
 figure in the roadway, "you shall kneel there and 
 beg my forgiveness. Do you hear? There shall 
 you stay until wisdom comes to you and unlooses 
 a civil tongue in your head, and as you have not 
 wit enough to use it, will I teach you." 
 
 The culprit was about to rise when Tito, stand 
 ing over him, assumed a threatening attitude. 
 
 "Blockhead," cried the enraged Tito, "if you 
 dare to get on your feet till you ask my forgive- 
 
 308
 
 TITO 
 
 ness, I will cut your dirty ears off with this knife," 
 and he flashed "Micky de Pinch s" knife in the 
 air. But his anger quickly melted into a smile at 
 the look of terror on the dirt-covered visage in 
 the roadway, and, putting the knife in his pocket, 
 his merry laugh rang loud and clear. 
 
 The apology came, but not being broad enough, 
 nor couched in language sufficiently abject, the 
 punctilious Tito dictated the words which his vic 
 tim repeated after him. Satisfied, Tito bade him 
 get up out of the dirt. 
 
 "Now, go and tell the others what they may 
 expect. They shall call me Tito, nothing else, and 
 should their memory need jogging, let them look 
 upon your nose. I learned in America how to 
 dress pigs." 
 
 With a lordly air he strode down the road, not 
 deigning further notice of his groveling adversary. 
 
 This was a poor beginning after his return, and 
 no sooner was he out of sight of the scene of his 
 conflict, than his conscience cried to him that he 
 was still the "Little Devil." 
 
 The priest met him before the church door and 
 regarded the boy with a scowl. 
 
 "Well, < Demonietto > you have come back. No 
 better, I ll warrant !" 
 
 "No better," replied the boy calmly, "but thou 
 wilt teach me. Parroco, I would go to my first 
 communion." 
 
 "What?" cried the priest. He regarded the boy 
 with a skeptical air. "You are not practicing your 
 old tricks?" 
 
 309
 
 TITO 
 
 "No," was the reply. What, thought Tito, 
 would he say, could he see him whom I left in the 
 road. At the remembrance he nearly laughed in 
 the good man s face. 
 
 "If you are sincere and have the fear of God in 
 your heart, you make me happy," said the priest 
 gravely. 
 
 Instantly Tito sobered. The memory of his 
 position rushed over him with overwhelming 
 force. In the eyes that sought those of the priest, 
 there was entreaty, supplication. 
 
 "Good Parroco, truly have I changed, for 
 trouble is with me, trouble that will not mend. I 
 have learned much since I have been gone. I 
 have prayed to the Madonna, and the good 
 Mother has taught me what God is. Wilt thou 
 hear me confess, good Parroco ? for I would re 
 ceive my first communion." 
 
 "Come to me, my son, on Saturday, and on 
 Sunday morning shalt thou receive thy first com 
 munion. Till then, God be with thee, boy." 
 
 Tito lifted his cap and went on in search of 
 Maria, his heart filled to overflowing, wishing that 
 Sunday might come that he could begin his new 
 life. But apparently the message given to his late 
 adversary had not been promulgated, for when 
 opposite the home of his good friend, the doctor, 
 he was hailed from across the street. 
 
 "Thou hast found thy father ! Dost know what 
 thy name is?" 
 
 After Tito s interview with the priest he was 
 determined to submit to insult rather than again 
 
 310
 
 TITO 
 
 resort to violence, but this new line of attack non 
 plused him. Now it was his father. Tingling 
 with passion, he hesitated, but determined to go 
 on. A second voice interrupted : 
 
 "He found him in jail! What is his number, 
 Demonietto* f" 
 
 This was too much, and the good resolutions 
 were again forgotten. Quickly he crossed the 
 street, and remembering the punishment his father 
 had administered to the thieves, he struck out fast 
 and furious. 
 
 There was concerted action on the part of the 
 enemy and, three to one, the battle waged, one of 
 the number biting the dust while the other two, 
 with a rush, hurled Tito to the ground. Again 
 and again he sprang to his feet, attacking them in 
 turn, blood flowing from face and hands; but the 
 unequal struggle was telling against him, and he 
 could not long withstand the combined forces. 
 His strength was nearly exhausted, the blood 
 streamed from his face, his clothing torn and cov 
 ered with dust. 
 
 There was a sound of some one running, and, 
 hatless, with flashing eyes, Maria stood before his 
 tormentors. 
 
 "For shame," cried the girl, "there is not one of 
 you who dare stand before him alone. See! It 
 takes three of you you cowards. Tito, why wilt 
 thou fight with them and thou came not to me, 
 when I have waited for thee a year. Hast thou 
 forgotten thy Maria?"
 
 TITO 
 
 "No," replied the boy, and turning from his 
 tormentors, he warmly embraced her. 
 
 "You fight like goat-herders," said Tito, turn 
 ing to his adversaries. "I will meet you singly, 
 then will I teach you the art, and, if you be slow to 
 learn, will I hammer it into your dolt heads. 
 Come, Maria," and together they started through 
 the fields for the river. 
 
 They said little till they were seated by the Arno 
 in one of their favorite nooks, after Tito had 
 washed the blood from face and hands; then, sit 
 ting beside her, the boy looked into the eyes that 
 were fixed upon him with longing, tender love. 
 
 "Art thou still my Maria?" he asked gently. 
 
 "Ah, Tito, I waited and waited for thee ! Why 
 didst thou not come back to me before? And 
 when I asked Pietro: Will he come soon? his 
 eyes would snap fire and he would answer, No! 
 He will never come while the father lives. And 
 oh, Tito, he would look so savage, and the scar 
 on his face would grow red like blood. And I 
 would shudder and run away. I knew what he 
 meant, and I prayed and prayed. Ah! The Ma 
 donna must have heard. Tell me, my Tito, is thy 
 father" 
 
 "I have broken my vow," answered the boy 
 simply. 
 
 "Thank the Cristo," murmured Maria fervently. 
 "Ah, the Madonna heard !" 
 
 "But," exclaimed Tito, his face flushing with 
 the thought, "I have come back as I went away 
 nameless. And they will scoff at me, call me a 
 
 312
 
 TITO 
 
 coward, aye, worse, and I must say nothing-, for 
 it will be true. And Pietro will curse me, for, on 
 my mother s side, am I not of his blood? But, 
 Maria, when I had found the father who disowns 
 me, I could not " 
 
 "Tell me of him, Tito, tell me all. It is naught 
 to me that thou hast no father. Do we not love 
 each other? And we will go far away from here 
 where no one will know, and work in the fields." 
 
 Tito told her of his search for his father, of their 
 first meeting, and as he related how, with a knife 
 wound in his arm, he lay ill for a week in Van- 
 burg s room, of his father s care, his tenderness, 
 the boy s voice faltered and he choked back the 
 sobs. Maria listened, her color coming and going, 
 her bosom heaving, the tears glistening in her 
 eyes, and, when her companion came to the part 
 ing with his father, when he had left him asleep, 
 her sobs broke on the stillness of the day, and in 
 an agony of feeling she threw her arms about 
 Tito s neck. 
 
 "Ah, Tito, how couldst thou leave him so? 
 Alone, sick, with no one to care for him ! Couldst 
 thou not see that he loved thee, that he was glad 
 when thou earnest to him? And to leave him 
 without a word ! It was cruel, cruel !" 
 
 Their cheeks were pressed together, their tears 
 commingled, and again a guilty pang shot 
 through the boy s heart. 
 
 Long they talked, with an earnestness and wis 
 dom far in advance of their years, the boy, in the 
 short time he had been absent, having acquired 
 
 313
 
 TITO 
 
 the knowledge that bitter experience teaches. 
 Maria had gained the sense of responsibility that 
 comes from years of self-reliance, for from infancy 
 she had been forced to rely upon her own en 
 deavors, and hers was the wisdom of intuition that 
 Nature teaches. 
 
 They talked long and earnestly formulating 
 plans for the future, and the river sang to them as 
 it did when they had listened to it in the years 
 that had passed, the birds flying in and out of the 
 branches over their heads, chirping and twittering 
 derisively at the youthful lovers. As the sun de 
 scended in the west, the golden beams touched 
 the peaks of the distant hills, turning them into 
 flaming gold and, bursting through the purple 
 haze, fell aslant the valley in a mellow flood of 
 light. The breezes whispered amorously, and the 
 shivering leaves ceased their chatter peace, the 
 peace of an Italian night was at hand. 
 
 And a calm joy soothed the young lovers, their 
 hearts were as one, and, as they rose to return 
 home, Tito pressed his lips to Maria s in a kiss as 
 holy as lover ever gave. 
 
 "Thou wilt always love me, my Tito?" 
 
 Her eyes sought those of the boy with the frank 
 ness of her virgin thoughts. 
 
 "Always," he replied. 
 
 The last ray of sunlight touched their upturned 
 faces in benediction.
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 SUNDAY morning came and the sun shone 
 with blinding brilliancy; the flower-scented 
 air was fragrant; the birds sang as though 
 they were never to be heard again; and all Na 
 ture rejoiced with Tito, for it was the one mem 
 orable day in the life of every Italian the day of 
 his first communion. 
 
 But with all the brightness a cloud seemed to 
 hang over the boy, and he anticipated the event 
 with distrust, with fear, with dread of some pend 
 ing disaster. He did not have to search for the 
 cause Pietro had not returned, and it was this 
 fact, and the dread of their meeting that, though 
 he tried to put the thought from him, filled him 
 with sickening terror. Yes, even terror, for he 
 feared the wild, searching glance, the cold, steely 
 eyes that would look into his very soul, the hor 
 rible scarred features, the blood concentrating 
 where the knife had left its mark. 
 
