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 
 
 <drew his chair close to hers and placed a large 
 arm about the still beautiful waist. "Sweetheart, 
 I find every woman insipid compared to you. Kiss 
 me, my dear ; we may have our quarrels, but you 
 are the girl for me.'' 
 
 Could Euth have seen these two people, who 
 had spent ten years in blissful, happy life, inter- 
 spersed with strife and daily bickerings, she 
 would have laughed in spite of the warm tears 
 she was shedding into a small bit of lace. 
 
 Going to her dressing-table she took a key 
 from a gold watch chain about her neck. Un- 
 locking a drawer in a box on the table she lifted 
 out a small picture and a faded rose. 
 
 She allowed the last rays of the setting sun 
 to drop upon the handsome boyish face. She 
 turned it about and looked on the back. 
 
 "To my sweetheart, Ruth, from Prank," was 
 written there. 
 
 The girl covered her face with her hands. 
 
 "Frank, Frank," whispered she, pressing the 
 pictured face close to her lips. "Where in all the 
 world are you, and am I ever going to see you 
 again?" 
 
gg ▲ CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 At the same time that Ruth had come to ISevr 
 York another girl in different circumstances 
 came also. 
 
 Life had not dealt kindly with Hilda Rhodes. 
 Her days since the passing of childhood had been 
 spent in bitter repining for a deed which she had 
 committed. She could remember how many 
 times her mother had warned her that the college 
 boys at Harvard would cause her life-long dis- 
 tress. But girl-like, Hilda would not listen. She 
 went her own independent way until one (Jay she 
 awoke to find herself in the world alone, with a 
 wee babe dependent upon her. The father of her 
 child she loved with all the passionate ardor of 
 young womanhood and the coming of the baby 
 had but strengthened it. She knew that she was 
 the student's wife; that he loved her, and that 
 it was impossible for them to acknowledge to 
 
A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. 39 
 
 the world that they were man and wife. The 
 acquaintance had commenced with the school- 
 days of the boy. In his first year in college he 
 had taken the girl into his heart. Soon trouble 
 commenced and Kichard Gerson informed Hilda 
 that she must go away from the town, for the 
 stigma of her condition would fall upon him. So 
 she wandered away, leaving but a note of fare- 
 well to the distracted mother, saying that some 
 time she would return to their home and confess^ 
 her sins, but until then would her precious 
 mother never cease to pray for her daughter? 
 
 The girl quietly left the city and went to Buf- 
 falo, where her child was born in a hospital for 
 women. 
 
 Taking the babe during her convalescence she 
 started for New York. 
 
 The train which carried her was crowded with 
 passengers, and there was but little room for the 
 transients who bundled themselves among the 
 sleepy carload of people at every station. 
 
 Hilda found herself occupying a seat with a 
 girl about her own age. She noted that the face 
 Ys as pale, while the lips had a drawn, pained 
 
40 A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. 
 
 expression about them. Hilda mentally con- 
 ceived an idea of finding out her heart story. 
 
 ^^The night is dark/' said she, by way of open- 
 ing conversation, and peering out of the window. 
 ^'There seems not to be one star." 
 
 The other leaned far over and looked into the 
 lieavens. Her dark face gave back no sign to the 
 expression of sympathy which Hilda bestowed 
 upon her. 
 
 "I don't care how dark the night is,'' she an- 
 swered, harshly. "What does heaven do for such 
 women as we are?" 
 
 The two looked into each other's eyes. So black 
 was the piercing glance which fell upon Hilda 
 and her precious bundle that a vivid color 
 reached even to her ear-tips. 
 
 She shuddered when she thought of the suffer- 
 ing which the girl must have endured during the 
 past few weeks. 
 
 "I do not know that heaven is to blame for our 
 misfortunes," said she, hugging her baby closer 
 to her breast. "You know that every cloud has 
 its silver lining." 
 
 The stranger shook her head, slowly. 
 
A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. 4f 
 
 ^*This is mine/' went on Hilda; "my baby has 
 been a silver lining to my dark cloud.'' 
 
 "So was mine until Heaven chose to take it 
 away from me." 
 
 The tones were filled with despair, while the 
 dark eyes again sought the cloudy sky. Hilda 
 noticed that the woman drew aside the blanket 
 that covered her baby and looked intently at the 
 sweet, sleeping face. 
 
 "Is it a boy?" asked she, after a spell of silence. 
 
 "Yes," answered Hilda, "and he weighed ten 
 pounds when he was born. He is very beautiful, 
 is my baby." 
 
 "Where is his father?" 
 
 The question, asked with such sarcasm in the 
 tones, at first shocked Hilda. Her baby was le- 
 gally born, even if it had been secretly. The 
 father was to blame for that. 
 
 "His father is still in college," said she, simply. 
 
 "So is the father of my dead baby. Mine was 
 a girl." 
 
 There was such bitterness in the tones and the 
 sparkling eyes were heavy with tears Hilda could 
 
;^2 A CHILD Off THE SLUMS. 
 
 not refrain from lifting the sleeping child and 
 holding It out toward the stranger. 
 
 "Won't you hold my baby, he is so comfort- 
 ing?'' 
 
 Eagerly, hungrily, the child was snatched to 
 the lonely breast. The shawl revealed the pink 
 cheeks upon which hot kisses were impressed. 
 The child stirred in its sleep, but with a gentle 
 crooning was hushed again into forgetfulness. 
 Hilda said not a word. She did not stop the soft 
 singing hum nor did she ask that her child be 
 laid again in her own arms. Somehow she felt 
 that the girl was being comforted by the weight 
 of the small body, and instinctively her mind 
 went back to that time when she lay sick in the 
 hospital, and all the world looked so dreary anrl 
 dark. How she had clung to the tiny child wiia 
 had come into her life so inopportunely ! 
 
 Now she felt satisfied and thankful tliat be, 
 her little Dicky, was hers. She had called him 
 Dick because his father had asked her to. She 
 looked the girl over as she rocked back and forth 
 w ith the sleeping baby. Only once did Hilda bend 
 
A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. 4^ 
 
 over and passionately kiss the little face, mur- 
 muring love words into the unheeding ear. 
 
