I q r I inn r^- ^'"'^^ ^^ ^^"^- ;i;^^ffi[ll»«,g[l_(jj,|v]g *^^ .MANTIC STORY BASED UPON Martin J. DIXON'S popular play of ths NAME . By grace miller 1 white ■i.V.i ww.archive.orq/details/childofslumsromaOOwhitrich A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. A ROMANTIC STOR/ Of New York Life Based Upon Martin J. Dixon *b^ Play of the Same Name. BV- GRACE MILLER WHITE, Author of ** Driven From Home," '* Joe Welch the Peddler/ *'No Wedding Bells for Her," *'Sky Farm," »»A Midnight Marriage," ** Souvenir Book of • 'Way Down East*." ** Why Women Sin," Etc.. Etc. COPTEIGHT, 1904, BY i. S. OoiiiViB Publishing Company. New York: J. S. OGILVIE PUBLISHING COMPANY, 57 KosE Street. Keep Them Clearly Healthy and Beautiful yes Use this Hygienic and Convenient Method ISlight and Morning MV9MM Ud^ after Reading, ISewingV Motoring and all out" door activities* It's good for the Eyes — does not contain any harmful ingredients* Our attracdveiy illustrated book, ''Beauty lies Within the Eyes," tells how to prop- T*!. 'CD LT? 9 ^y ^^^'^ ^^^ your Eyes, Brows, Lashes Ihts'-Booktreel and thus enhance their beauty. Send for a copy of this helpful book* It's free* The Murine Co. Dept.85 9 £• Ohio Street, Chicago A CHILD OF THE SLUMS CHAPTER I. A LARGE crowd of students Were running from the Harvard College gr<)untlsLdoW'n i^ir^ jtlje road- way. Tiieir strong bodies swaying in the wind as they dashed on were indicative of strength and muscle. On and on, over the rolling hills and into the valley, panted the boys until they reached a spot where the long branches casting their shadows over the road spoke of cool retreats and lovers^ nooks. A little winding path led into the wood, but the boys did not make a move to enter. ^'Are you sure this is the place?" said one. 'Well, isn't it the Three Comers? Ever since i have been in college Vve known its name." The speaker was tall, strong and handsome^ z 970514 4 A CHILD OF THE SLFMS. He tossed the damp hair from his brow and pro (!eeded : ^^Now, fellows, you know that Frank is not the same boy he was two months ago. He is morbid, and I know something has happened. I say it is our duty to jack him up a bit. Now,, Dick, what did he say over the 'phone?'' Richard Gerson thought a moment before re- plying. He did not wisji to make his room-mate any tr6ut)le. " feut Frank had been so unsociable and* ujicpramunicfative o( late. His handsome face bore an anxious expression as he lingered in his thoughts. For the three years in college he had been nearest to Frank Wentworth of all the boys. Their secrets had been shared with pne another until they had been called by the rest of their fraternity "the Siamese twins." But as Richard Gerson had said, Frank had forgotten the old days, and another love was fill- ing up his life. The waiting man still waited 4 and the other five students kept silent. Presently he said : "I heard him tell the girl over the 'phone that he would meet her at the Three Corners as usuaL A CHILD OF THE BLUMS. 5 He seemed afraid that she would not come, for so many times did he entreat her that I thought he was going to spend the day with the receiver at his ear.^^ "And did his voice sound kind of mushy?" ven- tured a youth with eyes brimming over with mis- chief. "Shut up, Sammy; what do you know of love?'' This from another big fellow, chewing a straw. "Well, I'll know enough not to let any of you know of it, don't worry, though I am not yet in «uch a dangerous position." Saying this he gave a long leap, lighting upon his shoulders and turning a double somersault. ^'Sit down, Sam," ordered the leader of the group. "This is no time for folly. Just remem- ber this may be our first experi€nce in drawing one of the fraternity before us. I don't like the look of this, but we cannot allow the name of the ^Frat.' to come to ill-repute." It was Carl Duncan who had been gravely speaking. His mouth drew down at the corners w^hile his blue eyes scanned the road toward the college. ig A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. Sammy accepted the rebuke and seated him??elt as much in the shadow as possible. "I don't see why you fellows w^ant to meddle in Frank's business," grumbled he. "I'd givel you a fight for your money, and don't you forget it. The very idea that a fellow can't fall in love if he wants to ! Don't every one of you have girls in the town that you call upon?" "But we don't fall in love, Kid,'^ answered Duncan, "nor make it apparent by our actions that something is going on. Frank Wentworth is a different boy, and it is well for his friends not to allow him to do anything rash." "And we don't make our voices mushy over the 'phone, either, Sammy," put in Gerson, try- ing to soothe his conscience. He had brought the wrath of the "Frat." upon his friend, he knew,, but no harm could possibly come of it — only a little fun. "Maybe you wouldn't have heard the mush tone," replied the boy, "if you had not been lis- tening. It's a mean shame to spy upon a fellow's heart affairs, I think." "Go 'way back and sit down," laughed another. A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. 7 *^for, Sammy, you are young; it will be many days before you realize the fitness of things.'' "I have an idea," began Duncan, peering into, the wood, "that they will walk there," pointing toward a shady, well-worn spot. "If so, then we " had better hide — I want to see it all." "Horrid shame!" muttered Sammy, as he re- luctantly followed the rest to a sheltered posi- tion where each pair of eyes could scan any scene which might be enacted close by. Richard Gerson thought of the time when he had first met the boy he had betrayed to his col- lege friends* He could well remember choosing him as his room-mate, and in all the three yeai s^ that had followed he had not for one moment been sorry. They were both orphans, living with uncles when home. As he crouched ^^^^in(l a large moes-covered log Dick Gei-son, as Ir> friends called him, wished that he jhad allowc . his receiver to rest upon the hook before he hi\l heard his chum plead with some soft-toned gii i . that she meet him just this once at their trystiug^ spot at Three Comers. And much more did lie wish that, after hearing, he had kept it from the 3 A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. other boys — but Duncan was holding up his finger as a warning for silence. Each boy could hear the hum of a girPs voice in the distance and knew that she was coming toward them. The quiet that reigned was as absolute as if six living, breathing beings were not in hiding among the moss-covered logs. The constant twitter of the birds seeking their nests for the night filled the fast gathering dusk, while the twilight shadows fell from the trees as a warning that darkness was approaching. Suddenly from some spot, and no boy after- ward could tell from just where, a girl sprang into view. At first the twilight made it impos- sible to see aught but the graceful form as it neared the wood, but as she came into bold relief at the entrance every watcher, even Sammy, caught his breath. She hesitated a moment in Lier song, and ventured not into the shadows until i^lie had anxiously peered for a witness among the trees. However, she seemed satisfied and walked straight toward the log behind which Eichard Gerson, Carl Duncan and Sammy were in hiding. She seated herself and spread her A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 9 pretty skirts and proceeded to wait for the com- ing of her lover. "Good Lord/' groaned Sammy, in Carl's ear; "ain't she a beauty? Any boy that doesn't forgive the mush tone for her ought to be licked !" The youth was effectually silenced by a severe jab from the other's elbow. He subsided and waited. The song was still rippling from the rosy lips of the girl : *^The hours I've spent with you, dear heart, Are as a string of pearls to me." The hum had broadened into words, and the students could hear the trembling lips sing to the coming lover that the hours spent with him had been as the incense from her rosary. Not ' me boy among the hiding number was not sorry that he had ventured upon such love as he in- tuitively felt the girl capable of. Her dark hair was coiled into a mass upon the unhatted head. The fair skin, as she sang, dimpled with blushes and paled with emotion. Once in a while she leaned far over and looked searchingly into the road, as if the coming of some one were the main object of her visit to the spot. 10 A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. "I think I am a little early," the boys behind the log heard her murmur, softly. "But I'll wait/^ and again the song began : '^Oh, memories that bless and burn, Oh, barren gain and bitter loss, I kiss each bead and strive at last to learn to kiss the cross.'' Here the song ended, and the watchers sav,- Iior quiver as if striving with a storm. Then she rose from the log and waited in silence. The soiio;! of rapid footsteps fell upon the six listening ears and six pairs of envious eyes saw their class- mate clasp the beautiful form close to his heart while his lips rested upon the tender mouth raised to his. Richard Gerson from his point of ^vantage could see the intensity with which the girl was strained to the man's breast; he could hear the fluttering breath as his room-mate's, companion struggled with her emotion. "My sweetheart," whispered Frank Went- w^orth, "I was so afraid you would not come; I just had to see you.*' The students in hiding each frft that he, too^, A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. H desired some girl to cling to him in that con- fiding way, the sentiment of which was enhanced by the shadows of the oncoming night. She an- swered not for a moment, but then said : "It would have been better, dear, not to have come again, but I, too, wanted to see you and tell you how very much I love you." "I know that you do love me, dear," whispered Wentworth, "but I so fear losing you that my heart stands still in fright. Tell me that you will never love another man as long as you live." It had grown so dark now that the faces^ of the two lovers could be seen but dimly. The last flush of the sun had deepened into a dull grey, melting the shadows into one long strip upon the road. The silent watchers resting on their mossy beds wished themselves anywhere but there when they noticed that the man drew the beautiful girl to- ward the log upon which she had first rested^ when coming into the wood. "We will sit here for a few moments, Euth,. dear,'' said Wentworth; "for it will soon be time 12 A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. for you to go. Does your auntie know that you are out here?" "No, I ran away," smiled the girl. "Dear old auntie, how she would open her eyes if she only knew that I loved you !" "Frank took the small hands in his. He pressed them to his lips with evident passion in his movements. "And are you sure, my darling, that you do love me?" "More than I can express. I can only tell you that a complete change has come over my life, and that you are the center of my universe." Gerson heard the words, and so did Sammy. The latter thrust his fist into his mouth to pre- vent a laugh that he was sure was coming. Only Duncan dropped his head in shame. He had not imagined that any such love was for Frank Wentworth. "Will you marry me, Euth, immediately?" Each student held his breath to hear the answer. "Not until you have finished your course. We are both too young yet to be thinking of getting A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. IS married, and then, too, I want to be sure of auntie's consent — she has been so very good to me since mother died,'' and the girl wiped away a tear. Sammy gurgled behind the log. ^^Did you hear a sound?" asked Butk, looking around, startled. ^^Nothing but the twittering of a bird," was her lover's answer. ^^You see," went on the girl, "I have never had a lover before, Frank. Auntie doesai^t know about you. If she did she would not allow me to come to the wood to see you." "But, darling, when we love each other so very much it is right that we should be together. When a man loves a woman like I do you, there is na power on earth that ought to keep them apart. Do you understand, Ruth?" The girl hid her face on the shoulder of the boy, while the silent students in watching nearby groaned inwardly. "But you have promised to be my wife some day, Ruth, haven't you?" asked the student- lover, anxiously. Id A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. ^'Some day, oh, yes; I should be unhappy if I did not know that we are to be always in a little home of our own. I love you, Frank." Kiehard Gerson smothered an oath as he lis- tened, and Sammy gurgled down a laugh. All the students, now sorry for their part of the game, would have given much had they been able to sneak out as quietly as they had come. But there was no way, and the lover was still entreating his sweetheart to love none but him. "I cannot study now, dearest, unless I know just where you are. You would not love some one else besides me, would you?" ^^No, indeed," chimed back the soft voice. The girl's face had been lost in the twilight. "I shall always love you and promise that when you are ready for me I shall follow you to the ends of the earth.'' If the girl could have looked into the future and seen how two of those present were to figure in her life she would have shudderingly turned away, but her happy heart had not an inkling of what was coming, and she cooed out her affection for the man in whose arms she rested. A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 1^ ^^I don't think I shall come again, dear Frank,'^ said she, as the boy led her from the wood. "I think I am doing wrong. Anntie would feel that I had deceived her were I to go on this way. I'll ^ tell you what I'll do," and each pair of hidden ' ears were strained to get a sound of the voice. ^^I'il ask auntie to let you come to the house^ and if she will not, then I will remember that I am the same as your wife. When you are ready for me, come, and I shall go." "Yum, yum," howled Sammy, as the lovers dis- appeared down the road, and six stiff students arose in the moonlight. "Yum, yum," said he again, smacking his lips. "Shut up. Kid," gasped Duncan. "We made fools of ourselves, that's all I can say. Frank's welcome to his girl, if he wants her; she is a dandy." "And any fellow here would be dying glad to ^ have just such a one," put in Sammy, refusing to be squelched. "Frank loves her and she loves him," said Ger- son, "and I vote that we let the aunt decide whether he is to see her again. '^ {Igj