 Tito nerved himself for the encounter. What 
 ever the outcome of their meeting, he was deter 
 mined to shield his father, yes, he would sacrifice 
 himself, his life if need be, for his father s safety. 
 
 But as the time came for him to go to the 
 church it was with doubt and trembling that he 
 started, and, as he went along the dusty road, the 
 
 315
 
 TITO 
 
 bright sunshine, and the birds caroling from hedge 
 and tree, had not the power to banish his presenti 
 ment of coming evil. 
 
 The peasants in their Sunday garb were gath 
 ered about the church door. As he passed them 
 and entered the church, dark, scowling visages 
 greeted him, and eyes flashed looks of doubt and 
 suspicion at the "Little Heretic." 
 
 The boy had chosen his own life, and had 
 mapped out the course he would pursue, and, with 
 a proud bearing, refused to notice the glances of 
 hate, or hear the taunts, the smothered maledic 
 tions that followed him into the church. 
 
 Kneeling in one of the pews he tried to pray, 
 but the words which the good Parroco had taught 
 him became an incoherent jumble, and his con 
 fused brain was capable only of framing the words : 
 "Madonna, forgive me, and save him." 
 
 Mass began, the choir singing with a religious 
 fervor that is born in every Italian breast. After 
 the elevation of the Host, the communicants filed 
 up to the altar and knelt, to receive the body of 
 Christ. 
 
 A weakness took possession of Tito, and, as he 
 knelt before the altar rail, a mist came before his 
 eyes, the words of the priest, as he deposited the 
 sacred Host on the tongue of each of the com 
 municants, buzzing in his ears unintelligible 
 sounds. 
 
 Gradually the priest neared the boy, and, stand 
 ing before him, raised the sacred Host, repeating 
 the words of benediction. A rapid step coming 
 
 316
 
 TITO 
 
 down the centre aisle rang on the quiet of the 
 church, and Pietro, his eyes aflame, the scar on 
 his face standing out with threatening, disgusting 
 prominence, grasped Tito in his powerful arms 
 and, before the priest could deliver the sacrament, 
 raised him to his feet. The priest stood motion 
 less transfixed with horror; the congregation 
 rose to their feet, panic-stricken in their supersti 
 tious fear, which was their one dominant trait, be 
 lieving that Heaven in its wrath had interposed, 
 making the old man its instrument of vengeance. 
 
 Pietro turned the face of the boy to him, a 
 face that was livid, his own distorted features so 
 close that his hot breath fanned the pallid cheek, 
 his flaming eyes trying to read the answer to his 
 thoughts in those of the boy, for passion choked 
 him and it was some seconds before he could frame 
 the words: 
 
 "Boy, hast thou kept thy vow?" 
 
 The fierce intensity of his tone was startling, 
 his powerful voice ringing through the church, 
 ominous, threatening, the cry of an avenging soul 
 calling for an accounting. 
 
 Tito, though the color had left his cheek, un 
 flinchingly met the look, and his answer came 
 clear, his tone unfaltering: 
 
 "No." 
 
 The old man s face became livid. 
 
 "Come !" He hissed the words, yet they carried 
 to the farthest corner of the church. "One of thy 
 mother s blood has never broken a vow." 
 
 "Stop!" cried the priest, who had not moved 
 
 317
 
 TITO 
 
 since the first interruption. Stupefied with 
 amazement, horror, he had remained standing at 
 the altar rail, the Host elevated in his trembling 
 finger, "This is a sacrilege. Pietro, the curse of 
 God will follow thee." 
 
 But Pietro was deaf, blinded by passion. 
 
 Come," he said, and with his hand grasping 
 Tito s arm dragged him down the centre aisle, by 
 those, who, with wild-eyed amazement, craned 
 their necks, regarding the boy as an emissary of 
 the devil, whom the good Pietro had saved from 
 eternal damnation. 
 
 Tito s face was pale, but he walked erect, and, as 
 they neared the door, with head thrown back, his 
 form as straight as an arrow, his confidence re 
 turned, and the spirit of his father spoke with the 
 eloquence and the pride of his race. 
 
 Just outside the church, the boy with a quick 
 movement freed himself, his eyes meeting those of 
 the old man. 
 
 "If thou wouldst have me go with thee, I will 
 go, but don t lay thy hand on me! Dost hear, 
 Pietro? Don t!" 
 
 The old man s face relaxed. For an instant, an 
 expression, akin to savage love, shone in his eyes, 
 his lips trembled, and without further speech they 
 walked quickly homeward. 
 
 Once inside the house, Pietro was the first to 
 speak, his voice husky with suppressed emotion, 
 his eyes fixed on the face of the boy in a yearning, 
 lingering look, pathetic in its wild, untamed 
 passion.
 
 TITO 
 
 "Have I not watched over thee, Tito, since thou 
 wert a babe, have I not worked in the fields, deny 
 ing myself all but the bit of bread and wine, and 
 at the end of each week counting the soldi to see 
 that none had been ill-spent, that thou mightest 
 have all? And when they would cheat me, have 
 I not fought, that I might add to the gold pieces, 
 which shall be thine when the good God calls to 
 me, and the end has come ? Aye, it has been weary 
 work, but the thought that thou wouldst be safe 
 from want with the money I had saved for thee 
 that was a work of love ! And in , the fields under 
 the hot sun, I said, He will think of Pietro when 
 he feels the good gold between his fingers. And 
 I heeded not the work, the heat or the suffering. 
 But I also said, He is of my blood his mother s 
 blood is of mine ; he will not forget ! That blood 
 was never stained by dishonor, till this beast this 
 Americano father, thine, stole Bettina from us 
 Bettina with the beauty that the gods give. 
 
 A breath of passion swept over him, the blood 
 mounted to his face, and, with clenched hands, his 
 breath coming in short gasps, he leaned over the 
 table which was between him and the boy. 
 
 "Look thou, Tito, at that scar!" 
 
 Tito raised his eyes, and shuddering looked 
 away again, the face was revolting, the blood 
 shot eyes those of a wild animal. 
 
 "He who left that scar is dead. Night and day 
 I searched for him, never resting, tracking him 
 from place to place, as a hound follows the trail of 
 a wild beist, until " 
 
 3*9
 
 TITO 
 
 He laughed, and the blood in the boy s veins 
 chilled, the sound, unnatural, inhuman, dying into 
 a chuckle of satisfaction. 
 
 "Tell me!" Again he was the Pietro, who, 
 standing before the altar, had defied Heaven s 
 wrath, the concentrated passion of a lifetime 
 gleaming from his partly closed eyes, his lips quiv 
 ering in his attempt at self-restraint. "Thou hast 
 seen this father?" 
 
 "Yes," answered Tito. His voice was low, and 
 he calmly met the glaring eyes that were fixed 
 upon his face. 
 
 "And thou hast come back, here, where they 
 point at thee with scorn! Why, Tito, hast thou 
 forgotten thy vow ? Did he offer thee some of his 
 dirty money ? And the blood in thee that is his " 
 
 "No," Tito s voice rang out clear. "No, he has 
 naught ! He is as poor as I ! And he was good 
 to me. Though he disowned me, though with his 
 own lips he has told me he has no son, I could 
 not " 
 
 The old man raised his hand to signify that he 
 had heard enough, and, rising, went to the cup 
 board, returning with a bottle of red wine. Pour 
 ing a goblet full he drank; again filling the glass 
 he drained it. Seating himself at the table he 
 turned to Tito. His features had assumed their 
 normal aspect, but, had the boy been observant, 
 he might have read in the eyes suppressed passion, 
 smouldering, glowing with the flame of hate, but 
 veiled with stolid, crafty cunning. 
 
 "Tell me/ said the old man, "of thy journey, 
 320
 
 TITO 
 
 tell me all from the time of the parting with me 
 here." 
 
 His was an ominous calm and foreboded evil, 
 but the boy accepted his tone of assumed indiffer 
 ence as a surrender to the inevitable. With a feel 
 ing of satisfaction at the old man s changed man 
 ner, Tito began a recital of his journey, hurrying 
 over his meeting with the artist in Florence as he 
 noted the impatience of his listener, pausing in his 
 narrative at the old man s request to describe 
 again and again the steamship, how he procured 
 his passage, the cost, and every detail connected 
 with his start from Genoa. Still no thought came 
 to him but that he was satisfying the curiosity of 
 his listener, who, with head bent forward, and alert 
 ear, fixed every detail in his memory. When Tito 
 attempted to describe the sea voyage, the old man, 
 with an impatient wave of his hand, hurried him 
 on to the meeting with his father, and, as he lis 
 tened, when Tito s tone betrayed the affection 
 that gave to his words a tender inflection, the 
 eyes of his listener shot fiery gleams, his breath 
 came in gasps, and, with trembling hand, he filled 
 the tumbler to the brim with wine and drank it 
 almost at one draught. 
 
 "Yes," he interjected, with impatience, "and his 
 home ! Tell me of that ! What does he do? Does 
 he work? What is his home like? Where is it? 
 How couldst thou find it? And this place where 
 thou didst first meet him! This cafe! Tell me 
 again, for T would know this marvelous tale, that 
 I may, sitting under a tree, over the bread and 
 
 321
 
 TITO 
 
 wine at noonday, tell those who may not believe 
 of thy father." 
 