 Long days and years after she looked upon that 
 holy caress as the one thing to be treasured and 
 remembered. 
 
 Still the crooning continued. Still the child 
 slept and knew nothing. And still Hilda, grow- 
 ing now drowsy, listened to the supplicating^ 
 groaning tones of the tearful voice as they came 
 to her through a mist of almost unconscious- 
 ness. 
 
 Hilda had fallen asleep. Her fair face rested 
 against the crimson cushion of the seat while one 
 white hand had entangled itself in the masses 
 of golden hair which covered the shapely head. 
 The blue eyes were draped with heavy lashes and 
 the sleeper smiled in her sleep as faintly there 
 came to her mind the sound of the humming. 
 
 The watcher with eager eyes bent over the tired 
 girl. She touched her arm gently, but no re- 
 sponse. The weary muscles, weak from the mul- 
 titude of duties which had fallen upon the young 
 mother since the coming of her child, gave back 
 110 answering throb. The young woman holding 
 
44 A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. 
 
 the baby realized this. She had seldom seen such 
 glowing hair, seldom looked into such a beautiful 
 face. Why should she have all and herself Both- 
 ing? 
 
 Again she lifted her hand and touched the 
 white arm, and again received no response. 
 
 She lifted the child high in her arms and 
 looked into the tiny face. The sam^ even eon- 
 tour, the little rings of golden hair which curled 
 around the even forehead, spoke a striking like- 
 ness to its mother. The babe opened its eyes and 
 took in a deep breath, doubling its little fists 
 with the healthy languor of babyhood. The large 
 eyes blinked once, twice, and then flew wide open. 
 The anxious woman saw that, unlike the mother, 
 the child's eyes were of midnight darkness. 
 
 Then the lids closed again and the child slept 
 on. Weary little waif upon the world, who knew 
 not wliat fate had in store for it ! 
 
 Hilda only nestled closer into her w^hite arm 
 as she felt the woman move in the seat. The pon- 
 derous engine shrieked out its plan to lessen its 
 speed. The long rings of white steam curling 
 away into the dark sky seemed to only 
 
A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. 45. 
 
 determine the woman upon some plan of 
 action which seemed perfectly feasible and 
 just to her. She watched the little sleeping 
 mother until the car had come to a dead stop and 
 then, lifting the child in her arms, she walked 
 out of the door and stepped into the night. There 
 was not one among the drowsy passengers who 
 had seen the last act of the drama which had 
 been enacted before them, nor had they seen the 
 curtain fall upon the closing act which meant 
 suffering for the golden-haired girl who was 
 resting upon the deep red of the plush under her 
 arm. For almost an hour Hilda slept. She seemed 
 to be, in her weariness, utterly oblivious of the 
 absence of her child. 
 
 A sudden lurch of the train and she was awake. 
 
 She looked about hastily, with fear-laden eyes. 
 Where were the stranger and the child? Where 
 was her baby, the little golden-haired child of her 
 heart who had become the better part of her life? 
 
 Her startled exclamation brought several men 
 to their feet. 
 
 "Where is the woman who was with me?" she 
 
46 A CHILD OP THE3 SLUMS. 
 
 demanded of one individual who sat rubbing his 
 eyes with concern at her grief. 
 
 "How do I know?" he grumbled. *^I've been 
 trying to take care of one woman all my life, 
 and found it the hardest job I ever tackled. Don't 
 want no more, thank you," and he settled back 
 and again closed his eyes as if to sleep. 
 
 Hilda walked to the end of the car. She could 
 not believe that the stranger had taken the child 
 and left the train. It was not until she had sat- 
 isfied herself of the time she had spent in sleep, 
 and that the train had stopped twice during that 
 period, that she made up her mind that her boy 
 had been stolen. After her first outburst of grief 
 she settled her head in the comer and wept be- 
 hind the little shawl which had adorned her 
 Dicky's head. Several kind-hearted people tried 
 to comfort her, but she saw no peace in the wild 
 schemes which they suggested. The conductor 
 was the first to give her real satisfaction. Had 
 the woman who had stolen the child told her 
 that she was going to New York? Yes? Well, 
 then, the thing was to get oflf at the next station 
 iind board the fast express train for the city and 
 
A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. 47 
 
 there face the woman with her cherished treas- 
 ure, 
 
 Hilda took this as the only sensible thing to do, 
 and she left in the night and the shadows swal- 
 lowed her up. 
 
 Nearly six years later Hilda Rhodes was on 
 her way to the city again. Fruitless had been 
 the search for the little boy whom she had grown 
 to love in the few short weeks he had been in 
 her life. Every daj^ she prayed that some light 
 be thrown upon the mystery, that she might know 
 if the boy were living and happy; it would be 
 finch, a comfort to her. 
 
 She was still beautiful, ripened into lovely 
 "t\ omanhood, to which the charm of girlhood 
 ould not compare. Every one admiring the 
 teady-eyed girl knew that her life had a history 
 which would not bear unfolding, else why the 
 beautiful, drooping mouth, or the unfathomable 
 eyes which caused the watcher to turn away with 
 a shudder? 
 
 Just at this time our heroine was on her way 
 to New York. As her romance had ended in her 
 
48 A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. 
 
 lover going away, so Hilda Khodes' happiness 
 saw its end in the disappearance of her child. 
 
 Her husband, she knew, was dead, for had sl^^e 
 not seen his name among the list of passengers 
 upon a fated vessel from which not one had been 
 saved? Many were the tears shed for the macv 
 but the greatest longing was for the little child 
 that she had lost from her clutching fingers so 
 many years ago. Hilda could remember hearing 
 it once said that a mother could forget the ex- 
 istence of the father of her child but not the lit- 
 tle babe itself. And how vividly did it flash over 
 her mind as she passed through the beautiful 
 scenery of New York State, that terrible night 
 when she had awakened to find her child gone. 
 