A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. "I say so, too/' said the indomitable Samm} , "and if she is at all like an old maid aunt of mine she'll keep them so far apart that the girl will have but memories to bless and burn." Sammy was now in the road, and the other five were following, rubbing their tired sides. Duncan had said but little. He was thinking of a wee miss he loved in his far-away home. As they walked toward the college Gerson said^ *What are you going to do, Prep?" "Nothing that will make the little girl strive at last to kiss the cross.'' Sammy hearing the sentimental remark, tossed his hat high in the air, "Listen to the professor, the sentimental Tommy," cried he. "Wouldn't that make you sick ; he was the most strenuous to hear the love-making, and now listen !" The little freshman received a large kick which he tried to escape, running as fast as his legs could carry him. A private council held among the students of the Fraternity, to which Frank Wentworth be- longed, ended in the decision that nothing should A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 17 be done to the member nor any steps taken which would make him unhappy. When Ruth Ferris was alone that evening dressing for dinner she thought long upon the promise she had made to Frank. She would ask her aunt if she could have him call at the house. Ruth dreaded her relative's displeasure, but be- ing a stout-hearted little maiden she finished her toilet and descended the stairs, where fehe found her aunt waiting dinner. ' "You are late, Ruth, my dear," severely said the good woman. "I wish you would give up your jaunts in the wood and come in early enough to be at the table as the gong sounds. It will not be long before you have a home of your own. Re- member, all well-conducted houses have a methodical mistress.'' "But I do not want a house yet, auntie, and I could not live unless I went to hear the birds sing and to say good-night to the flowers. Please, dear, do not take this pleasure from me." "Well, then, come in on time, or I shall have to curtail your liberty." There was such a frown 18 A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. upon the lady's face that Ruth did not dare broach the subject of Frank, but as the meal pro- ceeded and the wrinkles faded from the broad, smooth brow of Miss Ferris, Ruth plucked up t'ourage, and when they were in the drawing- room she sank upon a little stool, where for years it had been her custom to be, and took her aunt's hand in hers. ^^Auntie," she began, timidly, "I'm getting to be a big girl now, am I not?'' "Too big to wander in the brushwood and hunt birds' nests in the forest." "Then if I am a young lady, should I not have the privileges of one?" This question caused the older woman to look searchingly into the pretty face. "If^Tiat do you mean? Do you not take lessons upon the piano, and have you not a French teacher?" "Yes, but I have no lover, like the rest of the ^irls I know." The ice was broken, and Ruth waited. "Well, thank the Lord for that!" ejaculated the aunt. "If I should see one coming, I would A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 19 treat him the same way that I do the dogs that tramp upon my flowers, and don't forget it !'' "You would not shoot him, auntie?'' > "Yes; I would fill him full of small shot as quick as a wink, so tell him to stay away." Euth shuddered as in her mind she could see poor Frank flying before the rage of her aunt, who had just sworn she would shoot him. She did not speak for a long time, and then opened her lips, but closed them immediately. "What were you going to say, Ruth?" asked the old lady. "That I do love a dear boy, and wanted you to allow him to come and see me. Oh, auntie, if you only knew how much I want him all the time." "Tut, tut, now none of that. If in your rambles about you have met one of those dread- ful students, I bid you to forget him, and don't let me see him here." Ruth beard the ultimatum with heavy heart She knew that her aunt meant just what she said. She simply acquiesced by a nod of thie head, and with great dignity rose and walked to the go A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. window. The wind had risen since dinner, and the long arms of the trees bent their branchef? in the moonlight. How often she had walked back from the woodland with her dear one, and how long would it be before she would see him. again? A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. 2Z CHAPTER II. Ruth sat with her pen suspended oyer a let- ter. Her eyes were suffused with tears, some of the bright drops having blotched the paper. Picking it up she read, in a half-audible voice : ^^Darling Frank : "It almost breaks my heart to write you this, but as auntie says it must be, then I say so, too* You know there is hidden in her breast an old dead love, for long ago a man cruelly trifled with her when she was but a girl. She insists that I shall not meet the same fate — ^not know- ing, of course, your dear, noble self. I tried to argue with her, but it was of no use. She simply refused to listen and said all sorts of mean things about mankind in general. I shall not meet you at our trysting place again, but you know, my darling, that I love you. All the aunties in the 22' A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. world could not tear that part from me. Yon will leave the university this year, and as soou as you are ready for me to come to jon, yoii have but to call* I shall ansiiv^er. I hope y( will not take this too much to heart. You re member that I told you auntie was my best friend in all the world, and I cannot now be deceitful with her. Every night I shall pray for my lover^ for when he goes out in the great city of New Y^ork he will need them. If it happens so, then I shall be able to bid you farewell. With kisses and love, I shall always be your own Ruth." The girl folded the letter and with many sobs and tears sealed it. She walked slowly up and down the room, wondering what her life would be when the handsome youth she loved was no longer there. The day was stormy, in accord with the tumult of her heart. She could hear the rain beating upon the trees while the wind moaned among the pines, lashing the branches and filling the air with shrieks that sent shudders over Ruth as she turned toward the window. Out in the distance she could see the long^^ A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 'Z3> white, wet road over which her feet had sped to- ward yonder woodland to meet the boy to whom she had just sent the letter. By straining hei" eyes a little she could even discern the opening; among the trees where for days past she had seated herself upon the log and waited for the sound of his footsteps. Sheets of water were being poured from the sky upon the bending trees, while the raging wind shook it off like some great mastiff shakes himself after a bath in the sea. This was a day in keeping with Ruth's feelings. She stood by the window, her tears fall- ing fast, and watched the weeping sky. Sud- denly she thought she saw Frank come from the wood, followed by another man who crept after her lover with silent footsteps. With great fasci- nation she kept her eyes upon the spectral scene. Frank seemed to turn toward her while the otlu r man kept in his shadow. Amid the falling dio^v^ she could see that the other was not as tail :ir, Frank but much the same type. Then came a part in the scene which calb v forth a groan from Ruth, and when she took her hands from her eyes the phantom had disap- 24 A. CHILD OP THE SLtTMS. peared. The shadow man in the rear of Frank had with a mighty strength felled the girPs loved one to the earth. The heated imagination of Euth could almost see the writhings of the fallen man. She turned away sickened, knowing that it was but a trick of her fancy, and looking again there were but the tossing branches and the long, white road shining wet with the drops of rain. Euth, with a dread of some future event which was going to happen to Frank, went to her own room to pass weary, lonely hours of waiting, and for what? She knew it would be years before she would be able to marry him; he was but a youth, and his way in the world hard to make. She had a small fortune and was the heiress of her aunt, also an old uncle. Frank knew this, for his uncle and Euth's were firm friends, and once her lover had told her that he would ask his uncle to use his influence to persuade the aunt with whom the girl was living to allow the young people to see each other. It happened, though, that the old lady had no idea of being won over from her favorite position. So the matter ended and Euth and Fraikk were A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 25 kept apart. The days flew by and the summer time was at hand. Frank stood at the top of his <^lass and received the highest honors the college ■^ could bestow. Euth watched, from her seat in the gallery, her boy as he entered the platform and delivered his essay. All the aunts and uncles were there, with the exception of the one Euth lived with. She gave it as her opinion that it was a waste of precious time to sit under the Harvard flag and listen to a dozen or more orations which amounted to nothing in the end. But she had given Euth her permission to go, and upon look- ing once more into the face of her lover the girl determined to speak to him. She felt that he would leave for the city the next day and that the town would know him no more. She waited until he had finished his speaking and had taken his seat Three times he rose to bow to the audi- ence which had realized the genius in him. Then while Eichard Gerson was making his way to the platform, Euth caught the eye of Prank. Slowly he rose to his feet again. The girl knew that he was coming to her. Fiercely as her heart beat 26 A CHILD OP THE 5»L.UMS. she waited outwardly calm and ready. She watched him as he made his way to the gallery steps and lost him in the crowd. But in an in- stant he was at her side looking deep into her eyes and questioning her mutely f^r a little con- versation. "Will you not come with me, only a moment, Buth?" ^ The pain in his eyes was pictured in her own. Her heart swelled to a bursting point and she felt rebellious toward her aunt, who had laid down the stern law that she should not love this noble fellow who had already won her heart. She followed him into the open air and he drew her into the shadow where no living eye could witness the love scene. Back into the girPs mind came the memory of the day in the rain, when she had seen a man steal from the shadow and strike her lover. It would have been better for her future if Ruth had noticed the handsome fel- low who followed Frank to the platform. Would she have noted the resemblance in the two men, and would she have compared Richard Gersoii A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. 27 with the ghost that walked the wide road on that rainy day? But Prank was kissing her and her arms were about his neck. For a few moments she would be happy, auntie or no auntie. They could hear the cheering of the spectators inside the room. But the sound fell upon unresponsive ears, for Frank Wentworth had longed for this hour. But such happiness was short-lived. With many a promise and repetition of fidelity the lov- ers parted to meet no more until the expiration of many weary years. sis :|: 4c ^ 4: ^ Kuth's aunt died, leaving her a fortune and making the girl independent of the world. Her uncle, the friend of the uncle of Frank, also was dead, leaving a peculiar will. Euth had been notified that she benefited by it to the extent of one hundred thousand dollars, while one Frank Wentworth would get the remainder if he mar- ried her. Ruth had left her native town. It had been now two years since she had seen Frank. No word reached her, but somehow she felt that her 28 A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. boyish lover could not have forgotten her. Each day she lived there reigned supreme the thought that she would see him. But as years rolled away she became used to the oppressive silence and waited with a patience natural to a loving woman. One day, before leaving the large house facing the white, lonely road which led to the wood- land, Euth received a letter from a school friend of her mother's. Would she come to New York and pass some few months with their family? said the letter. She should go to the seaside and as a young heiress enjoy the privileges of good society. So, accordingly, Euth closed the house and went to New York. Mrs. Mathers had been in boarding-school at the time Euth's mother had been there. They had been the best of friends. The good woman took the pretty girl in her arms and kissed her, saying that from then on she should be her own daughter. It was such a change from the quiet of the college town, the bustle and commotion of the city, that at first Euth could scarcely realize A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 29^ it, but Mrs. Mathers forced her into the whirl of a winter in New York, which soon acclimated her. Mr. Mathers was a lawyer of high degree, with a flourishing practice which kept him in the city the most of the summer. Euth was surprised at first, then delighted at the manner and customs which reigned between Mr. Mathers and his wife. The woman, satisfied that she alone was the sole occupant of her hus- band's heart, tantalized him until the quarrels and outbreaks became serious. One afternoon about one year after the coming of Ruth, Mrs. Mathers told the girl that she thought it their duty to advertise for the miss- ing Frank Wentworth — that a fortune was awaiting him, while a certain little maid would be in the seventh heaven of bliss at the sight of his face. Did not Ruth think that it was heart- less to sit and wait for a man who might be in dire distress? "Why, Ruth," said she, "what if he were ill and in need of friends? Now, as for me, I don't know the young gentleman, but I do appreciate 30 A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. the fact that he is the cause of your throwing away so many good offers." Euth's face colored red. Her eyes drooped with a guilty expression. How many times since that last day, when she had stood in the shadow of the large college hall, had she rebuked herself for keeping a man in her heart who evidently cared nothing for her. If he was still true to his vows, would not Frank Wentworth have returned long ere this? Would he not have sent her some word of recognition before the passing of three years? With these thoughts in her mind j she drew herself haughtily