 Again and again did Tito recount his experi 
 ences in New York, and the stolid, impenetrable 
 expression on the old man s face never changed; 
 even his eyes, with devilish cunning, veiled; noth 
 ing to tell the boy that the brain of the listener 
 was aflame with murderous design. 
 
 When Tito came to the parting with his father, 
 his voice shook with emotion, and, as he recounted 
 the temptation to take his father s life, despite his 
 efforts sobs broke in the quiet of the room, and 
 his head fell on his arm that he might hide his 
 tears. 
 
 Could he at that moment have seen Pietro s 
 distorted features, livid with rage, the blood-red 
 scar, a signal of disaster, standing out on his face 
 with revolting clearness, he would have cried aloud 
 to the good God that he might have been struck 
 dumb before he had, by his unguardedness, placed 
 the life he loved in jeopardy. But no guardian 
 spirit whispered to him that, by his own words, 
 he had pointed out to Pietro the way of vengeance, 
 and when with moist eyes he looked up, it was 
 only to meet the smiling face of the old man. 
 
 "And the knife, my Tito, thou hast it still?" 
 
 "Yes," answered the boy, and he placed "Micky 
 de Pinch s" knife on the table. 
 
 The old man s bony fingers closed upon the 
 knife. 
 
 "Oh !" he said with a sickening leer, "it is keen 
 and the blade is good ! See ! my Tito, we will stick 
 
 322
 
 TITO 
 
 it here thus !" and he plunged the blade into the 
 wooden casing of the window, half way to the hilt. 
 "We will leave it here that we may see, and it will 
 remind thee that thy father still lives." 
 
 Tito remained silent. He was downcast and his 
 heart was heavy with sorrow. 
 
 It was not alone the uncle s thirst for revenge 
 that stirred his rage. The boy s affectionate allu 
 sion to his father, his evident sorrow and regret, 
 when, in relating the story of their last meeting 
 he spoke of leaving Vanburg alone, ill, with no one 
 to care for him, revealed to the old man the boy s 
 love. All Pietro s jealous instincts leaped to the 
 surface, stinging him into a rage; and when he 
 had listened to the boy speaking of his father with 
 a yearning, pathetic tenderness, it roused him to a 
 jealous frenzy. With the fear that the boy would 
 discover his feelings, that he would read in his face 
 the sinister, gloating joy that filled him, he busied 
 himself about the fire, preparing the mid-day meal ; 
 and Tito, sitting before the door, reveled in the 
 bright sunlight, thinking of Maria and the future 
 of which they had talked. 
 
 Pietro called to him, and, entering the house, 
 he found the meal prepared, consisting of a hot 
 soup, with bread and wine. 
 
 They ate their dinner in silence. Tito gave his 
 attention to the food, not caring to meet the glance 
 which never left his face but the boy felt the 
 eyes upon him and, shifting uneasily in his chair, 
 sought the first excuse to make his escape. 
 
 "Thou wilt go to the village," laughed Pietro, 
 3 2 3
 
 TITO 
 
 "to see Maria, aye, that I know. It is well, for I 
 have much to do. To-night I must go to the fields, 
 and I may not be here on thy return. Thou wilt 
 find everything for thy needs in the pantry it is 
 well stocked. I will leave thee money, my Tito, 
 that thou mayst want for nothing, and when thou 
 spendest the soldi, thou wilt think of Pietro." 
 
 "I have money," replied Tito, quietly. "I shall 
 want for nothing. I, too, shall work in the fields." 
 
 "Thou !" cried the old man, laughing shrilly, 
 "work in the fields ! Thou wouldst not last the day 
 out. Work thou shalt not while old Pietro lives." 
 
 Tito did not reply. 
 
 "Tell me again of Genoa, I have never been 
 there," said the old man innocently. "Tell me of 
 the steamship what is it like? I have never seen 
 one." 
 
 Again Tito told him what he knew of the city, 
 little dreaming what use Pietro would make of the 
 information. Then, when the old man seemed 
 satisfied, Tito with a promise to return early 
 started in the direction of the village, for he had 
 promised Maria that, after Mass was finished, they 
 would go to the Arno and talk of their future and 
 of America. 
 
 After Tito had gone, Pietro stood before the 
 open door and watched him till he was lost to 
 sight, then returned to the house. 
 
 "So the father lives!" He spoke as though he 
 were addressing some one within hearing: "And 
 the boy loves him ! Again must he steal the love 
 that should be mine. The boy will go back to 
 
 324
 
 TITO 
 
 him that I know, for already his heart is his, 
 his, and I. Pietro, who have slaved for him am as 
 naught. I 
 
 Grasping the knife, he wrenched it from the cas 
 ing, and a wild, inhuman laugh rang on the still 
 ness. 
 
 "But this blade shall yet find his heart ! And it 
 shall be I who shall ask him why he stole the 
 mother, and then the boy s love !" 
 
 Going into an adjoining room he took from a 
 chest a purse, the money he was hoarding for 
 Tito, and, placing it in a leather belt, strapped it 
 securely about his waist. His movements were 
 rapid, his intention so well defined, that he went 
 about the preparations for his journey with the 
 thoroughness of one used to travel. The boy, 
 when he returned, would believe that he had gone 
 to his labor in the fields, many miles distant, and 
 he was careful to leave no clue as to his purpose. 
 
 When all was in readiness he securely locked 
 the house, and, leaving the key in its accustomed 
 place where the boy could find it, started on his 
 journey. . 
 
 Tito, meanwhile, with Maria, was wandering by 
 the banks of the river, happy as children of their 
 age are when the sun shines, and the long summer 
 days open to them a kingdom of their own. Yet 
 the boy was keenly alive to the disgrace of the 
 morning, and Maria, who was a witness to Pietro s 
 act, shared with him his humiliation. 
 
 "Do not mourn," pleaded Maria. "Pietro is 
 mad! I have heard them say as much in the vil- 
 
 325
 
 TITO 
 
 lage. Now that thou hast told him all, he will 
 forgive thee for loving thy father." 
 
 "No," he replied, "that he will not. Thou dost 
 not know him he never forgives. I am sorry I 
 told him. And now how can I stay here after 
 what happened in the church? At my first com 
 munion ! Maria, it is unlucky they will say there 
 is a curse upon me." 
 
 "Thou must not stay here, thou wilt go far away, 
 and I shall go with thee, my own Tito; and to 
 gether will we work in the fields, and no one will 
 know. And we will save and save, and then shall 
 we go to America, and perhaps " 
 
 The boy realized what she would say. The 
 blood mounted to his face. 
 
 "No," he said with decision, "that cannot be. 
 My father has no son, and much as I love him, and 
 I do love him, Maria " 
 
 "Ah, I know it, my Tito," and two bare, plump 
 arms stole about his neck, two lips, with the ful 
 ness of budding womanhood, were pressed to his 
 cheek, and the boy tingled with a new-found joy. 
 
 "And I love thee the more for loving him," she 
 continued, with the candor of childhood. And 
 sometime I shall go to him and say: Dost thou 
 know that Tito loves thee, Tito, thy son? 
 
 Tito threw his arms about her, and pressed his 
 cheek to hers. 
 
 "My own Maria." 
 
 It was all he could say, for his joy was great, 
 and the tears of happiness welled to his eyes. 
 
 The dusk of evening was with them and, hand 
 326
 
 TITO 
 
 in hand, loitering through the fields, climbing over 
 hedges, pausing to watch for the coming stars, 
 they went slowly homeward, glorying in the night, 
 and the mysteries of budding love. 
 
 When Tito reached home he. found it dark. 
 
 "He has gone to his work," he mused, "for a 
 week I shall riot see him, for which I thank the 
 good Madonna." 
 
 At that moment Pietro, on his mission of ven 
 geance, was leaving Florence by the night train 
 for Genoa. 
 
 327
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 SUNDAY afternoon was the customary time 
 for Pietro to start for the scene of his labors, 
 it being not unusual for him to walk twenty 
 miles or more to where he was employed; and, 
 with the exception of the disappearance of "Micky 
 de Pinch s" knife, there was nothing to arouse 
 Tito s suspicions. 
 
 For the three days following the old man s de 
 parture, the boy had, except such time as he had 
 been with Maria, remained at home, not wishing 
 to meet those that, the past Sunday, had witnessed 
 his disgrace. He had time to think, and his 
 thoughts were not conducive to peace of mind. 
 On one point he was decided he must get away 
 to some city where the curse would not follow 
 him, where, in new scenes, he could begin life 
 anew. It was not alone this feeling that moved 
 him, he wished to escape from the influence, the 
 companionship of Pietro, whom he feared ; and the 
 affection, the wild, barbaric love which he lavished 
 upon the boy awakened a feeling of repulsion, 
 which grew into disgust. He felt a guilty shame 
 that he could not respond to what, on the old 
 man s part, was a yearning for love, but their na 
 tures were widely different, and the boy shrank 
 from him in distrust. 
 
 328
 
 TITO 
 
 The afternoon of the Wednesday following Pie- 
 tro s departure, Tito and Maria had spent to 
 gether, happy in their love, with childish enthus 
 iasm, but with the wisdom of years, planning a 
 future that promised a happiness which, at the mo 
 ment, seemed far from them. Tito had returned 
 home, and, with a mighty effort, was endeavoring 
 to read an English book he had brought from 
 America. A hurried step echoed on the walk, and 
 Maria, her hair disheveled, breathless from having 
 run all the way from the village, entered the house. 
 In her excitement, before Tito could demand the 
 cause, she grasped him by the arm as though to 
 drag him to the door. 
 
 "Tito," she cried, her voice tremulous with fear, 
 "thy father! Pietro has gone to America!" 
 