 And out of all the suffering she had arisen 
 a beautiful, glorious woman, resplendent in her 
 loveliness as a rose blooming in a garden. Hilda 
 knew not her power. She only knew that life 
 held no charm for her as far as loved ones were 
 concerned. Had she not lost her husband, un- 
 loving though he were? And the little child had 
 gone as suddenly as it had come. Had she not 
 gone home to her college town and buried the 
 
A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 49 
 
 dear, white-haired mother who had not for years 
 been so peaceful in expression as she was now 
 in the long, narrow box which would accompany 
 her to her rest? 
 
 Hilda was thinking of these things when the 
 train stopped and she noted a man of such great 
 height enter the car that he attracted the atten- 
 tion of every passenger. With a start Hilda in- 
 wardly remarked that it was the same station 
 where, six years before, she had gone into the 
 night, starting upon a vain search for her lost 
 child. 
 
 The man took a seat directly opposite her, 
 and opening his paper began to read, and Hilda 
 forgot that an exceedingly handsome fellow was 
 seated near her and fell once more into a reminis- 
 cent mood. She did not stay there long, however, 
 for turning, she saw a pair of keen grey eyes look- 
 ing into hers. 
 
 She turned uneasily in her seat, dismayed at 
 the eager expression of admiration upon the 
 strong face. 
 
 , Over and over again her eyes were drawn to his 
 until, with a smile, he offered her a newspaper. 
 
so A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 
 
 She took it, while a flood of color swept over 
 her face. The magnetic smile made her pulse 
 tingle and involuntarily she moved over in her 
 s^at, seemingly inviting him to her side. She did 
 not need to make a second invitation. He dropped 
 into the chair with an exclamation of thankful- 
 ness. 
 
 "I could not get you to look at me,'^ he said at 
 
 last, folding up the paper which had been the 
 
 innocent cause of their acquaintance. "What 
 
 were you thinking of so earnestly as you looked 
 
 out of the window? Some sweetheart, I'll wager.'^ 
 
 The bantering tone and the winsome smile re- 
 stored Hilda to her own bright self. But she 
 answered gravely, with a slight pucker playing 
 about the red lips, that she had been thinking 
 of the past. 
 
 "It's a bad thing to do," began the stranger; 
 ^^I think it well for every man and woman to 
 bury their past, especially if it is disagreeable. 
 !Now, for my part, I do not r^ret anything "I 
 have ever done, and don't intend to, either." 
 
 Hilda noted the broad forehead ending at the 
 almost shaggy eyebrows, the straight look of 
 
A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. 5U 
 
 truthfulness which shone from the grey eyes, and 
 lastly, the kindly, smiling mouth, with the full, 
 red, passionate lips. She said to herself that sucli 
 a man could not do a mean thing in the world, 
 ^ no matter how hard he might try, for his nature 
 would not allow it. 
 
 They took up the commonplace things of the 
 (lay. Hilda chattered on about her hopes and 
 ambitions. She was going to New York to get 
 work, to see what kind of a future she could 
 make for herself. 
 
 "I live in New York in winter,'' replied the 
 man, "and maybe there will be many times you 
 will want a friend. If so, there is my card, and I 
 want you to send me your address as soon as you 
 are located and I may have some news for you.'' 
 
 Hilda noticed that he was examining her hand. 
 Only one small ring sparkled upon her flnger. In 
 a little box at the bottom of her trunk there 
 rested the small wedding ring, the little band 
 of gold that bound her to the Harvard College 
 4 student and made it possible for her to kiss the 
 lost child's lips when it had been born witk 
 thankfulness. 
 
52 A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 
 
 Through the long journey toward the great 
 metropolis the grey eyes ever studied the blue. 
 The handsome dark head rested against the crim- 
 son of the cushion in close proximity to the 
 golden. 
 
 The woman and man were both sorry that the 
 end af their journey had arrived. Hilda gath- 
 ered up her bundles while the strong fingers of 
 the man grasped her dress-suit case. 
 
 She followed him out with a sense of security 
 and they parted at the ferry, his way lying in a 
 different direction from hers. 
 
 On her trip across the North River she took out 
 the card and read: 
 
 "Thomas G. Brittle, 48 Wall Street.'^ 
 
 For several moments she studied the card and 
 then, with a feeling of satisfaction, stored it away 
 in her little handbag. 
 
 This will be remembered as the day that Ruth 
 Ferris was being admitted into the family of the 
 Mathers. 
 
 Hilda Rhodes, as she called herself still, for 
 
A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. 53 
 
 the girl had never given herself the luxury of 
 passing under her husband's name, found a small 
 room whert she could live within her means and 
 he happy. The sound of so much life inspired her 
 with the hope that in all the great city there must 
 be a place for her, and she would find it if it 
 pleased Heaven to aid her. 
 
 The days passed into weeks and aln^ost a 
 month, and still Hilda was holding the wolf from 
 her door by close economy. Not one penny would 
 she spend until the time came that she had hon- 
 estly earned money enough to live upon. 
 
 One afternoon as the winter wind was blowing 
 up Broadway, and the river was filled with toot- 
 ing ferryboats, Hilda was sitting quietly in her 
 room. She was thankful for the warm little spot 
 she called home, where even the landlady smiled 
 into her face and bade her a good-morning or a 
 good-night as the case might be. Hilda noticed 
 that every one was so very good to her always. 
 
 A knock at the door brought her to her feet. 
 A card was handed in upon which was written 
 the name "Thomas Brittle.'' 
 
 Hilda hurriedly made her toilet, brushing back 
 
^4 ^ CHILD OF THE SLXJUS, 
 
 the strayJng golden curls, which were one of her 
 chief charms. 
 
 A broad back was turned toward her as she 
 entered the parlor. The man was looking 
 thoughtfully out of the window. How well Hilda 
 remembered the big, dark head, and it was witli a 
 little thrill that she glided across the room and 
 touched him upon the arm. 
 
 ^^It was so kind of you to come,'^ said she. ^^I 
 Yvondered if you had received my note." 
 
 The visitor whirled about and took the white 
 hands in his. Hilda thought he was going to 
 crush them in his great grasp, but somehow she 
 liked the strength that seemed to be sparkling 
 from his large body. 
 