together, throwing off the desire to enter heartily into the scheme, and said : "He will never be anything to me. You know the terms of the will are that if I refuse him, he is to have the money, or if he finds some one else to love, then the whole of it comes to me. I do not want it, neither do I need it, so I have ar- ranged it that when he does put in an appear- ance I shall refuse him before he gets a chance to tell me that he preferred some one to me." The tell-tale tears glistened in the bright eyes. A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 31 How she loved this recreant lover who was stren- uously staying away ! The only reason Ruth eould think of was that he was either married or dead. She was judging him by herself — she €Ould not stay away from him so long if it were possible to do otherwise. Mrs. Mathers shook her head. ^^I think, dear, that he has not been able to carry out his plans, and that is the end of it. He would not ask you to join him in poverty, and, knowing nothing about the will, he keeps in his retreat. I am of the opinion that he is living." ^'Living or not, he is not for me," said Ruth. ^^I am too proud to force myself ui)on any man." "SOy so," said a voice at the back of them, and both ladies faced Mr. Mathers, with his red face beaming with genuine pleasure. "My dear love," he whispered in his wife's ear, '^you have no idea how delighted I am to find Tou home. I look upon a day only half finished A\'hen you are not for some hours a part of it." "And I," answered back a sweet, cooing voice, "would like you with me every moment of the day." 32 A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. Tlie man sank into a chair beside his wife. He turned his eyes upon Ruth's troubled face. Be- ing a lawyer he realized that something was brewing. ^^In difficulty, little girl?'' said he. ^*I suppose it is that obstinate young fellow who insists upon keeping himself in the background. I would no longer worry over him." "Now, Mr. Mathers," cautioned Mrs. Mathers,, "don't fill that child's head with nonsense. It is her duty now to take some steps toward finding Frank Wentworth. He may be a perfectly worthy young man." "No doubt," drawled the lawyer; "he is prob- ably settled in some office and married to some nice girl." Ruth uttered a little cry. It sounded so cruel from the lips of another. She knew now that she had not believed that Frank had forgotten her. The thought was unbearable. "Now, Mr. Mathers," expostulated his wife again, "are you not ashamed of yourself? I am of you ; you should be more delicate than to men- A CHILD OP THE SLUMS, 33; tion such a thing. Don't mind him, Ruth, he is a bear." Ruth smiled through her tears. This was a challenge for a serious quarrel, like some she had often heard. "Now, wife, not quite that four-legged ani- mal," good-naturedly said the husband. "If I were half the beasts you have called me, I should have had your life long ago. Again, I say that Ruth is foolish in waiting longer for a missing man who knows that he has a sweetheart living somewhere." "Shut up!" snapped Mrs. Mathers. "If you cannot say w hat you are asked to, then don't talk at all. You know that Ruth loves this boy." The lawyer took a turn about the room. He blew his nose vigorously, which was always a sign that he was ready to fight. "Madame," he answered severely, "don't give me such orders, you are but a faulty woman. I demand your respect." Mrs. Mathers started to her feet. She fell to Avalking behind her husband and tramped in his t jotsteps as he hurriedly paced the room. The 34 A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. good woman was on the warpath. She bristled all her bright feathers like a setting hen, at bein^ disturbed, and sputtered: j "Lot of respect I have for you. No woman: could have a moment's peace with you. I wish to ; heaven I had never married you/' Mathers was still beating his way over the tliick rug. His wife was close at his heels. "I wish it myself," gasped the man, as he wiped great beads of perspiration from his brow. "You are enough to try the patience of a saint.'' "Then, good Lord, what do I do to you?" gasped Mrs. Mathers. "You are as far from a saint as one of my little goldfish is from the North Pole. * Do you understand, you criminal man, I say you are not a saint !" k' still the tramping kept up. Euth was smiling, ^ven though the color had left her face. She did not know how very much she loved Frank until the subject was talked over again. Many days in close communion with her soul had she . secretly whispered that no other man should call \ her wife. Strange that at this moment, when Sirs. Mathers was striding aft;er the big fellow A CHILI> OF THE SLUMS. 35 who called himself her husband, and who really loved the little spitfire, she, Ruth Ferris, should be taken back to that day when she had seen the spectral scene upon the white road. Never before had she so wanted to see her dar- ling. Somehow she felt that he was living and loved her still. As this thought was borne in upon her mind sne, too, arose and walked up and down the room, keeping step with the red-faced husband and the raging wife. ^^Ruth,'' said Mrs. Mathers, dropping into a chair, "what are you doing? Mocking me in my awful domestic trouble?'^ "Heaven forbid," answered the girl. "I was making up my mind to take your advice and make a systematic search for Frank Went- worth." "There, do you hear that, my own love?" sweetly asked the wife of her husband. "The girl herself admits that you are in the wrong. I She is going to take my word for it that the man is living and loves her still.^' The lawyer sat down, smoothing his pallid face. He had lost the look of turbulence, and 36 A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. lighted a cigar. His temper was again at its normal coadition. "Then I am willing to help her, my darling," said he. "She has but to command me, and the whole office staff is at her service.'^ Buth arose and took the long, white fingers in hers. This man and woman, with their little odd ways of having strife, were the salt of the earth. She loved them both. The sudden resolution to find the missing heir to the will, and at least establish peace in her mind as to his welfare, caused the girl to breathe hard. She did not want to grow hysterical, even before her friends. "I am going to accept your help, Mr. Mathers," said she, with a new dignity, "and if I find him well, then he may have the money, but if he if ill and needs me " Here Ruth broke off and a sudden rush of tears made her turn and flee from the room. After three years the old desires, the old passion surged again in the girlish heart. How much dearer the absent man had constantly grown since the days she first met him in the woodland. Mrs. Mathers looked reprovingly at her husband. He A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. 37 il)and is one of his wealthiest clients. I am going to be extra nice to him.'' *^And probably make the golden-haired wife jealous,'' cautioned Euth. "No danger of that," answered Mrs. Mathers, "for hubby says that he is hers heart and soul." The two women walked downstairs together rand were soon being presented to a strikingly /handsome man, upon whose arm a golden-haired woman was leaning. 64 A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. Mr. Mathers introduced his wife and Rutli. Both members of the household wondered not st the pride of the rich man over the wife he had so praised. The dinner was spent in pretty pleasantries from the gentlemen to the ladies, each one trying to outdo the other in the compliments which are a part of woman's nature to love. Ruth, after the repast was finished, took the wife of Thomas Brittle to her room and with girlish glee the maiden listened to the wife's story of happiness. This dinner party established a friendship be* tween Ruth and Hilda which would endure many things. Especially were the two drawn together when they learned that the same town had given them birth, and that in the same cemetery their mothers and fathers were resting. Scarcely a day but that the two did not see each other. One day while Ruth was visiting her friend, and the springtime was following close upon the winter, the two women were in Mrs. Brittle's drawing- room. The weather had not so changed but that a fire was needed and each woman was glad of A CHILD OP THfi SLUMS. 65 the warmth from the grate-fire. Only the night before Hilda had talked over the matter with her husband of her little lost boy, who would now be nearly seven were he living. Brittle had ex- iiausted all the detective service in the city trying to locate the child, and the little mother felt that her immense wealth was of no consequence if her baby boy could not be found. But Hilda Brittle had never been so happy in her life before a» since she had lived with her noble husband, but there was ever gnawing at her heart the love of the little lost child. So, now, while she and Buth were talking so confidentially with one another, she made up her mind to tell her the story. Together they wept over the missing boy, and Euth hoped that he would be found. There came into the girl's mind a faint remem- brance of the name Gerson as Hilda spoke of the father of her child. Strange as it may seem, into Ruth's mind came the thought of a crouching man upon a wet road, and her own fear as she saw her dear one amid the falling rain. But Euth did not know or remember that Gerson had ^6 A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. been Frank^s room-mate in those long-ago coN lege days. So through the bright summer Ruth went to vlie home of the Brittles to spend the warm months, and it was while there that she received a summons home as a trace of the man Went- worth had been found, and if she thought wise she might come to the city. On lower Broadway there stands a building filled with struggling lawyers. In every room were signs of poverty, with but a chair or two and an official-looking rack where the papers were filed that might happen to come into the firm's hands. Facing the river were two rooms known as the oflices ef Gerson and Company. The same con- spicuous need of furniture was apparent as had Lei 11 noticed in the other rooms. Tvro young men, in the waning of the after- noon, were seated together busy over a legal- looking document, and both were silent. One was in the best of health, with startling red cheeks and glowing black eyes. The other, A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 67 teller and of better physique, but the glow of health had faded from his face. "It seems almost impossible, Dick," said he, leaning back languidly in his chair, "to get the idea out of my mind that I ought to hear from iiiv guardian; he cannot have wholly deserted meJ^ "Get that idea out of your^ head, Frank," sug- gested the other. "When one's people neglects them for years one can safely say good-bye to any hopes ever having dwelt in the breast. The trouble with you is that you pass your days in that miserable house, where the air is as foul as a prison and the food worse. Talk about econ- omy, I would not for the sake of New York be in your position. The old hag you live witt. is enough to give one the ^hypo.' I hate her.'' With a puff upon his cigarette he strode up 4ind down the room. The other made no response to the words. "You are on the verge of the grave, Frank," «aid the young lawyer, "and unless you turn around about face you will find yourself in the middle of six feet of earth. It doesn^t pay.'^ C8 A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. Frank Wentworth leaned his head upon hfe arm. A pained expression followed the flippant words of his companion. '^But what are you going to do when money comes in like the drops of dew and with no more ^ certainty? Old Mag, I grant you, is a tramp, and her husband is worse, but the girl, the child there,. Dick, is a treasure. One cannot help loving her.'^ ^^I saw her flying with unkempt hair and dirty face in front of a driving automobile the other day, and a nastier child I have never seen.'^ There was seeming disgust in the voice of the speaker as he took a third turn about the room. ^'True, she is dirty," answered the sickly -look- ing man; ^^true, as you say, but she is not to blame. What do you expect from a woman who is drinking half the time? I only stay there on account of the child." "Well, you are more of a philanthropist than I," was the reply. "I could not for any living i being sacrifice my health and happiness as you are doing." There was complete silence for a time save for the frantic puffing of a half-lighted cigarette and A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 69 the squeaking of the rolling chair as the lawyer turned back and forth nervously in it. "It is my private opinion/' went on Gerson, *^that you are worrying over that girl who jilted jou at college. Why under the sun do you allow an old dead matter to infuse your life with misery and turn your hair like this?" and Ger- -son lifted a half-grey lock from the broad brow. "I shall never outlive my love for Euth Ferris, and anyway," here the voice grew tender with emotion, "anyway, Dick, old fellow, I'm not for long. I would die with her name upon my lips." "Fudge and twice fudge !" stormed the other, Mting his lips furiously. "You make me tired with your sentimentality. Why do you not, for love of Heaven, take another tack and be a man? Go away for a week or so, and you will be new when you return." "I cannot, Dick," was the reply, "for I have much to do before the end comes." If the exhausted man had known what the end meant, and all the awful trials which would come to him before the end did come, he would not have complacently gathered his pencils into his pocket 70 A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. and take his hat from the nail with almost a look of resignation upon the worn face. The end meant to him, after the work was finished, onlj^ a weary laying down of life and its stern duties--*, this was all. He walked across Broadway until he reached the Bowery, and turning into the dirty, noisy street he passed on and on, till growing more tired, his steps lagged by the way. Farther down the street he could hear the grinding of an organ and see the inevitable mon- key running about on his string. As he directed his footsteps toward a shanty which stood back in a lot a child about the age of seven, with straggling golden curls, sped down the alley and ran up toward him. Her skirts were ragged and torn completely across, the bare feet were red from the hot bricks. The dark eyes were filled with fire, a mouth full of pearl-white teeth shone through the well-shaped red lips. "Ah, Midge," said the man, "you have come to meet me, have you? Well, I'm glad, for I don't feel very well to-day. Can you not see it?'