 She could say no more, but the terror-stricken 
 glance which she fixed on his face spoke her fears. 
 Tito stood transfixed dumb with amazement. 
 With lightning-like quickness his mind grasped 
 her statement, her meaning. The incidents fol 
 lowing Pietro s return to the house flashed be 
 fore him his recital of his experiences in Amer 
 ica, the old man s desire for information, his own 
 unguardedness, the disappearance of the knife all 
 now appeared to him luminously clear, and his 
 heart sickened with dread. For some moments he 
 was unable to speak, his brain reeled. Maria s 
 hand clutched his arm, her eyes were riveted on 
 his face, and she read there the train of emotions 
 which swept over him, remorse, fear, dread ex 
 pectancy, followed by a set expression, a determi- 
 
 329
 
 TITO 
 
 nation to act, and act quickly. With a brave effort 
 she controlled herself and found voice : 
 
 "My cousin, Angelo, he who sells fruit in the 
 great market at Florence, returned to-night. He 
 has had trouble with Pietro, and they do not speak 
 to each other. Sunday night in the station at 
 Florence he was waiting for Michael, who works 
 for him. There he saw Pietro buying a ticket for 
 Genoa, and he was inquiring when the steamship 
 sailed for America." 
 
 She paused, breathless, her eyes, wild in their 
 expression, fixed on the boy s face, her attitude 
 that of one ready to act, to start at once for Amer 
 ica to save the father from Pietro s knife. 
 
 Tito s mind, with lightning speed, was planning 
 the course he would pursue, yet when he realized 
 that Pietro was in possession of all the information 
 necessary, that he had a start of three days and 
 was well on his journey, for an instant panic seized 
 him. But it quickly passed, and his decision came 
 without hesitation, his words rapidly, determina 
 tion in his voice and stamped on every line of his 
 features. 
 
 "Maria, I shall go. There is a quicker way than 
 by Genoa. By Paris and England, from where the 
 boats go quickly. This they told me on the ship 
 that brought me from America. The good doctor 
 in the village will tell me more. I have money," 
 said the boy, "the money which the good friends 
 in America gave to me; Pietro left me more, for 
 which I thank the good Madonna, who will guide 
 me, and" his voice trembled "protect the father 
 
 330
 
 TITO 
 
 whom I love. Come, Maria, we will go to the 
 church, and there will we pray to the good God 
 I have learned the words. Then will I talk to the 
 kind doctor, who will tell me more. Come." 
 
 Together, hand in hand, they entered the 
 church, and kneeling in the darkness, in their sim 
 ple way asked Heaven to guide them, and to pre 
 serve him whose life they would save. 
 
 Leaving the church with a feeling of calm, a 
 new-born confidence, they parted at the door, 
 Maria hurrying away to make preparations for his 
 journey, while Tito went to the home of the vil 
 lage doctor to learn what he could to forward him 
 on his mission. 
 
 The doctor, learning of Pietro s purpose, and 
 the boy s determination to save his father, entered 
 into minute details, and Tito, after fervently 
 thanking him, hurried away with the confidence 
 that knowledge brings. 
 
 Two hours later they were at the station, Maria s 
 head resting on the boy s shoulder, his arm around 
 her, breathing words of encouragement into her 
 ears to check the tears that streamed down her 
 sun-tanned cheeks. The train lazily came to a 
 halt; a parting embrace, and Tito had begun his 
 journey. 
 
 The train rumbled on in true Italian fashion, 
 stopping at every station, whizzing and puffing. 
 Noisy, revelous countrymen, conscripts in the first 
 intoxication of enforced patriotic fervor, super 
 induced by much native wine, filled the carriages, 
 and our youthful traveler, his mind dwelling on his 
 
 33 1
 
 TITO 
 
 race with death, sat silent in a corner of the com 
 partment. 
 
 But a continental soldier, recently recruited, 
 rilled in anticipation with the exuberance of forth 
 coming glory and an over-supply of native wine is, 
 like an unbroken colt of indifferent blood, an un 
 pleasant creature if judged at short range. Tito 
 incited in one of this class a prolonged stare, then 
 a drunken smirk, and finally the words: 
 
 "Young one, art thou, too, going to be a sol 
 dier? Thou art much too pretty! Thy cherub 
 face was not meant to be burned with powder." 
 
 It was now Tito s turn to stare ; he improved the 
 opportunity. But an ominous scowl should have 
 warned the newly made warrior to desist. The 
 soldier s eyes, however, were bleared by drink, and 
 he did not note the threatening attitude of the boy 
 who sat facing him or, if he did, refused to seri 
 ously consider him. 
 
 "Come, stand up, that I may look at thee. I 
 may yet be thy superior officer. It will then be 
 thy duty to clean my boots." 
 
 He attempted to lay his hands on Tito to en 
 force his command, but the boy pushed him back 
 into his seat. 
 
 "You are drunk !" Tito held rein on his temper. 
 
 "What now," jeered the conscript. "Thy tem 
 per needs curbing! Thou beardless little brat, 
 thou art old enough to learn to obey thy superiors. 
 I will teach thee." 
 
 Again he partly rose, but Tito s clenched fist 
 shot out and, with a smothered oath, the fellow fell 
 
 332
 
 TITO 
 
 back into his seat. His companions, more sober 
 than he, restrained him, and for the time being 
 hostilities were at an end. 
 
 "You can strike well," said the conscript, as they 
 neared Florence, but you must learn to respect a 
 future commissioned officer the stripes I will yet 
 earn." 
 
 "Yes," answered Tito blandly, "in the cook s 
 scullery. You were born to do battle in a kitchen. 
 The smell of powder would sicken you with fear." 
 
 "Thy tongue is in need of a pair of shears," 
 quoth the wit. 
 
 "So are your ears, they are the stamp of your 
 breed that of an ass." 
 
 Tito smiled sweetly ; the soldiers roared at their 
 comrade s discomfiture. Apparently Tito was in 
 command of the field. 
 
 "Young one, I ll pull thy nose for thee," cried 
 the warrior with rising anger. 
 
 "Do." came the quick reply, "if it will kill the 
 scent of your breath. It reeks with garlic and 
 wine that is too foul to sell. Ach !" 
 
 This was too much and the offender made an 
 attempt to rise, but his companions grasped him 
 by the arms and forced him back into his seat. 
 
 The train pulled into the station at Florence and 
 the boy alighted. 
 
 Here fortune favored him, and with only a few 
 minutes delay, which gave him opportunity to 
 purchase food, he was rushing northward, over 
 rolling plain, through village and city, the grind 
 ing, snorting engine, with a giant s power, mount- 
 
 333
 
 TITO 
 
 ing the foothills of the Alps : through tunnels and 
 over mountain passes, flying over bridges spanning 
 deep ravines, till the fair plains of sunny France 
 welcomed him. 
 
 Counting the time since Pietro s departure, the 
 boy added each succeeding hour to the three days 
 before he discovered his uncle had gone. Did 
 the train stop at a station but for a few minutes, he 
 fretted under the enforced delay, and it seemed to 
 the impatient traveler as if the combined forces of 
 nature, and machinations such as human ingenuity 
 could devise, were in league to retard his progress. 
 But at last the train reached Paris, and, though 
 he marveled at the beauty of such part of the city 
 as he passed through, he lost no time, but hurried 
 on to the Guard du Nord on his way to London. 
 
 Again he rushed on, eating where opportunity 
 presented, sleeping in the corner of the railway 
 carriage, for the greater part of the time silent, 
 thoughtful, only when, for the hundredth time, he 
 counted the days and the hours, speculating upon 
 the possibility of catching a fast steamer that was 
 to sail from Liverpool the following day. 
 
 Many were the looks of admiration that were 
 directed toward him, for the boy s self-reliant, 
 sturdy manliness, aroused the interest of those 
 that he encountered. But he was unconscious of 
 all but the passing time ; his thoughts not of him 
 self but of Pietro, speeding across the ocean, and 
 of the father who was forever waiting his son s 
 return. 
 
 London at last, where he procured a third-class 
 334
 
 TITO 
 
 ticket and, within the hour, he was on his way 
 again, this time for Liverpool, and one of the fast 
 est steamships that crosses the ocean. 
 
 The following morning found him aboard. The 
 customary bustle, a jargon of all kinds stewards, 
 deck-hands, the officers of the steamer, and repre 
 sentatives of all the nationalities of the continent, 
 mixed promiscuously ; yet out of it all a marvelous 
 degree of systematic order, and the steamer headed 
 for Queenstown. Here came another delay, and 
 it was only after the steamer had left the harbor 
 and lay her course due west that Tito suppressed 
 his impatience and settled himself comfortably for 
 the journey. 
 
 But he had not been idle. He sought knowl 
 edge and, realizing the power of a generous tip, 
 before the land disappeared the head steward was 
 supplying him with information. 
 
 "I shall arrive in New York," he mused, "the 
 same day as Pietro perhaps before. He goes by 
 a much longer route, and the ship he is on is of 
 slow speed. Heaven grant that I may," he added 
 fervently. 
 
 Each day the boy deducted the number of knots 
 the ship had made from the distance that separated 
 him from his journey s end; and each night, when 
 quiet reigned, he stole on deck, and, in a secluded 
 part of the ship, prayed to the Madonna to guard 
 him that he might be on time, and that the good 
 God soften the heart of Pietro and turn him from 
 his vengeance. And a great peace came to him, 
 filling his heart to overflowing, and as the days 
 
 335
 
 TITO 
 
 went by, and the ship drew nearer the land, he saw 
 new beauties in the sea, and at night the wonders 
 of the starlit heavens spoke to him of a wonderful, 
 unseen power that guides the destinies of the 
 world ; and of a morning, with the bright sunlight 
 dancing on harbor and river, he arrived at New 
 York. 
 