 "Indeed, little woman," said he, looking deep 
 into her eyes with a gleam of grey which Hilda 
 never would forget, "I came because I could not 
 help it; you simply drew me to you." 
 
 Hilda gave a happy laugh. She urged him to 
 he seated, but he declined, and with bowed head 
 and reverent manner he told her that he loved 
 her, and that he had come expressly to ask her to 
 1)0 his wife. 
 
A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. 55 
 
 The girl was so startled that for a long time 
 she clasped and unclasped her fingers. Here wa^ 
 the place in the big city for her — the wife of 
 a man for whom she could work and who would 
 love her in return. 
 
 Hilda had forgotten the dead mother, the 
 drowned husband, and, for the first time in jeav^^ 
 the little lost child faded from her memory. She 
 lived in a beautiful present, filled with love and 
 happiness. The big man lifted the rosy face to 
 his and read the answer in the tear-dimmed, blue 
 eyes which sent the blood in great leaps through 
 his heart 
 
56 A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Only the roaring of the wind amid the rattling 
 of the ears and carriages could be heard by the 
 man and woman as they sat in the small parlor 
 of the boarding-house. They were drinking in 
 the honey sweet which comes to every loving 
 heart when the fountain is first opened. 
 
 "I have told you nothing about myself/' pres- 
 ently spoke up the man, and it was this speech 
 that brought back to the mind of the woman the 
 time upon the train when she had awaken^ to 
 find the little child gone into the shadows of the 
 night. 
 
 She suddenly dropped the hands which had so 
 tightly held hers and she had pressed in return. 
 
 "And I have told you nothing of myself," reit- 
 erated she, with a struggle to stand upon her 
 feet. 
 
 "Don't leave me," entreated the rich voice. 
 
A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. 57 
 
 •^^You can tell it here, and if there is much, re- 
 member, my heart is large and I can forgive much 
 in one I love." 
 
 Without a warning the floodgate of tears was 
 swept away and Hilda bowed her golden head on 
 the big warm hands and wept. Wept for the man 
 lost at sea, for the dead mother in the cemetery 
 at Cypress Hills, and lastly, with great sobs, for 
 the tiny babe that had rested for so few weeks 
 upon her breast. This she would have to tell. 
 Of course, he would want to know. She listened 
 quietly as he told her of his family. How for 
 years he had lived with an old mother and had 
 been satisfied that it should be so. But no more 
 could he look upon life in the same old easy 
 manner. He wanted a wife, and she must be 
 Hilda. Not since that trip down the State had 
 he been able to get the golden glint of her hair 
 or the gleam of the blue eyes from his mind. 
 
 "I have told you all," said he. "I come with 
 clean hands into your life and offer you all that 
 I have." 
 
 Hilda wished, with a sickening heart, that she 
 
Sg A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. 
 
 had the same kind of a story to tell, and she 
 tremblingly began. 
 
 Back at the beginning, when she was but six- 
 teen, how she had met the student who had won 
 the love of the young girlhood. All about the 
 secret marriage and the sudden leaving of her 
 home. 
 
 '^And there was a — a '^ 
 
 Here the man hesitated. 
 
 Hilda saw a look of pain sweep into his eyes^ 
 but he only tightened the clasp upon the white 
 hands. 
 
 ^^Yes, a little child," she said, simply, with a 
 very white face. 
 
 "And it is dead?" 
 
 *'I do not know." Hilda's answer brought no 
 further question, and the girl tremblingly told 
 the story of the night ride and the loss of the 
 baby. 
 
 "Then you do not know whether it is living or 
 not?" 
 
 How tender were the tones of the man as he 
 said this ! And again Hilda was weeping wildly, 
 
A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 59 
 
 labile the wind kept up its mournful dirge upon 
 the outside. 
 
 "Would to Heaven I knew/' cried she. "I havQ 
 searched for a golden-haired boy for years, and I 
 know not where to look. I fear I shall never hear 
 of my little baby again.'' 
 
 The cry of the mother for her child filled 
 Brittle's eyes with tears. The only gruesome 
 regret in it all was that he had not known her 
 years before and he instead of that dead student, 
 now lying under the water, had been the father 
 of her child. The blood tingled through his veins 
 at the thought. She was so beautiful, and the 
 helpless cry for her lost one made the heartache 
 worse. How much dearer she had grown slru e 
 the painful recital! 
 
 There was no dishonor upon the dear, bright 
 head. He would lift her magnanimously out of 
 her life of poverty and draw the little fragile, 
 golden-haired flower into the garden of hij% 
 heart to bloom for him alone. He felt that the 
 expression which had first drawn him toward 
 her had been sent there through the loss of the 
 
<)0 A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. 
 
 child — a heart-hungry look that leapt into life 
 every time she raised her eyes to his face. 
 
 Brittle thanked God that he had found her 
 as uncontaminated by the world's contact as she 
 was. 
 
 He would take her to the dear old mother, and 
 the past of Hilda Rhodes would be lost in the fu- 
 ture of Hilda Brittle. 
 
 ♦ *♦♦♦♦♦ 
 
 Tom Brittle, as those who knew him intimately 
 called him, felt that the whole universe had been 
 made for him, that his life so far had not been 
 lived in vain, for did he not possess the merriest- 
 hearted little wife in all the world? And how the 
 yellow-headed sprite made the home-rooms ring 
 with laughter ! Even his mother, with her puri- 
 tanical notions, could but smile at the brilliancy 
 of her son's wife or listen with avidity to the 
 stories which rippled from her lips as brook 
 water ripples in its bed toward the sea. 
 
 Tom Brittle lived up the State upon a mag- 
 nificent farm during the summer, but the winter 
 months found him in New York among congenial 
 companions. 
 
A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. . 61 
 
 His lawyer, Mr. Mathers, of the firm of Math- 
 ers and Company, proved of great service to the 
 rich man when in the city. 
 
 One afternoon he was speaking of his wife in 
 the presence of the lawyer. Mathers turned and 
 looked at him. 
 
 ^^I didn't know that you had a wife, Tom." 
 
 "Indeed I have, and the sweetest woman in the 
 world." 
 