^ Prom the dark eyes of the child the tears welled ovifY- A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. 7X and she smacked them away with her fingers, dirty and sticky from molasses. "I don't want not'in' to happen to youse, Mr. , Frank/^ sobbed she, wriggling along sidewise and . trying to hide her emotion. "I hain't got no friend but youse, sir.'' "We will have hopes then, dear little Midge^ that I shall remain with you always, for if ever a child needed a friend you do." The child hung her head. She wanted to fol- low the man to his room, which was in the gar- ret of the house. But something in the tired eyes forbade her from doing so. "I wanted to tell you something, sir," said she, trembling faintly, "and then you will let Midge come to youse room; tell me, will youse?" Frank Wentworth grasped the hand of the- child, leading her up the stairs. "You may tell me now, my dear, and please God it will do you some good. Have you heard anything about your own people?" "No, sir, 'tain't that," whispered the little one; 'tain't that, sir, but if I tells youse, don't let Wild Mag know that I told you, will youse?" 72 A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. The sacred promise was given, but before the story was begun, Frank washed the beautiful, childish face and soaped well the hands, which would have done credit to a millionaire's daugh- ter. ^*Now we will listen to the story," said Frank, but the child had evidently forgotten what she had come to tell, for, spying a locket upon the chain hidden next to the heart of the sick man, she made a request that she might see it. Frank, who could deny the child nothing, took the picture from the little locket and placed it between the child's fingers. *^0h, ain't she beautiful," said Midge; "but gee, Mr. Frank, any feller who could get her would be a jim-dandy. Be she youse goil?" Frank laughed at the tone of inquiry and the question. Ah, dear Heaven, how much he wished that the dear face was that of his "goil." Once he had thought she was to be his, but the old dreams were past and Kuth was but a myth in his life. Had he not gotten a letter from her aunt, saying that the girl was to be married, and for him not A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 73 to ruin her prospects by placing himself in her way? And this cold, cruel letter had blasted his life and made him look differently upon the world. The child was still gazing at the pic- ture. Frank looked into the pretty face and then at the child. He placed the locket again upon the chain, closing the cover with a snap. ^We have forgotten, Midge,'' said he, almost severely, "that we came here to talk about some- thing you had to tell ma I am listening." ^4 A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. CHAPTER V. "The story, if you please, or question, whicli- ever you call it." Frank Wentworth repeated this with empba- sis. He could not afford to let the child see th«t he loved an imaginary girl who had long ago for- gotten him. Midge looked thoughtfully into his face. She pulled the dirty dress closer about her black legs. ^^Does youse love dat pretty lady?'' said she,, demandiug the information as if it were her right to know. "For if youse does, and youse can't ■have her, den I knows what it is dat makes youse sick.'^ But Frank did not answer. He gravely took the childish face in his hands, repeating that h(^ must know just what it was that Midge had wanted of him. "Oh, what I were a-going to say,^^ and the child A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 75t bobbed up and down, her little face flaming red^ ^4s dat ole Wild Mag had been a-lying ter me and ter youse and ter everybody. I ain't no goil, and I ain't never been, does youse understan'? I'se a boy, and dese togs don't long a-dangling 'bout my legs." The child slipped down and gathered the rags^ up firmly in its hands and drew them tightly up betw^een its sturdy little legs. "I will be more like dis, when I get trousers: likes I ought to have. Wild Mag says I sha'n't have them, but I says I will, or I'se don't sell no more papers. She says dat folks don't give to a boy like a goil, but I won't be a goil no more. Would you, Mr. Frank ?'^ "Well, I should say not, my boy; so you are not Midge, that is, you can't go by a girl's name. Who does Mrs. Maglone say you are?" "Oh, she never tells me anything ^bout that, but the minute I found out her lie I told her dat I must have breeches, and she guv me dis." I Hastily pulling up his dress the now boy, who had for the whole of his short life supposed he Avas a girl, showed the blue stripes, several of '76 A CHILD OP THB SLUMS. them, until it made Frank's blood run cold to think of the childish pain. "It is a shame/' expostulated he, squeezing the ^ little form closer to him. "I am so sorry, little boy." It seemed to bring the child nearer to him — the news he had just been told. The sweet face he had ever loved, but the question wa^y whose child was he? Frank soothed the childish mind by telling the boy that he would speak to the woman with whom they both lived, making her understand that she must allow the boy to assert his sex in the shape of a new pair of trousers. For a little while the two talked, and Frank sought the woman who had kept him from the street for many months. Maggy Maglone had not always been the fallen creature she was now, but evil associations and drink had degenerated her into a fiend. She lived upon the money which the little golden-haired child received from charitable strangers. For years past, in fact, since the boy could walk, the entire family had been supported with A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. ^J the few pennies which he brought to the old woman. Still, Bill Maglone had under his house a room where counterfeit money was made. This the members of the gang passed and were in con- stant danger of being detected. Several times Maglone had been arrested for drunkenness, but the worst of his crimes were not known to the police. The wife protected her husband, and with Irish wit the two had escaped the peniten- tiary. Frank Wentworth, with a determined face and the child by the hand, entered the little room where remnants of bread and molasses were still upon the table. "Mrs. Maglone," he said, severely, "the child has told me a story which I want you to verify or to deny. Is it a boy or a girl?" and Frank Went- worth held out his hand to the child and shoved the little body toward the old hag. "And who says she ain't little Midge, the child of my heart?" sniveled the artful woman. "Who . gays that I ain't cared for her all these years? Who did you say said it?" The vile face was poked close to that of the ^8 A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. man and the long, skinny arms drew into them the child^ who started away and rolled its eyes up at Frank, gesticulating dissatisfaction with the termination. He understood and went on. '^I shall make an investigation as to this child's people. You should not send him out for beer Into the dives. He is a boy all right.'^ ^^Yes, and I am going to wear trousers/^ howled the youngster. "I don't want dese kind of duds any longer." The woman saw it was of no use to evade the subject. "And ain't youse worn them all the time since youse was born, I'd like to know? The fine folks like the girl better than the boy." "That was your reason, then, of putting this vile rag upon the child ?'^ asked Wentworth. ^^Take it off and give him trousers, immediately." The command cowed the woman almost into obedience. Her boarder had such a tone of authority when he spoke that she did not dare to openly disobey him. But she cried out her displeasure at being t)alked in her plans for future maintenance, urg- A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 79^ iBg upon the child the necessity of appearing before the fine Broadway people as a little girl. '^^Look at dem curls, now, Mr. Wentworth/^ ivlieedled she ; "don't yon think dat dat face is too* y .sweet for a boy? God Almighty made a mistakei ^ and I have only tried a little to mend it.'' [ But no amount of persuasion could make the friend of the child change his mind; he would iiave the boy in trousers if he had to purchase ^hem himself. * * » ♦ » ♦ » Frank Wentworth went back to his own room. It was there he wrote the letter to his uncle'a lawyer asking for aid. It was to be his last ap- peal. Taking the letter in his hand he walked to the box and mailed it. The small white envel- ope created a stir in the office of Mathers and! Company, Immediately a message was sent to lUith, who came into the city with Hilda, for ! lie rich man's wife was anxious to see her friend 'lappy. They arrived in the morning and Mathers met them with the family carriage. go A CHILD OP THB SLUMS. ^^And you have heard?" asked Ruth breath- lessly; "do tell me." Mr. Mathers settled back into the luxurious cushions, and it seemed to Euth that he would never speak. "x\t last we have heard/' was all he said. Ruth was contented a moment, for she felt that soon she would know just what had happened. Mrs. Mathers drew the girl to her arms, telling her to hope. Then the exact condition of the will was gone over. Ruth was told that her lover was sick and poverty-stricken, ill at the home of his landlady. A great feeling of joy welled into the girPs heart as she heard these words. Then he would be hers again ! "It is for this reason that I hare not heard from him," said she, after a time of silence. "It is my idea," began Mrs. Mathers, "that the young fellow Avas too proud to seek you when his whole life has been a failure. Now affairs are changed." "Not so changed after all, my love," drawled Mr. Mathers, with a twinkle in his eyes w^hich A CHILD OP THB SLUMS. gl brought forth a look of concern from Ruth. She did not believe it possible for these two to go one day and not bicker over the most trivial things. The remark from the lawyer caused his wife to spring to her feet. *^A11 you know about young hearts,'^ said she. ^^You have been old and tough for years. You miserable fellow!" "Oh, aunty!" cautioned Ruth, lovingly — hhe had grown to use this endearing title to the woman — "you will be sorry if you talk to uncle that way." "Now, no, I won't, Ruth, for he is too exasper- ating for anything. Don't try to make me speak to him again, for it will be no use." Mr. Mathers had on a broad grin. Ruth wanted to proceed with the discussion; her anxiety being great for plans to meet Frank. "Your aunt has taken leave of her senses," said the lawyer, giving Ruth an affectionate smile. "She is a lady who would soon put her husband in a padded cell." , "I wish I could put you in your grave, you ^ ^2 ^ CHILD OP THE SLUMS. ranter," sobbed the wife. "You place me in such Bositions that I hardly know which way to turn.'' '^riii8«i, if you are willing, I will take leave of joii, and you shall not be bothered with me again." Mrs. Mathers stopped in her parade up and ^own the room; she looked keenly through her tears into her husband's face. There seemed to lier to be a look of determination upon it. Was fie really going to do something rash because she iiad spoken crossly to him? But did he not commence it? The man saw he had the advantage and com- menced : ^^I am constantly making you feel badly, my idear, and now you have wished me dead. I shall ^/>2nply with your wishes.'^ Saying this he placed his hand in his hip pocket as if to take something from it. ^'Sweetheart, you shall not!" screamed the /lady. ^'You are my darling husband and I can- not live without you." They were in each other^s arms almost imme- A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. 83- liately, rocking back and forth in the ecstasy of heir reconciliation. Ruth gave a broad smile into the lawyer's face, thankful that the quarrel came to such a timely climax. "We will now proceed to business, and see if there is some way open to arrange for a meeting with the august young heir/' Ruth listened with delight as the lawyer said lie would go the next night to the address upon the letter. So accordingly, the next day Frank Went- worth received a note from the law firm, saying that Mr. Mathers would call upon him in person and make such arrangements as were necessary for his care, according to the terms of the will. But they were careful not to mention the girl's name in the missive. But fate seemed against the sick young man. He was too ill to care. Gerson opened and read ;^the letter* "I'll bet it's come at last," muttered he, as he sat by the bed and listened to the moanings of 84 A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. the sick man. "I'll bet he has a fartune coming to him/' But he could not arouse the slumbering man, and laid the letter upon the table. All through the day and into the following one he sat by his college chum^ Midge coming in once in a while like a pale sprite, doing errands and appearing much concerned over the severe turn Frank's illness had taken. The child wondered what w^ould became of him^ if unkindly death should take from him his only friend, for there was no mistaking the feeling the man had had for the child as long as his senses^ remained. Once Midge heard him murmur the name of "Ruth," and the child's mind went back to the day w^hen he had been shown the picture in the locket. How well he remem^bered the look of pain that spread across the man's face as he had covered the pictured face and placed the little gold bauble in his pocket. And now he was lying dying, so the doctor said. This meant that Midge would be without a friend in the world. He sat with his little fists digging his eye% A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. 85 v^eeping back by mere manly force the tears which oozed through his lids. He got up and went into the street. He walked along, kicking out his legs now free from the obnoxious skirts. He wan- dered through the Bowery and turned the corner toward Broadway. Suddenly he came close to a magnificent carriage. In it were two ladies, while from the side a gentleman was hurrying away. "What a singularly pretty child !" Midge heard one sweet voice say. "His hair is like spun gold." "But awfully dirty," another voice uttered. He looked down at his soiled, bare legs and tried to wipe off some of the dust from his trousers. But he was not destined to pass on. f ^Come here, child," the first speaker called ; "I want to speak to you." It was Hilda Brittle who spoke, and shyly the child edged his way toward the carriage. Euth was waiting, with catching breath, for mare than a slum child. Was not Prank at the end of that horrible, dirty street, and was he not ill? She narrowed her eyes into a dreamy expression and watched Hilda as with delicate white gloves she drew the boy toward her. ]B6 A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. "You are a dear little creature/^ said the beao- tiful woman. "Will you tell me your name?