 The hours of waiting until he could land seemed 
 ages. His impatience grew with the day, but in 
 the late afternoon he was hurrying up town in the 
 direction of Vanburg s lodgings. But here he met 
 his first disappointment Vanburg, although still 
 retaining his room, had not slept there for several 
 weeks, and he could learn nothing as to where he 
 could be found or when he would return. 
 
 336
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 KNOWING where McGlennon lived, after 
 having visited Death House Joe s, and fail 
 ing to obtain any information that would 
 guide him in his search, Tito decided to go to the 
 home of the Scotchman, in the hope that he might 
 learn where Vanbtirg could be found. 
 
 But McGlennon, after he had sought him out 
 at the docks, could tell him nothing. He had not 
 seen Vanburg for more than a week, for he had 
 not done any work in that length of time, and 
 though the Scotchman had searched for him at his 
 usual haunts, no one knew of his whereabouts. 
 
 McGlennon was overjoyed to see the boy, and, 
 as it was near the noon hour, he prevailed on Tito 
 to accompany him to a cheap restaurant where, 
 when the meal was finished, the boy listened while 
 his companion spoke of his father, and of his sor 
 row when his son had left him. 
 
 "I tell you, boy, for a week after you had gone, 
 the man was mad, aye, crazed with grief. Day 
 and night I stayed with him, for he would not eat, 
 he could not sleep ; and he tramped about the city 
 looking for you always. At the end of a week I 
 called in a physician and we put him under the 
 influence of an opiate by that time the man was 
 daft, clean daft. We made him sleep for two days, 
 
 337
 
 TITO 
 
 but since then he is not the same. The life is gone 
 out of him, and he thinks and talks only of you. 
 Find him, Tito, for if you do not " 
 
 "I shall find him/ said the boy in a confident 
 tone. "I shall find him, for the good Madonna has 
 so willed it, and," he added musingly, "he still 
 thinks of the Little Devil?" 
 
 "Think of you !" repeated McGlennon, "boy, it 
 is not for me to say, but I know the story of the 
 picture, and he seeks you day and night, night 
 and day; and should he not find you, death will 
 come quickly." 
 
 The boy listened, his eyes aglow, his cheeks 
 flushed, drinking in the words, eager to spring to 
 his feet and renew his search. 
 
 "If it be the will of the Madonna that thou 
 shouldst see him before I, wilt thou ask of him 
 this favor? Say to him it is I, Tito, who ask it: 
 that he will not go to his room, or to Joe s, until 
 I have seen him." 
 
 "What is wrong?" asked McGlennon. 
 
 "That I cannot tell thee," answered Tito, "not 
 now, but thou shalt know after I have seen him. 
 Tell him it is all I ask of him, and tell him that 
 that I love him." 
 
 His tones were husky and McGlennon, with a 
 father s instinct, noting the boy s emotion, re 
 mained silent. He thought of his own child, her 
 pathetic devotion in the ill-spent years that had 
 passed, and the memories sent a wave of tender 
 ness through heart and brain. His eyes moistened 
 and he addressed the boy with added gentleness: 
 
 338
 
 TITO 
 
 "Poor Tito ! I realize what you feel. Find him, 
 boy, for his life depends on your success. Come, 
 it is time for me to return to work. To-night I 
 shall see you again ?" 
 
 "Yes. Should I be detained, thou wilt know 
 that I still seek him." 
 
 For three days and three nights he continued 
 his search, but he could find no trace of Vanburg. 
 He had but little money left and, with what re 
 mained, he paid for a week s lodgings in advance. 
 He must, at least during the day, find something 
 to do to earn sufficient for his needs, yet, though 
 his money was gone he had no fear, for should 
 he fail to find work, though the thought was 
 repugnant to him, he would again sing the silver 
 pieces out of the pockets of his countrymen, for 
 he knew where an affectionate welcome awaited 
 him. 
 
 Day and night he visited Vanburg s lodgings 
 and the resorts where he would be most likely to 
 find him, but failure constantly awaited his efforts. 
 Discouraged, he would return to the cheap lodg 
 ing-house where he slept, refusing McGlennon s 
 hospitality, and the fourth night of his fruitless 
 search he went to bed weary and disheartened. 
 
 But the following morning, good fortune guided 
 his steps toward Vanburg s squalid room. As he 
 neared the building Pietro was descending the 
 steps, and paused on the sidewalk before the 
 entrance. 
 
 Tito was on the opposite side of the street some 
 
 339
 
 TITO 
 
 distance away, and recognizing his grandimcle, 
 quickly entered a hallway, the door of which was 
 open. He argued, and with sound reasoning, that 
 should the old man discover that he was in the 
 country, the knowledge would drive him into a 
 frenzy. The thought of what the result might 
 have been, had Pietro been successful in finding 
 Vanburg, for an instant filled him with terror; 
 and he blamed himself for not having kept a closer 
 watch. 
 
 Pietro stood on the pavement for some mo 
 ments, apparently uncertain what course to pursue, 
 then walked rapidly in the direction of the Bowery. 
 Hurrying across the street, the boy dashed up the 
 stairs and knocked at the door of Vanburg s room. 
 There came no reply and he pushed the door open. 
 No one was within and, with a lighter heart, he 
 quickly descended to the street with the hope of 
 overtaking Pietro ; but his uncle had disappeared, 
 and Tito resumed his weary search. 
 
 Noonday found him tired and hungry, but he 
 trudged wearily on. He had eaten nothing since 
 the night before, and he paused at a street corner 
 to consider his prospects. 
 
 "I am very hungry," he mused. "Tito, once 
 thou couldst sing. Think thou of a hot dinner and 
 a glass of wine the wine of thy own Italia, and 
 perhaps thy voice will return. But I cannot sing 
 as I once could, aye, that I know; and if I fail, they 
 will say: Little Devil, come not again till thou 
 hast found thy voice. Ah, the world is all alike. 
 
 340
 
 TITO 
 
 You must give double worth for what it is pleased 
 to grant to you. But if I eat, then must I sing. 
 I like it not, but the hot soup the soup I must 
 have." 
 
 Wearily he turned his steps in the direction of 
 the cafe in the Italian quarter. 
 
 341
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 AS McGlennon had told the boy, the week 
 following- Tito s sudden departure had been 
 to Vanburg a week bordering on madness. 
 He could neither sleep nor eat. Drink had lost its 
 power to deaden the torture that each day in 
 creased as his search for Tito grew more and more 
 hopeless, turning his nights into a living, sleepless 
 agony. He grew morose, sullen, his nerves were 
 on edge, his wildly staring eyes indicating that he 
 had reached the danger point, and that sleep alone 
 would save him from the madness that wakefulness 
 and thoughts of the boy would surely bring. It 
 was when he had reached this stage, that McGlen 
 non, without his consent or knowledge, called in a 
 physician and, under the influence of powerful 
 opiates, he was kept quiet for two days and nights. 
 
 Weak, but in a calmer state, he again took up 
 his search, daily visiting the Italian quarter, believ 
 ing Tito to be still in the city, trusting to chance 
 to meet him at some of the cafes that he knew the 
 boy was in the habit of visiting. 
 
 At the resort where Tito and Ned Hollander 
 had met, the proprietor had talked to him of the 
 boy, telling of his marvelous voice, and of his 
 guests who daily inquired for the young singer. 
 So each day found Vanburg seated in the rear of 
 
 342
 
 TITO 
 
 the cafe, hoping always that Tito would again 
 renew his visits, trusting to chance to assist him 
 in his life mission to find the boy. 
 
 With the hope that he would return, Vanburg 
 still retained the room where Tito had visited him, 
 though he seldom went there. In the solitude of 
 the night he seemed to hear the boy s voice speak 
 ing to him ; the echo of his songs rang on the still 
 ness; and on wall and ceiling he could read the 
 words, the memento that Tito had left behind: 
 "She who painted this portrait was my mother." 
 
 The very quiet of the place seemed to woo mad 
 ness, and as the days and the weeks went by, so 
 grew his dislike and fear, and he spent his time 
 roaming about the city or passing the night at 
 some cheap hotel. 
 
 Often his hopes were momentarily raised when, 
 in a crowd, he would see some boy that, in his 
 excited state, he believed to be Tito. Then would 
 begin a chase, at times lasting the distance of sev 
 eral blocks, his heart beating with expectancy, 
 his fevered imagination endowing some stranger 
 with the face and the form of the one he sought ; 
 but for the hundredth time he met only disappoint 
 ment, to be followed by still deeper dejection. 
 
 Rarely he ate breakfast, but each day, before 
 the place became crowded, that he might not miss 
 Tito should he return, he went to the cafe where 
 the boy had sung, drinking a glass of wine before 
 ordering lunch, waiting a full hour or longer in the 
 hope that the boy would return. 
 
 Late in the morning of the day when Tito, hav- 
 343
 
 TITO 
 
 ing reached the end of his resources, decided to 
 visit the cafe, Vanburg was irresistibly drawn to 
 his old lodging s, with the hope that in his absence 
 the boy might have returned. Many times he had 
 gone there on the same errand, only to find that 
 his mind, in its abnormal condition, his fevered 
 brain, his overwrought emotions, were playing 
 him fantastic tricks leading him a siren s dance. 
 