 "With the exception of mine," grunted tne 
 lawyer under his breath, as he thought of the 
 woman who had made his Heaven and placed him 
 in equally low depths of perdition. But Mathers 
 had long ago grown to believe that the paradise 
 he enjoyed when he and his wife were happy over- 
 shadowed the pangs of misery which every day of 
 his life he felt when in the dear woman's com- 
 pany. 
 
 "Why don't you bring your treasure some day 
 to dine with us? I can show a woman surpassed 
 by none in New York." 
 
 Lawyer Mathers drew himself up proudly as 
 he said this. 
 
 Brittle wondered if the other's wife had the 
 
62 A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. 
 
 same dppth to her eyes and golden gleam to ber 
 hair, and with a profuse color still wondered 
 if Mathers' wife evinced half the emotion and 
 passion for him that Hilda had for her husband. 
 Was a husband ever so fortunate in the world a& 
 he? A wife untaught by the awfulness of the 
 world's sin, and yet softened and mellowed by 
 womanly suffering. 
 
 ^'Any time you like, old fellow," said he, as he 
 parted from Mr. Mathers. ^^Ask your wife to 
 name the day and we will come, and prepare 
 yourself to meet the most beautiful woman in the 
 world — to me.^' 
 
 Both men laughed happily as he put the finv 
 ishing touch to his assurance, for each in his 
 heart knew that the woman who reigned there 
 queen was the most beautiful woman in the 
 world — to him. 
 
 So it happened that in a few days Ruth and 
 
 Mrs. Mathers were waiting with eagerness to 
 
 meet the millionaire's wife, who, according to 
 
 her husband's view, was the loveliest woman 2n 
 
 ,rall the world. 
 
 Ruth had begun her search for the miss- 
 
A CHILD OF THS SLUMS. 6S 
 
 ing man. It had only been a short time since 
 Mathers had consented to take up the case. Her 
 thoughts TV ere full of plans to locate Frank, when 
 the door opened and Mrs. Mathers slipped in 
 arrayed in all the glory of her very best. "There/' 
 said she, plumping herself down upon the divan, 
 ^^I think Bella has done her prettiest with this 
 gown. Now, would you not think it brand new? 
 X tell you, there is nothing like a French maid — 
 ^ they save their salary in refurbishing." 
 
 Ruth praised the beautiful form, giving full 
 
 stice to the maid's handiwork. 
 
 'I am simply dying with curiosity to see that 
 
 man coming here to-night. Hubby says her 
 lui>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 
 <!ould always be mentioned was the little golden- 
 haired boy, with his father's dark eyes. 
 
 Suddenly there rushed over her a feeling of 
 disgust. She remembered the ceremony so well 
 upon that winter night. The solemn minister, 
 with his long gown, the sober witnesses and the 
 falling shadows. 
 
 ^^How dare you say this to me?" gasped she. 
 ^^I hate you for the deception.'' 
 
 ^^I should think you would feel very much obli- 
 gated to me," was the flippant answer, as the man 
 placed his fingers in the water and scattered a 
 ; * w bright drops upon a tall fern overhanging the 
 fountain. 
 
 '*!, by my duplicity, made it possible for you 
 to be a wife, and yet keep your husband ignorant 
 of the fact that you are not just what you seem." 
 
 More and more did the hatred swell in the 
 
 white bosom. How she hated this calm, cruel 
 
 miin, as he sat talking to her about the best im- 
 
 ' pulses of her life and chiding her for weeping 
 
 ovGr a blasted character, and a little lost child. 
 
112 A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. 
 
 ^^Hush/' commanded she; "I hate you more 
 than all the world." 
 
 He saw that there was no use to try force y^ltli 
 her, so he silently sent the drops of water agalD 
 upon the fern. 
 
 "How did you accomplish such a thing?" said 
 she, lifting her heavy eyes to his face. 
 
 "Friends who are always willing to be paid for 
 such services as that." He said this as if he were 
 reciting a verse or a childish fairy story. 
 
 "Did you pay that clergyman to perform a 
 mock marriage?" asked the trembling lips. 
 
 "He was but a poor devil in hard luck, with 
 two companions who were willing to do anything 
 I asked them for five dollars." 
 
 Hilda's golden head sank upon her breast. The 
 glint of the red light sparkled in the water and 
 shone through the yellow hair. The man never 
 felt a keener impulse in his life to take a woman 
 in his arms. 
 
 "How can you stand there and tell me of my 
 dishonor?" and saying this a thought so vitally 
 awful came into her mind that a sharp cry wa^ 
 wrung from her lips. 
 
A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. Hat 
 
 She could see the two men now as they signe<i 
 their names upon a little book in the church. She 
 could hear the solemn tones of the tall man a^ Ite 
 pronounced her the wife of him before her. Sh^ , 
 supposed that there had been much glee OT^r her 
 innocenc^e afterward, and it was this that mada 
 her heart beat with agony. 
 
 "You have but to keep still,'^ said the maup^ 
 "and that precious husband of yours will never 
 be the wiser." 
 
 "Nevertheless, I shall tell him/' she said, witfe 
 dogged determination. 
 
 "I suppose that means that you will exposes 
 me?'' asked Wentworth, rising. 
 
 "I don't know what I mean?" was the answerj. 
 while the sweet voice had a death-like intonatiooi 
 in it. 
 
 "It would be well for you to keep silent/'' 
 warned the man. "It can do you no good to tell 
 the exact situation. And the man is dead, yoii 
 know." 
 
 "If I knew that he were dead," whispered 
 Hilda. "I cannot bear to think you are fooling: 
 a good girl and taking the place of a living man-'* 
 
lU A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 
 
 ^•You need not worry about that little maid iir 
 there/' and Wentworth waved his hand toward 
 the room where they could hear voices, first angry^ 
 and then loving. Hilda knew that the lawyer 
 and his wife were having an altercation. 
 
 ^^I am not the man she wants to marry/' went 
 on Hilda's companion, "but I can win her if she 
 does not know about us. It will only make a 
 bad bargain worse to tell your husband about 
 this matter. Does he know about the child?" 
 
 Too well he knew about the little boy. She 
 could hear the deep tones, with satisfaction in 
 them, tell her that he was so glad that no dis- 
 honor was attached to her name. 
 