^^ "Midge/' was the reply. "But that is a girPs name/^ answered Hilda^ "and you are every bit a boy. She eyed the straight legs and small, dirty hands. Somehow her thoughts went back into the past to a certain black-eyed darling who had so suddenly left her.. Now two pleading dark eyes, surrounded with golden curls, were gazing into her own. "I were a goil until lately," the child answered simpij' enough. "I didn't know I were a boy till a few days ago.'' Hilda clutched the child's hands closer. It soothed the constant pain at her bleeding heart. It was for little Dicky's sake that sjie pressed the hands of the waif. "And where do you live, my child ?"^ asked she^ loath to allow him to go away. "Are you one of the children of the Bowery T' The child's eyes widened and theB( drooped.^ At last, "I'm only a little child o^f der slums,'^ said he. The answer brought the tears into Hilda^s eyea. A CHILD OF THE SLUMS, g^ Even Ruth sat up and drew her handkerchi^^f from her handbag. ^^And haven't you a mother ?'' more tei^^ asked Hilda, ^^Not as I kin remember," whispered the bq^. *^I just guess I blowed into der earth 'out no pa and ma.'' ^^Then where do you live?" asked Rtitl% -mm^' thoroughly interested. "You must have a home.r" "I roosts down here at Old Wild Mag's, bi^ she don't like nothin' 'bout me but der chink \. brings her." Hilda opened her pocketbook and took out fifty cents. She placed it between the childish, dirtr fingers, which clutched it over as if it had beem a gem of purest water. Ruth remarked afterward that probably that money would soften |R«^' child's blows that night. "Where does youse live?" asked the cbllu, quickly; "does youse live 'bout here?" "No," replied the sweetest voice Midge fe- -I ever heard. "I live at the Plaza Hotel. W«fF^iifl " you like to come and see me some time?" Ruth put her hand upon Hilda's arm. 88 ^ CHILD OP THE SLUMS. "Don't go too far, dear/' cautioned she; "yoa can never tell what trouble such people will make you." "I wouldn't hurt the pretty lady, ma'am/' re- 1 plied Midge in a low tone, fixing his large eyes upon Euth's face, and straightway that young lady felt ashamed of herself and subsided into the cushions of the carriage, listening while Hilda planned that the little child of the slums should call upon her at her room in two days from that time. "l)ey might not let me in dere," said Midge, anxious for fear when he should arrive at the hotel the brass-buttoned men should turn him away. "I'll leave word for you to be admitted," re- plied the lady, smiling. Midge felt that he was going to cry, just why he could not tell, but there was something in the dear tones that stirred his wicked little heart to its very depths. Suddenly there came into the dark depths of the fast-filling eyes an expression which struck terror to Hilda's eyes. A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 89 ^^I believe they are his eyes," she murmured to herself. ^^If I could get that one little child from my mind it seems as if I should go mad." But neither Euth nor the wondering child heard the murmur, and Midge felt the white- gloved hand press his convulsively as she kissed the dirty little face good-bye. "Dat's the sweetest lady in all der world," muttered the child, "but de odder, who was afraid I'd hurt the pretty one, looks like der face in Mr* Frank's locket" 90 A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. CHAPTER VI. Mb. Mathers passed down the Bowery, looking at the numbers as he walked. Often he looked at a slip of paper which he carried in his hand. He was soon from the sight of the ladies, hurrying past the stuffy stores, and halted in front of the number upon the paper. Upstairs Gerson had succeeded in arousing the sick man. "Is it you, Dick?'^ the pale lips muttered. "Sure, old fellow, you are weak and tired for the want of proper food and care. I'm going to insist upon your leaving here.'' Again the troubled eyes slumbered, but almost immediately opened again. "If I could only see Euth once,'' murmured be. *^Only once before I go away." ^ "You are not going to die," roughly replies! A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. 91 Gerson; "cheer up, I know you are pretty sick, but there is always hope.'' "I loved her so, Dick, and to think she w^ouW marry when she was my promised wife!'' "They'll all do it, unless one is unlucky to gex her first. For my part, I think you are a lucky man/^ But Gerson remembered the feeling of jeal- ousy that came into his heart on that long-ago day when a fairy form glided into the wood and a passionate voice sang out the message of the rosary. But he only flippantly remarked that he had no faith in women, and never would have. "But you did not know Ruth," whispered Frank, "she was different from most girls." The tired head sank wearily upon the pillow^ the white lips were drawn with pain. "But she was not unlike them all enough to keep her promise to you, and I would forget her.'' "That is not possible,'^ «aid the faint voice, "no more can the day forget the sun." Then again he seemed to gather strength, and raised upon his arm. ^3 A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. "You were going to marry Hilda Rhodes at one time," said he. "Was I? Well, I didn't, and mighty glad I am of it. A whining woman is not to my liking." Gerson was fingering the letter which was yet anshown to its owner. Should he give it to Frank or not? Suddenly over the sick face came a ghastly change. Gerson sprang to the bedside. He could «ee the white death-damp settling over the strong face. Once did the dark eyes fly open, and then droop in sheer exhaustion. A step upon the stairs and the doctor's face protruded itself into the doorway. "Is he better?'' asked he, w^alking toward the bed. "Ah, no. He will not need anything more in this world. He is breathing his last." The man of medicine said this as he took his hat and passed out. He could not spare time with the dead — his duty lay with the living. Gerson stood and looked down into the still, white face. He had often been taken for Frank's brother. The doctor had even asked him if they were relations. Had the man not asked him what the dead A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. 93 man's name was? And he had told him it was Richard Gerson, and Bill Maglone, hearing the Einswer, rolled a quid of tobacco into his cheek and protruded a very red tongue and put the fact down that the living man was trying to pass him- self off for the dead one, for future reference. Bill had shown the doctor out, leaving the dead and the living in close proximity to each other. "My God !'' gasped Gerson, as he realized what he had done. "Is it possible that I have given the wrong name. Of course, I want to be Prank Wentworth, and who would not, with these pros- pects?^' Just as he was cogitating upon the mat- ter the door again opened and a man of about forty, tall, handsome and distinguished-looking, entered the room. "Am I speaking to Mr. Frank Wentworth?'^ said he, and Richard Gerson, looking at the dead face, wondered if he could harm the quiet figure any, and answered, "Yes." "Then allow me to shake hands with you,'' said Mr. Mathers, jovially, "for it is my pleasure to bring you the good news of a fortune. You have ^4 A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. been left heir to considerable money, condition- ally, if you will marry a certain lady.'^ Gerson, in his fear that the man might note ^ (the silent figure upon the bed, led him, talking, from the room. In that little bare chamber where the rightful heir had lived so long, lay all that was left, of poor Frank Wentworth. No wonder when Mr. Mathers came back to the carriage alone with the story that he had found the young man that Ruth said : "He must be the one, uncle. There can be no mistake, think you?" "Mistake nothing,'^ said that gentleman. "He showed me certain papers which makes me know that he is the right man, and the young fellow you loved in those long-ago college days will be with you to-night.'^ Ruth,, with Hilda holding her hand, cried silently behind her veil. The shock had been so great and she so hoped that it was her lover in that little hovel in the Bowery. After the man had departed Gerson, or the new Frank Wentworth as he will now have to be A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 95 called in his new position, went back to his dead friend. The same white, set look, deepened into a grey pallor, had settled over the face. The I bloodless lips were compressed together, and Ger- 8on took the long, white fingers and locked them together. ^^How warm he is yet," muttered he. "I wonder if there is such a thing as that he is living. I will make sure of it.^' Dipping a cloth into cold water he folded it over the white face, and with a deadly fear tug- ging at his heart he gathered up the papers neces- sary to identify himself and walked out into the open air. Midge in the meantime came scurrying back. His little feet were keeping time to a tune played by an old organ grinder. Even while Midgets heart hurt him he could dance. From the time he was a creeping baby and had learned to climb up by the neighbors' children he had kept time to the straggling musicians who in- fested that part of the Bowery. Now he was on hig way home still with his toes tingling for a dance. Somehow the blood flew into his face i 96 A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. when he thought of his dying friend. There was nothing to do but to watch him go, for the sick man would not eat any of the dogs, or weiner- wursts, as they were rightfully called, which the child would bring. He reached his home and entered the door. Mag and Bill were talking softly in the corner. The man was gesticulating wildly with his hands. They paid little heed to the boy, and he noted them not, save with a glance of hatred, the feel- ing being born in his young heart from the cruel way they had treated the sick man upstairs. He crept up the attic steps one after another^ He did not know but that the handsome friend of Frank, whom he had never liked, might be there and tell him that his room was preferable to his company. But there was such a solemn silence about the place that Midge tiptoed over to the cot. He saw the white cover over the curly head and grasped the cloth and pulled it off. He did not understand the doctor had said that, the man was dead, nor would he believe his eyes» A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. 97 He knelt down beside the cot and chafed the now unlocked fingers. A spasm of pain shot across the face and Frank Wentworth slowly opened his eyes. -^Am I dead, and who are you?" whispered he, with great difficulty. "It is Midge," said a little voice, softly, and the child turned the faint light of the candle upon the white face. "Have I been asleep long?" asked Frank, as Midge worked about him with tender hands. There was something in the kiss left upon the little face by the beautiful lady that made the child softer of heart. He looked upon the sweet caresses as an idolizing audience would upon the last benediction of a beloved pastor. Frank Wentworth, Midge knew, was very ill, but not dead. The child realized that while there was life there was hope. He sent again after the doc- tor, who came in a hurry. That gentleman did not care to know the name of his patient. That had passed from his mind. There were other things of more importance. So lie gathered together all the strength of the sick 98 A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. man and gave him the desired medicine, leaving: word that he would call in the morning. * « « « • Ruth listened to the story of finding Went- worth and with beating heart waited for him to appear that evening. Mathers had told the young man that he would be expected to dine with them, not telling him of the former romance he had once had or supposed to have had with the young heiress. Hilda was almost as anxious as her friend. She loved the pretty girl with a sisterly alBfection. She, too, donned her beautiful white dress, look- ing more like a golden-haired angel than a woman, and Ruth told her so. Mrs. Mathers watched the two girls arm in arm come down the long steps. "I declare," said she to the lawyer, who was sitting in a large easy chair, ^^I never saw two such handsome girls. They are enough to make a stir anywhere.