 Mounting the steps to the outer door he stopped 
 abruptly. "Good God!" he muttered, "I cannot 
 face the emptiness of that room." 
 
 As quickly as he had come he turned away. 
 
 "He is not here! He will never come again. 
 Sometime he will return to the cafe. I will wait 
 there for years if need be." 
 
 With quick, nervous stride, he turned west, 
 closely followed by Pietro who, day and night 
 since he had arrived in the country had been 
 watching for him. 
 
 Though Vanburg s beard completely disguised 
 his face, the compact form and springing step were 
 all that was needed to assure Pietro that his watch 
 ing and waiting were at last rewarded; and when 
 Vanburg turned from the door the Italian s fea 
 tures lighted up with unholy joy. 
 
 There was no danger that Vanburg would 
 recognize him for, during his life in Italy, he had 
 seen the old man but a few times, and notwith 
 standing the scar, which once seen could not be 
 easily forgotten, the memory of Pietro was long 
 since dead. 
 
 Gradually the Italian gained on him, his eyes 
 344
 
 TITO 
 
 glowing with satisfaction, his hate turned to joy; 
 and when Vanburg went into the cafe he was 
 almost instantly followed by the Italian. Upon 
 entering he lingered near the door, to allow Van- 
 burg time to choose a seat which, as was his cus 
 tom, he selected at the far end of the room. 
 
 Slowly and with an air of indifference, Pietro 
 seated himself at an adjoining table between his 
 victim and the entrance. Ordering wine, he 
 drained the glass at a draught, and pushing it to 
 the waiter, ordered more. 
 
 Vanburg had not noticed the old man his eyes 
 were on the door, for the patrons, well-to-do Ital 
 ians, with a sprinkling of Americans who were 
 fond of Italian dishes, were coming in numbers, 
 and the places at the tables were being rapidly 
 filled. 
 
 Again and again did Pietro drink, then rising, 
 took a seat at Vanburg s table, facing him. 
 
 "Hast thou forgotten Bettina?" asked the old 
 man abruptly. 
 
 Vanburg, with a start, turned his eyes to the 
 speaker, whose face was in the shadow. Startled 
 at the interruption he did not reply, but fixing his 
 glance on the man before him, looked into the 
 eyes in which hate was tempered by fierce, vindic 
 tive joy. 
 
 "And the child thou hast always believed dead, 
 but that lived to hate thee Bettina s child !" 
 
 Again the old man paused, and still Vanburg 
 remained silent. Not a muscle of his features 
 moved. His eyes, fixed, staring, never left the 
 
 345
 
 TITO 
 
 ugly face; only his deep, irregular breathing told 
 that he was moved, that the old man s words filled 
 him with terror terror that came with the belief 
 that his reason was crumbling, that what he heard 
 was a return of the nights when, alone in his room, 
 fantasies, waking dreams and visions haunted him. 
 
 "Mio Dio" he muttered in Italian, instinctively 
 dropping into the language which the old man 
 spoke, "is this a repetition of what I have gone 
 through in another form? Now, someone, whom 
 I have never before seen, talks to me of Bettina 
 and the boy!" 
 
 "With thy marriage vow there was another oath 
 recorded that thou shouldst suffer for having 
 stolen her from us. Canst thou remember the 
 night when thou didst return from Paris ? She was 
 dying our Bettina ! She forgot that we lived and, 
 day and night, when she was conscious, she called 
 for thee. Then thou earnest and we told thee the 
 child was dead." 
 
 A low chuckle followed the words. Pietro bent 
 forward over the table. Gradually his passion was 
 awakening, his face had become livid only the 
 scar, like a splash of fresh blood, stood out promi 
 nently. Still Vanburg remained silent. His was 
 an ominous calm the calm of feelings held in re 
 straint, of a mind the sanity of which is being 
 stretched to the danger point. 
 
 A pause ensued after Pietro had finished speak 
 ing the old man noting the effect of his words. 
 
 "Say," said Vanburg, never removing his glance 
 from the face before him, "are you some fiend in 
 
 346
 
 TITO 
 
 the embodiment of flesh that hell has sent to tor 
 ment me? 
 
 "Yes," answered Pietro, "that am I." His right 
 hand toyed with the handle of the knife in the 
 pocket of his coat. "And thou hast seen thy son, 
 thine and Bettina s Tito. And for a night prayer 
 he curses thee." 
 
 Again came the low, chuckling laugh. His eyes 
 flashed gleams of hate, but his listener did not see, 
 for Pietro s growing passion carried no impression 
 to his mind. Sitting inert, motionless, Vanburg 
 heard the words as if they were echoes of past 
 years. 
 
 Pietro beckoned to the waiter to fill his glass 
 and, until he returned, sat silent, his eyes fixed on 
 Vanburg s face. 
 
 Tito had entered the cafe. Standing near the 
 door, he was met with a roar of welcome, and a 
 flush of pleasure mounted to his cheeks. 
 
 "Ah, they have not forgotten me !" 
 
 "Forgotten thee, Little Devil/ " it was the 
 proprietor who spoke, "forgotten thee ! Each day 
 have my guests asked me, Where is Tito? and 
 always I have replied : He will come to-morrow/ 
 It has been long since thou wert here. If thou 
 wilt come each day and sing, thou canst name any 
 price that I am able to pay, and it shall be thine. 
 What sayest thou ?" 
 
 "Wait," said the boy, "perhaps I have for 
 gotten." 
 
 "Drink this," urged the proprietor, noting the 
 
 347
 
 TITO 
 
 drawn look on the boy s face, "thou art tired. It 
 is Madeira, and of my private stock." 
 
 The boy drank, then indicated the musicians 
 with a nod of his head. 
 
 "Tell them to play the songs of Italia," he said. 
 
 In the rear of the room, Pietro was saying to the 
 man who heard and did not understand, for 
 he sat as one in a stupor "And thy son grew 
 grew to hate thee, his own father, and he had 
 sworn that before he received his first communion, 
 thy life would answer for the dead Bettina s." 
 
 His hand grasped the hilt of the knife, and 
 trembling with passion, he leaned across the table. 
 
 The first note from the orchestra struck upon 
 their hearing, soft, pathetic, ending in a full, har 
 monious chord. 
 
 "But thy dirty blood," hissed Pietro, half rising, 
 "made a coward of him, and it was left for me " 
 
 Tito s voice rang out full and clear, in a song 
 that, times unnumbered, had thrilled Pietro to his 
 finger tips. A look of doubt, consternation, terror, 
 swept across the old man s features; the fingers 
 that held the knife relaxed, his hand fell to his side 
 and, forgetting his purpose, he turned slowly 
 round. Grasping the back of his chair, he glared 
 at the singer, at first believing him to be an appa 
 rition then, as though the boy s purpose were 
 divined by him, with a cry of a wounded beast he 
 sank into his seat. 
 
 Vanburg, at the first sound of the voice, had 
 sprung to his feet, joy leaping to his heart, trans 
 forming his features, lighting up his eyes with their 
 
 348
 
 TITO 
 
 old-time fire, and in appearance, it seemed as 
 if ten years had been shorn from his life. Above 
 the music and Pietro s despairing cry his voice 
 rang out : 
 
 "Tito !" 
 
 The song ceased. Quickly the boy came, for 
 only death would he have paused. 
 
 "My father!" It was his heart that spoke, but 
 the words, like a knife thrust, struck, knell-like, 
 upon the ears of Pietro, chanting the death of his 
 last hope. 
 
 The boy would look upon him with hate, with 
 loathing; and the love he craved, the love he had 
 waited for through the years since he had held 
 him in his arms as a babe, was for the man who 
 had robbed them of Bettina. With the cry of an 
 enraged animal he was on his feet, the knife flash 
 ing above his head, his features distorted with 
 passion. 
 
 He sprang towards Vanburg who, unconscious 
 of his danger, with eyes fixed on the boy, ready to 
 embrace him, paid no heed to the old man. 
 
 Not so Tito. Seeing the gleam of the steel, rec 
 ognizing Pietro s cry, while the knife was yet up 
 lifted, with a catlike spring he threw himself upon 
 the old man, winding his arms about his neck. 
 Fear, love for his father, lent him strength; and 
 the Italian, trying to shake him off, made a lunge 
 at Vanburg as he sprang to the boy s assistance. 
 But the blow fell short the blade penetrating 
 Tito s clothing. 
 
 "Pietro," cried the boy, "Pietro, thou shalt not 
 349
 
 TITO 
 
 harm him ! Kill me, Pietro ! He is my father and 
 I love him." 
 
 With an oath he threw the boy from him. 
 Again he raised the knife and, like a flash, it found 
 his own heart, buried to the hilt, and he fell for 
 ward on the table, dead. 
 
 Consternation reigned, but no hand could inter 
 pose, for it had been a matter of only a few seconds 
 from the time Tito had sprung between Vanburg 
 and the enraged Italian. 
 
 They laid him on the floor, his face horrible to 
 look at; the eyes glaring, the blood-red scar 
 standing out with revolting clearness. 
 
 "Tito," said Vanburg tenderly, with his arm 
 about the boy, "my son, my own Tito, twice hast 
 thou risked thy life for me. Thou wilt not leave 
 me again, my Tito." 
 
 "No," answered the boy. He could say no 
 more. 
 
 Ned Hollander, who had entered the cafe as 
 Tito had ceased singing, held out his hand which 
 Vanburg grasped. 
 
 "Vannie, even in the presence of a tragedy, I 
 am glad to see you. And Tito! Tell me what it 
 all means, Van." 
 