 She was so glad at that time, too, but now it 
 was different. She would have to go back and put 
 her arms about his neck and tell her beloved the 
 awful story. All about how the little baby lad 
 was not in the world rightfully; how she had 
 been duped and destroyed. There was some con- 
 solation about the thought that she had not 
 known. Would he send her from him? Hilda 
 could hear the intonation of the voices on the 
 
A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 115 
 
 inside, also the man was again speaking. She 
 drew herself together and tried to listen. 
 
 "I hope to win Euth Ferris for my wife. It 
 need not hurt you in any way, but it is doubtful 
 ^ if I ever love any one as I did you, Rilda.^' 
 
 "Hush !" gasped Hilda. "I do not want to hear 
 the word from your lips. You allowed my inno- 
 cent baby to come into the world without a name } 
 there is nothing you would not do. I love that 
 little girl there in that large house, weeping out 
 her heart for a dead lover, too well for you to 
 impose yourself upon her." 
 
 "Then if she refuses me, Prank Wentworth, I 
 am to have the fortune, and if I have that I can 
 live without the girl.'^ 
 
 "Then that is what you had better do,'^ said 
 Hilda, "for I do not believe I can stand by and see 
 you marry her.'^ 
 
 "How have you fooled them so effectually?''' 
 asked Hilda after a time, with set teeth. 
 
 "I had the papers of a certain dead man,'^ er- 
 i plained her companion. "They were all that I 
 ^ needed.'' 
 
 Hilda heard Ruth's voice calling her, and with. 
 
IIQ A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 
 
 scant courtesy she rose and Wentworth walked: 
 by her side, in through the door and out into the 
 hall. It cannot but be admitted that with the 
 strong personality of the woman he felt some- 
 thing of the old-time emotion stirring his blood. 
 He watched her as she gracefully ascended the 
 stairs and passed from his sight. 
 
 ^^She is certainly charming/^ muttered he; 
 ^^much more so than my little fawn, Ruth, but 
 she has the money, and that is what you are play- 
 ing for how, Mr. Wentworth." 
 
 Mrs. Mathers appeared at the door, and the 
 lawyer, with beaming countenance, was at her 
 heels. They were constantly together, even 
 though they quarreled by day and night. 
 
 "You are going?'' said the lady of the house^ 
 looking about for the girls. "Do you mean to 
 say those naughty children have run away and 
 left you alone?" 
 
 "That is nothing, let me assure you, my dear 
 Mrs. Mathers," said the man. "I have spent a 
 delightful evening, and I consider myself very 
 fortunate." 
 
 The lawyer, looking over his wife's shoulder^^ 
 
A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. H'Jf 
 
 thought SO too. Could any man ask for a better 
 future than this? — a beautiful girl and a big for- 
 tune. The new heir walked along with a very- 
 satisfied mind. He had no idea that Hilda would 
 tell this handsome husband of hers about that 
 girlish escapade of which the wife knew nothing 
 until that night. 
 
 The two girls were in each other's arms. Ruth* 
 thought Hilda was weeping over her disappoint- 
 ment. But little did the girl realize the heart- 
 ache of her beautiful friend. 
 
 Hilda did not feel that she was called upon to 
 tell her story now, so she listened while Ruth 
 lamented her terrible misfortune. 
 
 "I cannot see how the mistake was made," said 
 she, "for I always supposed Frank's uncle and 
 mine were the best of friends. That there should 
 be two Frank Wentworths is most improbable.'^ 
 
 Hilda said nothing, brushing back the curls 
 from the white brow. 
 
 "I would not give up the hope of seeing your 
 darling," she at last found voice to say. "You 
 know that fate has a kindly future in store." 
 
118 A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 
 
 She groaned inwardly as she said this, think- 
 ing of the heart-husband who had been so loving 
 to her, wondering if he would forgive a sin which 
 she had really not committed. 
 
 She pressed the beautiful face of her friend 
 close to hers. All this trouble seemed only U^ 
 draw them nearer together. 
 
 ^^I know one thing," and Ruth, with a snap of 
 her pretty white teeth sat up and drew herself 
 from the surrounding arms. "I know one thing 
 — I will never marry that man as long as there 
 is life in my body.'' 
 
 Hilda took a long breath. This was just what 
 she wanted to hear. As long as Kuth held to this 
 resolution she was safe and would not make any 
 disclosures to th^ o^lrl. But she feit that she 
 loved the little maid too well to allow her to 
 marry a rogue and a falsifier. 
 
 The two girls talked long during the night. 
 Hilda decided that she would go home in the 
 morning. Ruth demurred, but when the woman 
 promised that she would soon return she reluct- 
 antly allowed her to pack her belongings and 
 Tent to the train with her. 
 
A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 119 
 
 The Mathers were shocked when Ruth dia- 
 closed the fact that the new heir was not the man 
 she loved. This was all she would say, but Mrs, 
 Mathers kept returning to the subject, sayiii;; 
 that she hoped the girl would think twice bef^s^i-^.* 
 she allowed a wealthy and handsome young fel- 
 low to slip between her fingers. 
 
 Hilda Brittle settled back in her seat with the 
 greatest mixture of emotions she had ever experi- 
 enced. As the train sped on into the hills she 
 shed many bitter tears at the shape her life had 
 taken since leaving home. Would the large- 
 hearted man forgive her and take her to his 
 breast again? Somehow it seemed to the girl 
 that now she had once known his love she could 
 not live without him. He had grown infinitely 
 dearer since the day he told her not to think of 
 the past; that he loved her for herself alone. 
 
 "If he will but take a broad view of the mat- 
 ter,'^ said she to herself, with her face in her 
 hands; "if he would but see that I am not any 
 more to blame than I was before. But men al 
 way think a woman ought to know everything.- -' 
 
 Such thoughts as these burned their way into 
 
120 A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. 
 
 the girPs heart. What was the use of being beau- 
 tiful if she could not have her heart's desire? 
 M^hat would money be, without Tom? 
 