^' "Not so lovely as you, my love," cooed the big man. "I would not change my ducky for two like them — that is two apiece." A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 99 "You old Mormon," latighed the wife; "I shoHld hope not/' "We are ready, you see," said Hilda, shaking hands with Mr. Mathers, "to meet the most capable young man of the age/' Ruth blushed, and then the doorbell rang. The room in which Kuth met the man who would afterward figure in her life much is worth describing. Mrs. Mathers was a lover of browns and reds. In the broad light of the sun she ad- mired the soft brown, while after the lighting of the gas, a deep red must suffuse the room. Hence, she had the decorations made to suit the time. The morning room, where each took a break- fast to his fancy, was draped in heavy light- brown plush in winter while in summer a gor- geous patterned linen hung in the place of the heavier drapery. Euth loved the dark room in the evening, and she wondered how it had been possible for any ,one person to plan such an elaborate home. To- night she stood under the brilliant chandelier, her dark hair coiled in great masses upon the ismall, proud head. Into the dark eyes had crept 100 A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. an expression of smothered passion, such as is felt only by women. Her petite form, no larger than in those olden days when she ran with light- ning footsteps to the wood to meet her lover, was covered with a lacy drapery which no man could have found a name for had he hunted the fashion magazines for a year. Mr, Mathers made a men- tal note of the effect of the dark-red rose clinging near the temple. Then his eyes wandered from the dark little beauty to the splendid creature at her side. He could not tell which was the lovelier. There was that about the golden-haired wife of Tom Brittle that stirred every heart that saw her. Was it the gleam of her golden hair in the slanting sunlight by day ,or the red from the draperies now shining in the gaslight? It was. neither, so thought the lawyer. The full dark- blue eyes, marked like the hidden violets in the w^ood, were turned full upon him, and the man could feel the same spell that Tom Brittle had undergone on the train that long time ago. In the depths Mathers could see sleeping an emotion such as few women possess. And a dead secret A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 101 i\as there also. But no :]ujnd%eouldvHad the riought of Hilda Brittle. - There was a stir in the outei*' hall. A servant Y\ as announcing Mr. Frank Wentworth. Each woman in the room turned instinctively toward the newcomer. Ruth allowed her eyes to rest upon the hand- Borne face while a sickening dread crowded all other thoughts from her mind. There was not one feature jn the faultless face like that of the Prank Wentworth she had known and lost. But the lawyer had risen and was going through with the introductions. Another in the room was of paler countenance than the girl longing for her lover. Hilda Brittle was gazing at Wentworth with an expression upon her face as if some ap- parition had risen from the grave. She tried to draw herself together, but the man had her hand before she could answer his polite, courteous question. Then she noted that he re- membered her. In the fair, sweet girl whose life he had ruined there had risen a woman of such magnificence that the new heir caught his breath. Something of the old passion stirred his wicked 102 A. CHILD OP THE SLUMS. heart wi)ile a flame of love leapt into the dark- ened eyes. 3Irs. Mathers welcomed the young fellow wit!^ sisterly interest, glad for the ^ake of the very pale girl that he had returned to. • The pleasantries of an evening where all felt a little restrained passed oflf as well as possible. Euth could say but little, and the misery depicted in Hilda's face was noticed by none but the man himself. He seemed to take a fiendish joy in torturing, for much of his conversation was directed toward her. But who will not give him the credit of a feeling better than that of worrying a good woman? He was often thinking of those past days, and once when a look of desperation came into the pleading blue eyes: as he suavely asked her a personality he answered the look with one of warning;, and for a time turned his attention to Ruth, who had been sit- ting demurely listening. She had nothing to say, * and wanted less to do with this handsome man who was not the Frank Wentworth she had known and lovedi There was some hideous mis- take which could not be accounted for. Her A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 103 uncle said that he had plainly shown that he was the Wentworth who was heir to the money. Then there must be two Frank Wentworths. Once^ after the dinner was finished, the new heir stooped to pick a fallen match from the floor. * Something so familiar in the position brought Ruth from the present into the past. Again she stood before the open window, watching the wind lash the pine branches in its fury. Again her eyes were upon the wood. She thought she saw the same two men, and this stooping stranger melted before her eyes into the creeping man who was following her beloved. Would that trick of her fancy never leave her mind? Was she so closely allied with the occult that she could look into the future? More vividly did the idea take root that her lover was living, and that some time lie would come to her, and that this handsome {Stranger so suavely putting the burnt match in the receiver would figure largely in it. Hilda Brittle excused herself and went to Euth's room. The moment the door closed upon her she threw herself down upon the bed. *^He has returned !*' sobbed she, "and my happiness is 104 A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. €nded. It seemed that I ought to have shrieked out his duplicity to those dear people, but I could uof So the tearful soliloquy went on until her grief was spent. What should she do and where go? Hilda knew that her husband was too up- right to countenance any such a thing. And then she, too, would be too noble to live with a man to whom she was not married. Hilda wondered if the time would come that she could ask the man what he had meant by deceiving her with a false report of his death. Her thoughts went to that day upon the train when she had first met her dear husband. She tossed the warm, damp hair from her hot brow. It seemed that the day would never end. Euth she did not want to see for a time, so that she could regain her compo- sure. From below she could hear the prelude of a song, the familiar strains of which almost drove her mad. She had heard the voice now rising and falling in passionate strains singing the same songs years ago when she had been a trusting girl. And had she not played for him to sing? Hilda's heart seemed about to break. Up in the beautiful home she could see the man she loved A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. 105 waiting with impatience her return. Ah, and she loved him as he had never been loved before ! As the beautiful voice came to her from below Hilda covered her ears that the sound might be shut out. She had grown to hate the man, Eis- ing from her bed with nervous tremor she took a sudden resolution. She would see and speak with him. That would be the only feasible way to find the history that she might be able to tell her husband why she had married him when the father of the little lost child was still living. 106 A CHILD OP THE SLUMSL CHAPTER VIL With this determination Hilda arranged her toilet again. She called the maid, and the soft tresses which were the pride of a certain lo\ing^ man whom she knew, were again coiled in theii place. Then Hilda, despite the sign of tears upon her face, went into the room below and waited while the voice finished the singing. The looked-for opportunity came when Iviitb complained of a severe headache and asked to be excused. Mr. and Mrs. Mathers were in one of their usual disputes, and Hilda, with a motion of her white hand, beckoned to the mc7in that he follow her into the conservatory. Wentworth, with the nonchalance of a king,, sauntered along, well knowing the confusion of his companion. He knew that perfect control of one's emotion carried the day always. A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. 107 Hilda proceeded to a fountain's side and sank upon the gilded bench. The man took a seat in silence. For a moment neither spoke, the woman bend* ing over and picking up a handful of sparkling water, letting it fall drop by drop from between her fingers, ^^So you are here, a friend in the house of Mathers, are you, and a more than friend to the girl?'^ This was his greeting, and the woman was not sorry, although she thought she saw the same passionate gleam in his eyes, as she again picked up more water. "You are married again," said he; "so the little maid tells me.'' "Yes." "And you are happy?" "More so than at any other time in my life. I love my husband better than my life." "Complimentary to me, isn't it?" The man was one of those individuals who could only see pleasure in other people's unhap- piness. If Hilda had told him that she was un- 108 A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. liappy, that her domestic relations with the rich man whom she had married were unpleasant, he would have been content. How coldly the blue eyes looked upon him ! He was willing always to make a conquest of .a beautiful woman, and cer- tainly this little former love of his was very beautiful. "You need not look so alarmed ; I am not anxi- ous to let our relations be known. It will not hurt your life any, but you need not be so cold to me/' "You will not put your hands upon me/' said the woman, in an undertone so intense that the man withdrew his long, white fingers from her white flesh. "And I told you not to be so distant. You Icnow why I have come here, and that I am not the man in the position I fill. You are the only living person knowing it." "And you think I shall allow you to step into a dead man's shoes and usurp a position wrong- fully?" "You will do as I say," said the man, mutter- ing it more than speaking in a decided tone. A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 10^ "Why did you allow me to think that you were dead?" "It suited my purpose, just then. What did you do with the child?" Hilda told the plaintive story with many tear; and sobs, x^ifter all, this man held a peculiar pc sition, which no other living one could hold. Was he not the father of her boy, whether the child' were dead or living? Wentworth, as he must be called, slipped his arm about the waist of the unhappy woman, but somehow out of the crimson light which sur- rounded them she could see a pair of pleading grey eyes, hear a voice whisper in her ear that the love of a pure, good man awaited her. She drew herself from the embrace and sat up very straight. Her eyes sparkled through the tears, and she nervously dried her finger upon a lace handkerchief. Wentworth muttered an oath. He would have liked nothing better than to have this splendid creature throw herself into one of those old dis- plays of frenzy and passion that he so well re» 110 A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. membered. But she was sitting as prim as a Quaker, waiting for him to speak. ^^Then yon do not know whether the little fel- low is dead or not?^^ he felt compelled to say. He did not want to get Hilda into a great temper, for there was no telling what she would do. "No.'' "And you have searched for him?'' "Everywhere." "Then I would say the best thing for you to do is to forget that you were ever a mother and be happy." "I shall never be that again, for my husband would not live with me were he to know that I had another husband living." "You have not," fell from the full, red lips of the man. "What do you mean?" asked Hilda. ^That you were never my wife, as you sup- >posed." Hilda Brittle drew a long breath. For a mo- ment a great wave of thankfulness swept over her. She was then, no matter what the past had been, the wife of her beloved. He had told her never A CHILD OF THB SLUMS. HI to mention the old days of her folly again to him. The only safe, sacred subject which eacji one felt clothes and dese boots she wouldn't guv me any more money." So Mag looked at the money in her hand, and Midge at the fine clothes he had on, and both thought it a good bargain which had better stand. Midge heard a weak voice calling him from above. With great pride he displayed himself to the admiring eyes of Frank Wentworth. ^^A lady, a real, live lady guv me these things, Mr. Frank,'' said the happy child. "Did you ever see such shoes, and do youse know" (and here the boy blushed and looked about in fear that other ears beside Frank's would hear) "does youse know dat she kissed me till I lost my breath, I did. I'd ruther have dose kisses than dese here clothes." Wentworth wiped away a tear. How the little heart had longed for love and caresses ! He would prefer love to clothes, would this little child of the slums. Prank thought of Ruth. So would he ; it was the same wherever a heart beat in the human breast. What was money com- pared to love? Midge was swinging his feet from a high box 140 A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. Mag had placed there to hold the small piece of candle. There was an expression Frank had never seen before upon the clean, shining face. "She wants me to come and live wid her," said he at last, looking at the shiny tips of his new shoes, "and she has a good man, same relation dat Bill is to Mag.'' "You mean her husband,'' said Frank. "Yep, de old man what bosses her 'bout" Frank did not explain that refined men never treated their wives as Bill did Mag. What was the use? The child would find that out, if it ever became his good fortune to be planted in new soil. And there would not be a happier man than Frank to know that the little waif had found a place in a good home. Midge was certainly a handsome little fellow. "You will be glad to leave Mag and Bill?" asked Frank. "You are afraid of the man, are you not?" "He's a bad man," said the child, squinting his eye along the light which shone from his boot- top. "He and er gang wot makes money under the sidewalk — bad, bad.'^ A CHILD OF THE SLUMS, 141 This was said in so low a tone that Prank could just hear it. "They counterfeit money, do you mean, lad?" "Yep, in the vault under the walk." "Then keep away from them. Midge, and don^t let them teach you to do bad things." "I am goin' wid de lady," replied Midge, with conviction. "I ain't goin' to swear any more, eader. She kissed dese lips." Midge puckered up the rosebud mouth, out of which had come both blessings and curses. Frank saw that already a good influeBce was at work. He was glad for the little lad. "It does me good, child, to think of you in a better home," was all he said. "And it would do me good could you find dat lady youse is worrying over. I taut I saw her one day, just like der locket." Like a man snatching at a straw in midocean, so Frank Wentworth caught the child^s hands in his. "Where did you see her?" Midge told of the time the carriage had stopped in the alleyway, and about the young lady wha 14JJ A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. thouglit that he, Midge, might hurt the yellow- haired girl. ^^But I wouldn't hurt her, Mr. Frank,'' said Midge, filled with his own part of the story and forgetting how much the sick man wanted to know about the little dark-haired girl who after- ward kept still while Hilda was talking, from the very shame of doubting the child. ^'Do you suppose you could find her again. Midge?" ^*You bel; wiien I see the other lady, and then 1 knows where dey lives, 'cause I went dere with flowers once." "^ Midge had taken a sudden resolution. He w^ould go to the pretty young lady and look at her face again and see if it was the face in the locket, and if it were, he would tell her that a sick man wanted her very much. Midge never doubted for a moment that any woman loved by Frank Wentworth would be delighted to come and see ^him. The boy stole downstairs with eat-like tread. He could hear the whispers of the old w^omaii and Bill. Midge listened. A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 143 ^^He ain't der man he says he is," the child heard the man's voice say. "He er a-playin' he er the man upstairs, and is trying to get der money. I can make him guv me der rocks if we keep them apart/' Midge thought it was something about his friend. Closer the child came to the door. '^What er youse goin' to do?" asked Mag. "See. the new Mr. Wentworth and have him line my pockets with der dough and get der man upstairs out of der country. He has pulled the AYOol over der eyes of every one, and as long as he knows we want der rocks he will guv them to us." This was enough for Midge. He crept back up- stairs and came tumbling down. The conversa- tion was hushed directly. "Don't be gone long, Midge," yelled Mag, but the boy scurried away and w^as gone before either Bill or the woman could stop him. It did not take him long to steal enough rides upon the street cars to bring him to the Mathers home. He lingered outside, hoping to see the small girl whose face he knew shone in the locket. 