 "The boy is my son," answered Vanburg. 
 
 For a moment Hollander looked at him in 
 amazement. 
 
 "Then say no more, Vannie, take the boy and 
 go away. It is no place for him. I will attend to 
 everything. Is he that on the floor " 
 
 "He is the boy s granduncle." 
 
 35
 
 TITO 
 
 "That s enough," Hollander replied. Leave 
 everything to me. By the way, where can I find 
 you?" 
 
 Vanburg wrote his address on a card. It was 
 the lodging-room where Tito had visited him. 
 
 You will find me at this address," he said, 
 handing the card to Hollander. "If there is any 
 thing I can do 
 
 "No. I will attend to everything. Go with the 
 boy." 
 
 Together Tito and his father went out. They 
 did not speak for some minutes, for the tragedy 
 had made a deep impression on the boy, and his 
 dislike and fear of Pietro had, when he had seen 
 him dead on the floor, turned into a great pity, 
 and the ready tears glistened on his eyelashes. 
 
 "Tito," spoke his father, "it was Pietro who gave 
 me the final proof that thou art my son. When I 
 said to thee that I had no son, Tito, it was because 
 they had told me thou wert dead with thy 
 mother." 
 
 "I knew that thou couldst do no wrong," said 
 the boy gently. "But when thou hadst said thou 
 hadst no son " 
 
 "Ah, my boy, I can judge what thy feelings 
 were. But that time has past, as, thank God, has 
 the old life. From to-day thy father begins life 
 anew. We will bid goodby to the days of sorrow, 
 but we will not forget, for did they not give to me 
 my son?" 
 
 Together they entered the room that to Van- 
 burg had been the scene of much suffering; but
 
 TITO 
 
 now a holy joy filled both heart and mind to com 
 pleteness. Whatever degradation the past years 
 had brought to him, whatever of sorrow, shame, 
 humiliation, was forgotten in this great moment 
 of happiness. Pride, the light of filial love, flashed 
 from his eyes, transforming his face until line and 
 wrinkle disappeared, and in lightness of heart, he 
 seemed the Vanburg of fifteen years before. His 
 step was elastic, his voice cheery, and he set about 
 putting the room in condition, demanding of the 
 boy, meantime, what he could do to add to his 
 comfort. 
 
 And Tito it was as though he had returned to 
 his home after a long absence; for it was here, in 
 this room, barren and cheerless, that the first kind 
 ness, the first tenderness, that had ever entered his 
 young life, had given birth to a love that now made 
 his heart overflow. Watching his father move 
 about the room with lithe, springing step, as, to 
 add a touch of comfort and homelikeness, he cov 
 ered the rickety table with a newspaper, the boy 
 laughed gleefully. His father smiled and shook 
 his finger at him. 
 
 "You shall remain here, my Tito, while I fetch 
 the necessaries for a banquet for to-day we 
 feast." 
 
 Tito s laugh followed the sound of his father s 
 footsteps down the stairs. 
 
 When he was alone, the boy walked about the 
 room. What happiness was his, what youthful, 
 delirious joy! The wealth of all the world could 
 not furnish such. True, they were poor, this won- 
 
 352
 
 TITO 
 
 derful father and he, but what of that ! Were they 
 not strong ? And they could work ! And this bar 
 ren, cheerless room was grander to him than any 
 of the palaces of his own Italia. Italia yes, he 
 and his father would return to his own country, 
 and he would be an artist as his mother had been. 
 And he would sing, and with the money 
 
 The entrance of Vanburg interrupted his castle- 
 building, and together they ate of the abundance 
 his father had procured. 
 
 "To-day, my son, is the beginning of a new life. 
 No more dissipation, no more of Death House 
 Joe s, no more of the hopeless nights of misery. 
 To-day nothing but thanksgiving, then work, yes, 
 work the harder the better, and a determina 
 tion to succeed, that my boy, my Tito, may have 
 a future. Think thou that thy father is too old to 
 begin all over, to conquer in the new life that 
 begins to-day?" 
 
 "Old!" was Tito s scoffing reply. "Did I not 
 see thee stand before the thieves? And how they 
 fell before thy blows ! And I, too, shall work. I 
 shall paint as my mother did, and I shall be great, 
 the good artist in dear Florence has so told me." 
 
 At the mention of his mother a soft light stole 
 into Vanburg s eyes ; rising, he laid his hand gently 
 on his son s head, and pressed his cheek to the 
 boy s, which glowed with the warmth of his young 
 blood. Drawing from his pocket Bettina s portrait 
 of the Madonna, he held it so that the light fell 
 upon the painting. Neither spoke, but Tito took 
 it reverently in his hand and touched the canvas 
 
 353
 
 TITO 
 
 with his lips. With a sigh Vanburg placed it on 
 the mantel, then together they talked of the future. 
 
 The father, firm in the belief that Tito would 
 understand, told him of his grandfather, of the 
 cause that prompted him to voluntarily relinquish 
 his position in life, of the breath of suspicion that 
 had been cast upon his honor, of his father s regret 
 when he discovered the wrong he had done him, 
 and his many attempts to affect a reconciliation. 
 Then, in a voice that faltered, he continued : 
 
 "I cannot return and resume the position in life 
 that was mine, but thy grandfather would welcome 
 my son, my Tito " 
 
 "Without theef" 
 
 Tito sprang to his feet. The look he cast at his 
 father was one of sorrowful reproach. 
 
 "Dost thou," he exclaimed with a stifled sob, 
 "think so poorly of the Little Devil? 
 
 There was a touch of bitterness in the tone; 
 accusation in the eyes that met his father s. 
 
 "I am thinking only of thy future," his father 
 replied, but his heart leaped with new-found de 
 light, and he drew the boy gently to him. Tito did 
 not speak, for, though his father thought only of 
 what would be best for him, the boy was deeply 
 pained. For a few moments the only sound was of 
 someone mounting the stairs with unsteady step 
 that halted on the landing. A short pause was 
 followed by a rap on the door. 
 
 "Come in," called Vanburg. 
 
 He did not move from his seat, but, with his arm 
 around Tito, awaited the entrance of their visitor. 
 
 354
 
 TITO 
 
 Slowly the door opened, and the tall, stately 
 figure of the elder Vanburg appeared in the aper 
 ture. He stood motionless for several seconds to 
 accustom his eyes to the dim light within, then en 
 tered the room and softly closed the door behind 
 him. He looked what he was, the born aristocrat. 
 His hair was snow-white: his face almost livid in 
 its pallor. The eyes were sunken, but, as he recog 
 nized his son, they took on an expression that was 
 pathetic. Notwithstanding his years, his form was 
 erect, the poise of the head proclaiming the pride 
 of the Vanburg race an unconscious haughtiness 
 which, even in Tito, was wont to make Mother 
 Malenotti rage. With outstretched hand he took a 
 step toward his son, and the movement, the gest 
 ure, spoke more eloquently in supplication, regret, 
 than could mortal tongue. 
 
 His son s heart was filled with a great pity and, 
 releasing Tito, he strode to his father s side, grasp 
 ing the outstretched hand in his own. Neither 
 spoke, but the son looked into the moist eyes that 
 mutely voiced the old man s appeal. 
 
 Ten years had passed since father and son had 
 seer each other, years that for them had been filled 
 with misery and heartache; for each, in his own 
 way, had experienced all the pangs that loneliness 
 and loveless years had the power to give. And 
 now, after the years of misunderstanding, of use 
 less regrets, of unavailing remorse, and pride that 
 had been crushed and humbled by suffering, they 
 met in this squalid room. What a conflict of 
 emotion was theirs ! The moist eye, the trembling 
 
 355
 
 TITO 
 
 lip, the husky voice, the faltering words they could 
 not utter sorrow, repentance, love, struggling to 
 find expression that only a grasp of the hand and 
 an embrace could voice, followed by a sob from the 
 old man as, with his hand in that of his son, he 
 stood trembling, his eyes pleading for the forgive 
 ness that he dare not ask. 
 
 And the son? Perhaps the regret that surged 
 through heart and brain as he waited for his 
 father to speak, in a measure wiped out the years 
 of folly ; and, as he noted the lines and the furrows 
 that time had added to the wrinkled face, a sense 
 of shame and of sorrow swept over him. But the 
 years could not be recalled. Time had left its im 
 print on their lives as it had on their features. The 
 past was dead ; the future held out hope that good 
 would come when the scars had healed. 
 
 Tito had remained standing, his eyes, glistening 
 with sympathetic tears, riveted on the face of his 
 grandfather. Mingled awe and pride was in the 
 look ; but the boy was quite sure that he would be 
 fond of the stately old man who appeared to love 
 his father dearly, and this, the boy mentally af 
 firmed, proved him worthy of his, Tito s, distin 
 guished consideration. He wanted to embrace his 
 grandfather and waited quietly until he would be 
 noticed. 
 
 "Father," said the younger Vanburg in a tender 
 voice, "there is one whose love will, I trust, atone 
 for my errors, one whom you will love, my son 
 Tito." 
 
 356
 
 TITO 
 
 The boy came quickly, his hands extended to his 
 grandfather. 
 
 The old man held him close, his smile, his em 
 brace, all that was needed to seal the compact of 
 love ; and from that instant Tito paid homage to 
 his stately grandfather, "who," he later confided to 
 his father, "would be a duke in his own Italia." 
 
 Long and earnestly they talked : the elder 
 Vanburg pleading for his son s return; the son 
 firm in his resolve to begin anew the battle of life, 
 to earn a position by his own effort. 
 