 ^i^e night drew on and still the train thun- 
 dered tlirough the hills. Still the woman kept 
 iier face buried in her hands, or pressed against 
 the window-pane. 
 
 She had left home but a few hours ago with 
 only a ieeling of joy for Euth. 
 
 She was returning only to leave it again. 
 
 As the engine steamed its way to the depot 
 Hilda could see the lights from her home. The 
 dear little red attic light was burning as of old. 
 She could see the figures of the servants as they 
 passed to and fro in front of the windows. She 
 cenld even discern with her tear-stained eyes a 
 iittle black footman as he appeared upon the 
 ;p©rch and looked through the darkness at the 
 train as it pulled into the station. Of course, 
 Tom w^ould be there waiting for her. He always 
 was, especially when she dispatched him in the 
 morning that she was coming. Hilda remem- 
 i^;^red the feeling of trust that surged into her 
 
A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 121 
 
 heart as she signed her name to the blank, and 
 knew that even in spite of the man masquerading 
 at the Mathers she was Hilda Brittle. 
 
 She would rather be the discarded wife of the 
 one than to be ever with Gerson again. Never 
 had she felt such a loathing for any human be- 
 ing ! For one thing she was thankful. Ruth had 
 sworn to her that she would never marry that 
 man. He could have the money, for all either 
 one of them cared, but to link that sweet life with 
 such a one would be more than Hilda could bear. 
 
 She was peering out of the window, her eyes 
 hot with tears. Through the mist which had set- 
 tled over the valley she could see the porters hur- 
 rying to their duties. Hilda wondered if each 
 one had a wife at home as beautiful as she, and if 
 there were any woman in the world so absolutely 
 miserable. 
 
 There was Tom, she could see him. He was 
 only waiting for the train to stop to spring to the 
 platform and clasp her in his arms. She felt the 
 big form close to hers, felt the hot breath breath- 
 ing upon her lips and heard Tom Brittle call her 
 his love, his wife and his darling. 
 
128 A CHILD OP THE SLUMS, 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Hilda did not say much to her husband as he 
 led her to the carriage and they drove home. She 
 rested her head against the big, protecting arm 
 and wept so silently that he did not discover it 
 until he was lifting her from the vehicle. 
 
 "Are you so glad to get back, my pretty,^' whis- 
 pered he, "that the bright tears fall from these 
 beautiful eyes?'' 
 
 Brittle lifted the face to his and kissed it. How 
 he had grown to love that beautiful, bright 
 woman since she had filled his home with sun- 
 shine ! 
 
 Through the dinner hour Hilda's eyes sought 
 Tom's, making a silent plea for her future. But 
 the big fellow did not realize that anything un- 
 usual was happening or had happened, so he told 
 his wife all the things which had occurred since 
 her going away. 
 
A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 123 
 
 Hilda resolved that she would tell the story 
 before going to bed for the night. The loving 
 ears should hear, and the dear heart have a 
 t?hance to forgive her if it so desired. The woman 
 felt that she could not go through the dark night 
 framing an explanation. 
 
 Tom offered her assistance by asking if she did 
 not want to go with him to their quiet room, 
 where they could converse away from the ears of 
 the servants. 
 
 Hilda allowed her weight to linger against the 
 large arms after they had reached the landing. 
 Would she ever be in just that position again? 
 And how should she tell him all that was in ber 
 heart? 
 
 The low flame of the grate filled the room \Ath 
 a red glow. Tom made a movement to light Uie 
 gas, but Hilda stopped him, saying that she 
 wanted to kneel at his feet, that she had some- 
 thing to tell him. 
 
 Together they sat down. Tom Brittle had never 
 seen such a look of concern upon the dear face 
 he loved so devotedly. He knew that something 
 was coming, but what? 
 
124 A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. 
 
 Hilda waited and looked into the little red 
 flame. She was pondering on how to begin. 
 
 ^^I do not know how to begin," sobbed she, put- 
 ting her head on the large knee. 
 
 ^^Jiist start," gravely answered her husband. 
 **I v/ant my wife not to fear me.'' 
 
 But he did not know what was coming. He 
 waited and the little flame burned itself out and 
 died away. 
 
 Presently Hilda leaned over and took the brass 
 poker and stirred it again into life. Then she 
 took the large, white hand lovingly in hers. 
 
 "Sweetheart," began she, weeping over the long 
 fingers,"if that which I tell you hurts your heart 
 will you try in the bigness of it to forgive my 
 part in it? I hope you will take me to your dear 
 heart, as you have always done." 
 
 "Is it something which will hurt our love, 
 Hilda?" 
 
 The tones were so intense and deep that Hilda 
 uttered a little cry. , 
 
 "Please, before I commence, tell me that you 
 will pardon — oh, Tom, I cannot bear it." 
 
 Tom's face had grown so white, his lip^i 
 
A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. 125 
 
 trembling until Hilda thought he was going to 
 cry. 
 
 ^^Something has happened to you since you 
 have been away — something I ought to know?" 
 
 The man had never imagined anything so bad 
 as was now in his mind. Could she have forgot- 
 ten him while from home? Seriously he began to 
 speak : "Hilda, darling, do not keep me in sus- 
 pense. I love you, and this you know." 
 
 The assurance was just what the girl needed. 
 If his love were only large enough to overlook a 
 gruesome past! 
 
 "Do you remember, Tom," she began, moving 
 the little coals again with the lifter, "the story 1 
 told you about the baby and how I lost him?" 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 "And how I married his father in the little 
 church covered with ivy?" 
 
 *^Yes." 
 
 *^I have seen the man again; he is not dead." 
 
 Hilda felt the tightening of the muscles and 
 knew that the shot had told, but he waited for 
 her to proceed. 
 
 But again she stopped until the flame was no 
 
126 A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. 
 
 more. But the darkness seemed oppressiTe and 
 she arose and taking a match from the shelf 
 lighted the brilliant overhanging chandelier. 
 
 Tom Brittle had not spoken, and waited for 
 ' her to seat herself again at his knee. The thought 
 flashed through his mind that he had never seen 
 so graceful a woman, but did the fair body be- 
 long to him? 
 