144 A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. For a long time the child waited. It was not tedious, for was it not an errand of love? Suddenly the large door opened and Ruth came out alone. She had no hat on, as the day was' warm. She crossed the road to the little park^ and entered it. Midge scurried after her with the agility of a rabbit and passed her with a knowing look upon, his face. The girl sat down on a bench, evidently think- ing. Midge, with a nerve born in the Bowery, seated himself beside her. He had come for a specific reason. He would not allow her to go without telling her now of the picture in the locket and the loving man alone in the garret room. "What do you want, little boy? A nickel?" "No, ma^am ; I wanted to look in youse face and see if it ain't the one he holds next to his heart.'^ "Whose heart?'' asked the girl, incredulously: "Mr. Wentworth's,'' said the boy, pronouncing the man's name distinctly. "What Mr. Wentworth? I have never given Mm a picture in all my life.'' A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. 145 "He says you did, miss, and he is awfully siek ; maybe youse don't know it, but he loves youse awfully well.'' "Of whom are you speaking, child?" said Ruth^ turning on the boy sharply. "Mr. Wentworth, who is siek, but he is going to get up to-day. He lives in der Bowery wid the old hag. But every night" — and here Midge gvesfr confidential — "every night he kisses youse face^ and when he was real sick he called youse name- always." Buth stood up and loosened her collar. It seemed that she would choke to death. What was the child saying to her, and about whom was he speaking? "Child, do you know of a Frank Wentworth, who is ill?" " 'Deed I does, miss, and he kisses youse pie- ture every night." Midge was growing eloquent. His dark eyes flashed fire and the glint of the sunshine through the golden hair struck Ruth as strangely familiar. She thought it was the same color as Hilda's, only, of course, short In curls about the babyish face. 146 A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. Midge, seeing that the girl waited for him to speak, started in from tlie beginning. He told of the time the two men came there for a room for one — Frank Wentworth and Richard Gerson. Ruth started at that name. Again she thought of Hilda and the little lost boy. After the child had finished, he explained that he loved the roomer so very much that he would be glad to know that he was happy. ^'It's cold to always kiss glass,'' said the child; "and dat is what he does.'' Ruth knew this, also, for had not her own heart called for a warm, passionate face to caress rather than the one which lay in the little box, the key of which hung about her neck? The child went back, as quietly as he had come, to the Bowery home. He would tell the sick man about the girl and give him the guarded message which she sent. Ruth had been afraid to hope, but never once did she think that the other Mr. Wentworth was an impostor and that the sick man in the horrible garret was her Frank. How quickly she would have followed Midge had she known ! But she sent advice as to his health, and A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 147? mentally ma4e up her mind that she would go herself and see the man sometime. Midge reached home and went straight to the garret. The room was empty and Frank was gone. That morning he had heard the patient say that the doctor had consented to his walking a little in th^ sunshine. So Midge went below and asked Mag if she knew where the boarder was. "You mind youse own business/' stormed the woman; "youse is always too smart. He is out a-walkin'." This was all Midge wanted to know. He sat for a long time upon the step, waiting, until the sun went down behind the tall buildings and the shadows lengthened in the street and a cool breeze blew up from the river. ****** Frank Wentworth lay for a long time after Midge had left him. He thought of the little dark girl of whom the child had spoken. He loved Euth now with all the strength of his re- turning fire. He was getting well. Many things rushed through his head. Where had Gerson disappeared to? One would 148 A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. have thought the man would have returned tc& bury a dear, dead friend. But no sight of hist college chum nor no word since the day Frank Wentworth had virtually died in the slums. He got up slowly and dressed in his light suit. He looked thin and haggard, but congratulated himself that he was living. "Somehow I feel happy now,^^ said he, almost whispering it to himself. "I will walk in the sun; it will cheer me up. I wonder if Midge really saw Kuth. The world is not so large, after all,'' he sighed. The sight of the tall, thin, pale man started an ejaculation from Mag. "Youse had better not go far,'' said she, lift- ing a warning finger. "Youse look like a bag of bones now, youse does.'' Frank smiled wanly. How beautiful looked the day to him! The returning life rushing through his veins gave him a new incentive to live. Only to see Ri^th and to know that she loved him would be Heaven ! Once in the park at Four- teenth street he drank in the long draughts of ^ir. A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 1491 He sat with his head resting upon his hand and noted not the passers-by until one familiar voice broke upon his ear. "As I live, are you not Prank Wentworth?" Bichard Gerson stood before the sick man in all the style of the season. Frank, as he rose to his feet, thought he had never seen a handsomer man in all his life. How happy he was to stretch out his hand to take the dear fingers in his. But to his surprise there was no answering response. Gerson was simply looking at him as if a spectre had arisen from the tomb and an accusing finger was pointing toward him. He edged away and then said: "I thought you were dead,'^ and there was al- most a look of unbelief in the black eyes. "You cannot expect me to believe against my senses.'' "But I did not die, and I am getting almost well enough to go to the office. Are you still there?" "No, it is closed. Since leaving you, I have come into some money, hence our future will be as far apart as our pasts were linked together.'^ The sick man must have no opportunity to 150 A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. come into his own. He must be gotten out i the country. What a miserable meeting, am: ■\vhere was his sense in asking the man if he were living? "The shock was natural, Dick,^^ said Frank, "but you should not go back on your old friend.'^ "Circumstances alter cases,'^ answered Gerson ; "and you will do well not to follow me about.'' A look of hauteur spread over the pale face. H< clutched at the bench-arm. "You need not exercise yourself. I do not push myself where I am not wanted.'' "There, there, old fellow, don't worry," soothed Gerson, a plan coming into his head. "I spoke rashly. I want to send you abroad for your health. I have plenty of money now." "I would not accept one penny from your hands if I were starving. I wish you to i>ass on and leave me to myself." For a long time the man sat with his face in his hands, the dreams of the future dashed to^ the ground. Gerson had been his life-long friend. He loved him still, God help him, but there should be no more intercourse between them. A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. I5I CHAPTER X. ^ Gerson left the spot where Frank was sitting; with conflicting emotions. He had not dreamed for one moment the man was not dead. He thought at first it was a ghost walking out of the past when he had seen the emaciated body resting on the bench. Why he had spoken to him he could not tell. As he walked along he saw he was within a door or two of the house where Frank lived. What fate had directed his steps there? Only the hum of old Mag's voice could be heard through the dirty window. Then Gerson saw Bill Maglone open the door and walk out. "Coming back soon?" he heard Mag sing out. Only a grunt was the answer. Here was the very person Gerson wanted. Willi an air of authority he took the ragged arm, tell- ing the man he had a business transaction to make with him. 1^^ A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. ^^And I wanted to see youse, too," said Bill, a little warily, for he did not know what this fine gentleman might want with him. Gerson explained that it was to his advantage . that the presence of Frank Wentworth should not be known in the city. Bill answered, with alertness, that he knew why, and before Gerson could answer, the jail- nrd had told of the scene in the garret and how le had known all along that a false man was -standing in his friend's shoes. Now, more than ever, did the man realize that BilPs mouth must be closed with gold. They laid plans whereby Frank Wentworth could be kept 40ut of the way until he had promised to go ^abroad, and then all would be well. "You must keep him hid in some way," said sfied the woman the boy was indoors. She did not take the trouble to investigate, and Midge o^^lept a troubled sleep until morning. The first break of day he peeped into the cot where Frank Wentworth had slept for months. But as on the night before it was empty, and the child again sank into a slumber until the loud voice of Mag aroused him. She wanted him to go to the store. The little fellow slipped heartlessly into his clothes. He did not dare to mention the boarder for fear of a slap. He hoped something would be said, but the coffee, with the sweet bread, was eaten and with silence the boy and man departed for their respective business. Soon Midge was ringing out his flowers along Broadway, while I>ill slouched to a meeting with the new Went- worth. Hilda had come into town again to see Ruth. The girl confided t# her the conversation ^e had with the small boy, and together the two ordered A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. X59 i« caiTiage and went into the district where ^liida had first seen the child, Midge. As they drove slowly along, Euth spied the flower child. She bade the footman to hail him, and Hilda drew aside and allowed the boy to seat himself beside her. The wistful eyes asked again the old question and the woman stooped down and kissed the sweet face. *^Did you take the message to the gentleman you told me about, little boy?'' asked Ruth, eagerly. *'No, ma'am; he er gone, and I don't know where he is." ^^Whendidhego?" ^^The time I came to you, miss." ''It does not seem possible that a man could disappear wholly from sight. Did he not leave any address?" "Not that I knows on," replied the child. At this moment a most peculiar thing hap- pened. The new Wentworth, with his jauntiest air, approached the carriage, not noticing the child. 160 A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. ^'How are you, ladies, this morning?^' said he, r holding out his hand and imprisoning Kuth's fingers in his strong ones. Then he noticed the child, and gave him a w arning look. Hilda saw it, but Kuth, not acquainted with the situation, and being innocent of any decep- tion, drew her hand from his. "Nice little boy you have,'' commented the man, hoping that the child would fail to recog- nize him. "Yes, Mr. Wentworth," said Kuth, "this is a little fellow Hilda and I have taken an interest in. Can you not shake hands with the gentleman, Midge?" The child measured the length of the man with his great starry eyes. Then a sneer stole over his face. "Dat ain't Mr. Wentworth," shouted he, in a high treble voice. "It am der bloke what left his good friend fer dead, Mr. Eichard Gerson.'' "The child mistakes me for some one else," said the man, smiling sickly into the faces of the ladies. "I am Mr. Frank Wentworth, my boy." A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 1^1 "Like ^ell you are V^ said Midge, forgetting that tie had promised not to swear. "Euth, you believe me, do you not?" and Hilda noted that the girl was the one to whom he made his first appeal for belief. Ruth did not answer, but took Hilda's hand in hers. *'The child may have made a mistake. You certainly would not take the name of a dead man^ or even of a living one, would you?" said she. There was such an appeal in the voice that the man thought he discerned the ring of love in it. "It is a lie the child has told. Why he should have invented it is more than I can tell." " 'Cause it's true," grunted the boy, as he nestled closer to the yellow-haired woman. Hilda was holding fast to the little hand and pressing it under the cover of her skirt. She was urging the boy to continue. "Mr. Wentworth is alive," said the child. "I , can prove it by Mag and Bill." "Then we will drive to the house and let him prove it. The time has come for us to stop such a terrible tale." Into the cab climbed the man and the direction 162 A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. of the Bowery was taken. Bill Maglone was sit- ting whittling at his doorstep. Mag came oat at the sound of wheels. Now there was Midge i snuggled close to that same woman who had ^wanted the flowers! What next would come to that child? Gerson sprang from the cab and walked up to Bill, sw^eeping his hat from his head. "Be careful what you say, fool," whispered he, making a motion toward the carriage, and then loud enough for the occupants to hear, he went on: "Come out here, sir, the ladies wish to ask you something." Dropping his shavings upon the ground the man drawled out a command to his wife to take herself to the house, and sauntered toward the w^aiting carriage. He deposited a mouthful of tobacco juice upon the street and copied Gerson by sweeping off his hat. "Can I does anything for the