 " I have destroyed," he said, regret in his tones, 
 "whatever claim I once possessed to recognition. 
 My son agrees with me we must carve out our 
 own destiny. The world that I knew has forgotten 
 me, why should I demand of it to remember that 
 I once lived ? " 
 
 " But your son, Horace ? " 
 
 " It is his right to choose. I have explained all 
 to him. He will cast his lot with mine." 
 
 Tears glistened in the old man s eyes, and the 
 look he directed at Tito was of pathetic entreaty. 
 
 After a moment s silence Vanburg asked : 
 
 " How did you discover my address ? " 
 
 "From young Hollander," his father replied. 
 " He and his sister came with me. They are wait 
 ing below, in the carriage." 
 
 Vanburg flushed. " I will speak to them," he 
 said, and went out. 
 
 " Tito, my boy, come to me." 
 
 The old man s trembling hands were out 
 stretched, and Tito sprang to his embrace. Before 
 
 357
 
 TITO 
 
 his son the elder Vanburg had controlled his feel 
 ings, but, alone with the boy, his enforced calm 
 gave place to a flood of emotion, and with his 
 arms about Tito, tears, that he made no effort to 
 repress, ran down his withered cheek. No longer 
 was he the banker, the rich aristocrat, the repre 
 sentative of ancestors whose arrogant pride was 
 their dominant characteristic. He was again a 
 child, and Tito s heart responded to his appeal for 
 pity, for sympathy, for love his tears mingling 
 with those of his grandfather as, with the withered 
 cheek pressed to his own, he made a manly effort 
 to control his emotion. 
 
 "Tito, boy," pleaded his grandfather, "I am an 
 old man. But few years remain for me. You love 
 your father?" 
 
 "Ah. yes," came the quick reply. 
 
 "Think, then, of what your life would be should 
 you lose him." 
 
 The terror of the thought shone in Tito s eyes. 
 
 "Will you then think of me, Tito, of my lonely 
 life? Will you remember your grandfather in a 
 great house, lonely, sorrowful, waiting through the 
 years for his son s return? You could love me, 
 boy?" 
 
 "Ah," exclaimed Tito with warmth, "already I 
 love thee." 
 
 "Will you plead with your father for me, Tito? 
 Will you remember the father who is always wait 
 ing, watching, for him? Ah, boy, I can read in 
 your eyes nothing but love, but gentleness. In 
 your face I can see the character of the Vanburg 
 
 353
 
 TITO 
 
 race, but your beauty, the tenderness in those eyes 
 are your mother s. Remember her, boy, and be 
 kind to your grandfather, who will love you as she 
 would have loved you." 
 
 It needed but the mention of his mother and 
 Tito surrendered, his heart going out without con 
 dition or reservation to his grandfather. 
 
 "Trust me," said Tito, "I promise he will come 
 to thee." 
 
 In an excess of feeling, even of elation, the old 
 man embraced him. Then as Vanburg returned, 
 the glance that they exchanged sealed their com 
 pact. 
 
 "I will trust all to you, Tito," whispered his 
 grandfather. 
 
 "I will keep my promise," was the reply. 
 
 After an affectionate leave-taking, a whispered 
 word to Tito as he embraced him, the elder Van- 
 burg departed. 
 
 359
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 AFTER his father was gone Vanburg was 
 depressed. He could not entertain the 
 thought of a return to the home that he had 
 left, but none knew better than he that he owed a 
 duty to his son. He accused himself of selfishness 
 in wishing to keep Tito with him, for he knew that 
 his son, should he go to his grandfather, would 
 receive every advantage that money could procure. 
 But he was human, and the thought of a separation 
 from the boy he could not entertain. 
 
 Tito, meanwhile, was planning his line of 
 attack. His quickly changing moods caused his 
 father to smile, but he could not quite understand 
 him. He w r as now tender, again jubilant, hum 
 ming the bar of an Italian song, only to stop sud 
 denly and demand of his father to recite again and 
 again their plans of the future. His diplomacy 
 was not deep. Suddenly he stood before his 
 father. 
 
 "I think I shall love my grandpapa!" he said. 
 "He is very nice !" 
 
 Vanburg looked into the flushed face. 
 
 "Would you like to live with him ?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes," answered Tito, promptly. 
 
 The answer struck upon Vanburg s ear like a 
 knell. The words sank into his heart. He had 
 found his son only to lose him. 
 
 360
 
 TITO 
 
 "If you wish it, Tito, you shall live with him." 
 Vanbtirg steadied his voice with an effort. 
 
 "Aye, true," answered the boy, "but it shall be 
 when my father comes with me. If thou hadst 
 waited through the years for thy Tito, the Little 
 Devil/ and thou hadst begged him to come to 
 thee, and he had answered no, what wouldst thy 
 heart have said ? And if thou wert old and alone, 
 sorrowful, waiting for thy Tito to return, think of 
 thy feelings when he would come to thee and say : 
 Yes, it is I, Tito, who has come back to thee/ for 
 it is that thou hast said to me when thou wert ill 
 and I came here. And thou wert glad that the 
 Little Devil had not forgotten thee. Dost thou 
 remember?" 
 
 "Remember, boy? Yes, ah God, yes!" 
 
 "It is thus that my grandpapa feels while he 
 watches and waits for thee. Even now he may be 
 sitting at the window, watching each one that 
 passes, saying: He will come, I know he will 
 come/ and when thou had gone to see thy friends, 
 and we were alone, what thinkest thou he said?" 
 
 Vanburg s only reply was a glance into the 
 pleading eyes. 
 
 " That though I was of his race, I had the 
 beauty of my mother her eyes, her her tender 
 ness. Ah, for that did I love him. And when 
 thou didst tell me that thou hadst no son, and I 
 ran away that I might not fulfil the vow I had 
 made, because I loved thee, canst thou know the 
 sorrow and the shame that was mine? And I 
 
 361
 
 TITO 
 
 prayed to the Madonna to give the Little Devil 
 a new heart arid to save thee." 
 
 Grasping his father s hand in both his own, he 
 continued passionately: 
 
 "Come, come to my grandfather, he is waiting 
 for us, and he will be glad as thou wert when thy 
 Tito, the Little Devil/ came back to thee. 
 Come." 
 
 Without a word Vanburg took his hat, that lay 
 on the table, and taking the portrait from its place 
 on the mantel, he put it in his pocket and they 
 went out ; not, however, before Tito had flashed a 
 last look of mingled regret and joy about the bar 
 ren room that he loved so well. 
 
 Slowly they walked on, Vanburg silent and 
 thoughtful, Tito, in his anxiety to hasten, keeping 
 a pace or two in advance of his father. 
 
 After more than an hour s walk they turned 
 from the avenue Vanburg indicating, with a nod 
 of his head, the house that would be Tito s future 
 home. 
 
 "See," said Tito, excitedly, "is it not as I told 
 thee? My grandfather is at the window waiting 
 for us." Then with the utmost nonchalance: "I 
 told him we would come." 
 
 Vanburg smiled. 
 
 "You young rascal," he replied, "I am glad you 
 did." 
 
 They mounted the flight of stone steps quickly, 
 but before they could ring the bell the door swung 
 open and they entered. 
 
 The hours go by, and from the servants quar- 
 362
 
 TITO 
 
 ters below, to the top of the house, lights blaze 
 through the windows. A carriage stops before the 
 door and Madge Hollander and her brother alight 
 and enter. Through the uncurtained window we 
 can see the elder Vanburg talking with Ned Hol 
 lander, who had been an active accomplice in 
 arranging the meeting between father and son. 
 Tito is standing in the rear of the room smiling 
 and happy, beside him his father and Madge on 
 their features the contentment of perfect love. 
 
 The night shadows deepen. Across the face of 
 the refulgent moon like fragments of a disrupted 
 kingdom of the clouds float seas of shimmering 
 splendor, the veiled stars piercing their misty 
 depths w r ith shafts of mellow light. Phantom sail, 
 unrigged, unmanned, sweep past the mystic islands 
 of the night, the foam -lashed cloud-waves touch 
 ing their virgin peaks. Hurled from their awful 
 height the wrecks of worlds plunge downward 
 down through vales of death, through never end 
 ing space into the realm of the Unknown. 
 
 They are gone the limpid rays of the chiding 
 moon following the receding hosts. Slowly the 
 shadows lift, melting away before the glory of the 
 star-lit heavens: the sighing breezes of the night 
 whispering their secrets until the imagination is 
 aflame with the mysteries of an unpeopled world. 
 
 Thus do lights and shadows flit across our lives. 
 Without, the heart of Man throbs responsive to a 
 settled calm. Into the lives of those we are leav 
 ing has come the glory of the wondrous night. 
 THE END. 
 
 3 6 3
 
 Mason s Corner Folks. 
 
 The Village -Gossips wondered who he was, 
 What he was, what he came for, aad bow 
 Ion? be intended to stay." 
 
 "THE BEST NEW 
 ENGLAND STORY 
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 THE 
 
 CLIMAX 
 
 Or, WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN 
 
 By CHARLES FBLTON PIDQIN 
 
 Author of BLENNERHASSETT and 
 QUINCY ADAMS SAWYER 
 
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 C. M. CLARK PUBLISHING CO., BOSTON
 
 ON 
 
 SATAN S 
 
 MOUNT 
 
 By DWIGHT TII^TON 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
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 (t A UNIQUE tale of love and of a supreme 
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 ^^^^^^^ the present social and econ 
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 MISS FRANCIS PARKER 
 
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 TITO, 
 
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 OOQ 
 
 426