ladies?" I "This child," said Gerson, "says that he knows * you. Now, if that is so, will you deny before these ladies that I am otherwise than Mr. Went- A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 163 worth? The child says that I am not, and that the true Frank Wentworth lives here in this house. Will you produce him, if it is so?'' Tlie wicked eyes narrowed into the little slit the child knew so well. It was always dangerous for the \^iiite skin when such was the case. Back into the loving arms sank the now white Midge. "It's the boy I know," answered Bill, in cool, measured tones, "and I'll take him, if you please, and I'll teach him not to lie about a good man. There is no such gentleman here as that name, and never has been since this gentleman left the house/' Then there dawned upon the child's mind the fact that the real man had been done away with, ^nd that Bill Maglone was in the plot. But now he was so eager to escape the beating he would get that he ca»g£^t the hand under the volumin- ous ruffles and held on to it. Bill reached to lift the child out, but Hilda, paled by the pathos in j the startled eyes, held up her hand. "I want him to buy me some flowers, sir," said ^he, not releasing her hold upon the child. "He 164 A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. knows just what I want. I will send him home with the money, if you will let him go." Gerson came forward. He reached for the boy. ^^I will get you the flowers, Mrs. Brittle/^ said he. "The child will only be in the way." "You are mistaken, Mr. Wentworth," answered Hilda, not heeding the imperative look in the jeyes of the man. "No one can purchase flowers like the child." Bill was giving in. No harm had come by the tattling of Midge. The storm had blown over^ and the beating would wait. Why not let the kid make a quarter if he could? It would buy the drinks for the evening. Ruth petitioned that the child should go with them, and Gerson had to admit that he was de- feated. The thought flashed through his mind that Ruth did not believe the story Bill had told. Bhe was so cold, and then why should she stroke the curls of that miserable boy?" As they slowly drove along toward the corner, the maB excused himself and when the party was out of aight, went back. A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 165 . He met the man, whittling as carelessly as ever. "That kid almost fixed me/' Gerson said, .gloomily* "He has too long a tongue. Look here, whose kid is he, anyway?'^ "I don't know," replied Bill. "A woman came here one night and died, leaving the kid. She said that the papers she left were to be sent to a certain man, but as der old woman decided to keep the kid she burned the letters." "That was not wise. They might have meant a lot of money to you." A wobbly head, covered with short grey locks, inside the window, raised as Mag heard these words. With the cunning of her kind she went into the other room and took a bunch of letters and an official-looking document from a box and put them safely under a plank in the floor. Some time after she saw Bill fumbling with the box. She knew that the words of the man had taken root. When he asked her what became of the letters and papers she said, with a conviction of truth in her tone, that she had burned them long ago. The man believed it, and the thought that 166 A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. Midge might be worth something faded from hl^ mind. He went into the cellar where the man was still fastened to a table-leg. Mag had fixed a place for him to rest, and he was sleeping. ''Wake up/' shouted Bill. ''I want to talk to you. Gerson has been here and the fact of it is, that he is trying to get your money and your girl. Now, if you will give me more than he will, I will let you go and help you along.'' The dazed, sleepy look was fading from his ej^es, and Frank Wentworth sat up. ''What are you talking about? Bribing a man that you might sell your soul?. Miserable dog, I would rather stay in this place until I rot before I would give you blood money.'^ "Oh, you would, would you? Weil, I think after a time of it youse won't be so pert. Don't youse know dat I could finish you in just twenty minutes?'^ The trap-door was open, and Bill could hear Mag moving uneasily about. "You can kill me,'^ the woman heard the sick A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. 167 man say, "but the law will require my life at } our hands/' "The law will have to find it out first, my! rooster/' sneered Bill. "Now, you takes youse choice; I want to get through with this business.''^ Frank Wentworth laid his weary head ui>on his hand. Was it right to buy his freedom and pay the money into the hands of his murderer? But what was it the fellow had said about Ruth? He had said that his girl was in danger of being harmed by Gerson. But he could not sacrifice his manhood for even the girl he loved. 168 A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. CHAPTER XI. Hilda Brittle made up her mind not to allow Midge to go again to the Bowery home. She was afraid that the man would kill him for the part he had taken in the Gerson master. She knew the child was speaking the truth, but did not dare to let Ruth know it. She had made up her mind, though, that if it came to the test she would tell w^hat she knew. She confided in Ruth that she wanted to take the child home with her. They drove up the ave- nue, and Midge wondered why they did not stop at the flower store. On and on, up the broad ave- nue, the prancing horses made their way. The women were silent and the boy happy. He would rather ride, with the white hand holding his, than be home on the Bowery. That evening the child confided in the loving ear of Hilda that he thought they had harmed the real PYank Wentworth. A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. 169 ^*They may have put him in the vault under the liouse,'^ ventured the child. "Do you think they would do such a thing?'' "I do not know," absently replied Hilda. "Who are you, little Midge? Can you not tell me some- thing of your mother?" "She's dead," answered the child; "I know that, for I heard Mag tell Mr. Frank that she €ame with me one winter night and died almost right away. There were some letters, but der old woman burned dem up." "Are you sure?" ^^Yep." *^I wonder if there would be any chance of your getting hold of them?" said Hilda. "I might steal ^em, if you want me to; I wouldn't mind." Hilda drew the fair head toward her. She al- ready loved the little man. "We won't let you steal them, little lad," said «he, "for now you are going to be my boy you will liave to be the best child in the world." The promise was readily given, and long hours after the child slept the woman sat beside him 170 A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. and wove in fantastic figures the months of the life which would follow for them both. Euth, too, came in and sat with Hilda and they talked over the situation. Both women believed ' that something had happened to the young man. Kuth wanting to know the truth, the girls de- termined to send for Mr. Brittle and abide by his calm judgment. So, although he had much business on handj^ Tom came at the call of his wife, and around the bad man, Gerson, was woven a net which would so entangle him that he would not be able to escape from it. Frank Wentworth was rather sorry that he had not taken the offer of the wretch. The more he thought, the more his heart went out to tue lovely girl that he had loved all these long years. Oh, to see her again! To be with her! Sud- denly, as a light from Heaven, came the thought that maybe the aunt had lied to him in that dreadful letter, and Ruth might not be the wife of another ! The longer he thought the more than likely seemed the idea. Maybe she was thinking A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 17| of him and wondering why he had not returned to her. Thai night, when Mag brought him his dinner, he asktid her what it was that her husband had been trying to tell him. Was it really a young girl waiting for him, and what was her name? "She are a good-looking girl, if it be the one I saw,'' wheedled the old woman ; "and if you will give in to Bill, he will let you out. You can spare the money from the fortune you have been left." "I do not know anything ab6ut it. Do you and your husband mean to keep me here until I con- sent?" "That is about the size of it, I think," said the woman, as she let the trap-door down with a snap. Would no one miss him? What about the lit- tle Midge? Then Frank decided that no one knew he was there. Bill came home drunk, accompanied by Ger» son, who said he would have a talk with the pris« oner. Opening the trap-door the self-appointed heir descended into the room below, with a shudder. tHZ A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. He could not bear the thought of appeariBg be* fore the accusing eyes of the captive man. Lift- ing the candle high above his head he looked about. Frank opened his eyes. and saw the intruder*; Something significant certainly was meant about the visit or the man would not be there. "Have you come to torture me in my agony ?'^ asked Frank. "No; only to talk some sense into your stub- born head. I do not want to have trouble with you, but you should not have virtually died the way you did, making it imperative that I should step into your place and become Frank Went- worth. Now, then, this is what I want you to do. Your health is poor and you cannot bear the ^strain of close confinement much longer. If you stay in this place it will mean a grave for sure this time. So you might as well understand that i will not allow you to escape until I have had my own way. I intend to marry Kuth Ferris." A groan deep and long escaped the lips of the confined man. He passed his hand over his face A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 173 in a way which would indicate that the tears were very near the surface. "That is more than I can stand, Dick." The old loving name fell from the lips with the past intonation. "You will have to bear it, for she has already consented to become my wife. I will admit that she was true to you for years, but you know that she now thinks you are dead." This lie about Euth having promised to be an- other's wife served to cause the sick man great agony. Why had he wasted so many precious years and months? Why had he not found his darling and taken her to his heart long ago? "If you will give up your claim upon your name," began Gerson, "I will see that you go away without any more trouble. Your word is all I want. I know of old that you will not lie. Will you give me your promise?" Now, Frank Wentworth's mother had taught him that to swear was one of the worst crimes a boy could commit. He had never lost his temper enough to use profane language, but here in this lonely vault, with the flickering of a dirty 174 ^ CHILD OF THE SLUMS. candle, he ejaculated, as he dropped upon the old mattress which Mag had arranged : "I'll be damned if I do ! I'll trust to luck, and I'll yet see you behind the bars." ' Gerson uttered an oath, and, blowing out the candle, he guided himself up the narrow stairs. Brittle found his wife anxious to see him. Midge had been given a scouring, his beautiful Should th© woman be tied to the house while the man doe» as he pleases. Read the answers in this book. THE REVELATIONS OF A WIFE. Founded upon the play. You will read w'ith throbbing heart this beautiful story of love. / Each of these books is printed from good clear ' type and is bound in paper cover with design printed in 2 colors. Price, 25 cents each, sent postpaid. 3. S. OGILVIE PUBUSHING CO. 57 ROSE STREET NEW YORK, N. Y. \^hi-- ''m 14 DAY USE RETURN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWED LOAN DEPT. This book is due on the last date stamped below, or on the date to which renewed. Renewals only: Tel. No. 642-3405 Renewals may be made 4 days prior to date due. Renewed books are subjea to immediate recall. T-r — :. l a rccfj i l aiOf - . - t^^ fa ^ l^' — — MJ$ m*^m !LL APR 1 1 1997 U. C. BERKELEY SENYONILL — OCT 8 1 997 U. C. BERKELEY ■ H>li'^7^?7i;l'R, Univ'^^t^t'-O.'iiSrnia YB 40132 970514 ■ THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY H 40 POPULAR NOVELS WRITTEN FROn PLAYS. We desire to call your attention to the following list of novels written from the Popular Plays, which are being presented in various part^ of the country. They contain about 200 pages each, with illustration from the Play, and are bound in handsome paper cover printed in five coiors. PRICE, 55 CENTS EACH. AFTER MIDNIGHT. B y Finley Fauley. THE CHILD SLAVES OF NEW YORK. By Blaney & Hall. CORSE PAYTON'S JOKE BOOK. By Corse Pay to: \ DRIVEN FROM HOME i^y Grace Miller White. A DESPERATE CHANCE By Olive Harper. FRANCESCA DA RIMIN i By George Morehead. THE FACTORY GIRL. Bv Charles K Blaney. THE FATAL WEDDING. By Louis G. Menke. FOR HER CHILDREN'S SAKE. By Theodore Kremer. JOE WELCH THE PEDDLER, By Grace Miller White. ** NELL GWYN." By George Morehead. [M. Russell. THE LITTLE CHURCH AROUND THE CORNER. By A MIDNIGHT MARRIAGE. By Grace Miller White. NATHAN HALE: THE MARTYll SPY. By Chas. W. Brown. NO WEDDING BELLS FOR HER. By Gra<3e Miller White. ONLY A SHOP GIRL. By M. W. Stirling and C. E. Blaney. QUEEN OF THE WHITE SLAVES. By Grace Miller White. RACHEL GOLDSTEIN. By Grace Miller White. ROBERT EMMET. By George Morehead. SKY FARM. By Grace Miller White. THE SHOW GIRL. By Olive Harper. THE STORY OF FRANCO IS VILLON. By Geo. Morehead. THE TWO ORPHANS. By R. D'Ennery. THE VOLUNTEER ORGANIST. By William B. Gray. UNCLE TOM^S CABIN. Bv Mrs. H. B. Stowe. A WORKING GIRL'S WRONGS. By Hal Reid. WEDDED AND PARTED. By Theodore Kremer. WEDDED, BUT NO WIFE. By Grace Miller White. WHEN WOMEN LOVE. By Grace Miiicr White. WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. By H. V. Esmond. 'WAY DOWN EAST. By Joseph R. Grismer. A RAGGED HERO. By Grace Miller White. WHY WOMEN SIN. By Grace Miller White. A WORKING GIRL'S WRONGS. By Hal Reid. A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. By Grace Miller White. HUMAN HEARTS By Grace Miller White. THE CURSE OF DRINK. By Charles E. Blaney. FOR HIS BROTHER'S CRIME. By Charles E. Blaney. THE WAIFS' PARADISE. By Howard Hall. THE SHADOWS OF A GREAT CITY. By Grace M. White. THE SORCERESS. By George Morehead. The above books are for sale by Newsdealers and Booksellers every- where, or they will be sent by mail, postpaid, to any address for 25 cents each, or any five books for $1.00. AddrevSS all orders to J. 8. OGILYIE PUBLISHING CO,, 67 Rose St., New York.