 '^Then you are not my wife?" he said, lifting 
 the eyes to his. "I cannot say tnat Hilda Brittle 
 is my little wife any more*-'^ 
 
 The blue eyes pierced through the tears into 
 the glint of the grey. 
 
 Hilda sprang "*nto the longing arms held out 
 toward her. 
 
 ^^Oh, yes, you can, dear,'' sobbed she. "I was 
 not married to him, so he says." 
 
 "Then there was no ceremony, as you told me?" 
 
 "Yes, but a dishonorable one." 
 
 Hilda started at the beginning and told the 
 story of how she and Ruth had dressed for the 
 meeting of the heir, Wentworth, and she, his 
 wife, Hilda, found the betrayer of her girlhood. 
 Tbe red lips were raised pleadingly toward the 
 
A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 127 
 
 large, dark head above her, but Tom Brittle did 
 not move. Hilda only dropped her face upon the 
 knee which had so long been her place. 
 
 She had decided to make a hard fight for the 
 man whom she loved. 
 
 He made no stir, and Hilda would have 
 thought him sleeping had it not been for the 
 story she had told him. 
 
 ^^Tom," began she, after an agonizing moment, 
 ^n^ on't you speak to me? There was dishonor, 
 but it was not my faulf 
 
 Tlie strong arms opened and the golden head 
 Bgain rested upon the broad breast that had shel- 
 tered her from many a storm. 
 
 'vim I to stay with you, my beloved?^' queried! 
 she, with trembling. 
 
 '^I am your husband,'' answered the deep, pas- 
 sionate voice. "I was but thinking how terrible 
 it would have been but for that man's perfidy. 
 Kemember, Hilda, I am not upholding crime," 
 said Tom, after the story had been told, "and it 
 was a crime toward you, but the silver lining to 
 my darling's cloud now is that she is mine, mine^ 
 , mine !" 
 
128 A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 
 
 Long after Tom had slept, Hilda lay with sir: 
 iiig heart. The old smart of her trouble had dis- 
 iipi)eared, sent into the shadows of the past by 
 her good husband. Had he not told her to forget 
 i (; now, and if ever she should be troubled in any 
 ^yaJ with thoughts or the presence of the man she 
 was to come to Tom. This would be easy, for had 
 he not forgiven all, and she was so happy. 
 
 Ruth told Mrs. Mathers not to count upon a 
 wedding with her as the bride, as she would not 
 marry the new heir. He was not the man she 
 loved and that was all there was to it. 
 
 "But you say, yourself, dear," said she, "that 
 he looks like Frank." 
 
 "That may be true, but he is not Frank, and I 
 am not going to marry him." 
 
 Mrs. Mathers always noticed that if the pearly 
 teeth came together with a snap then she could ! 
 make up her mind Ruth meant to have her own 
 way. 
 
 Gerson came every day. He shadowed the girFs 
 footsteps ; there would be no losing her if he had 
 power left to charm. 
 
A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. 139 
 
 Evening after evening she played for him to 
 sing, and each time wished it might be the last. 
 Hilda had refused an itivitation to come down 
 right away and Ruth felt lonely. 
 
 One evening the girl sat in the same spot where 
 Gerson had told Hilda that he had not married 
 her in the little ivy-covered church. 
 
 He, under the name of Frank Wentworth, was 
 now trying to lay siege to the heart of Butli 
 Ferris. 
 
 "I have loved you since the time I first rested 
 my eyes upon you, Ruth," he pleaded. "I will 
 be very tender with you; there shall not be one 
 wish of yours left ungranted.'^ 
 
 "But you understand,'^ faltered Ruth, "that 
 I love another man. He is to me the only one.^^ 
 
 "What if I should prove to you that this other 
 Frank Wentworth is dead and buried?'^ 
 
 "Then I should hate the messenger that 
 brought to me such tidings." 
 
 The man bit his lip until it whitened under the 
 pressure. 
 
 "I am not to blame for his death," he replied, 
 in a low tone. "You are hard upon a fellow." 
 
130 A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. 
 
 Ivuth, ever tender-hearted, caught the extended 
 hand in hers. 
 
 **Mr. Wentworth/' said she, "do not misunder- 
 ^Jtand me. I do not wish to do you an injustice, 
 l)ut J am not responsible for the dictates of my 
 heart. I would not place in your life a woman 
 who is loving another man, be he living or dead." 
 Euth's companion tossed his head defiantly. He 
 would win this girl, if she could love with such 
 untiring fervor. 
 
 "You have made me love you, my sweetheart/^ 
 said he, trying another tactic, but the girl moved 
 from his encircling arm. 
 
 '^I do not wish for your caresses," said she. 
 
 Mrs. Mathers, in a piece of advice which she 
 had previously given the newcomer, said that a 
 girl's heart was filled with wrinkles, and when 
 one wrinkle proved unsatisfactory, another 
 v'ould come to cover it up and the old love would 
 he Iniried. But poor Wentworth, desiring with 
 all his heart the girl who was sitting beside him, 
 tlioiight that her heart must be of different 
 calibre. 
 
A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 131 
 
 Hilda Brittle could not get out of lier mind the 
 golden-haired child she had seen selling jSowers 
 s^md papers. She had not mentioned him to Tom 
 for fear that he would think her whimsical. But 
 oui} morning when her husband had gone to Bnf- 
 i'^ilo siie hurriedly put on her garments and took 
 ilic train for New York. 
 
 'Not letting her friends know anything about 
 tt, she went directly toward the slums. The Bow- 
 ery looked the same, and Hilda recognized the 
 ^ame little dirty children who had passed and 
 repassed that day she was speaking to the boy. 
 
 She ordered the cab to drive up and down, and 
 kept her eyes strained upon the children that 
 passed. 
 
 It seemed an eternity before she heard a great 
 -^vhoop and a string of children came tearing 
 down the street. In the center of the gang was 
 the little golden-haired boy. His face was plas- 
 tered with candy, his legs bare and dirty, but 
 Hilda did not care. She wanted to talk to him 
 
 An old woman with but few teeth and with 
 ^i^:I3^3 of dissipation, ran out of a house near-by. 
 
132 A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. 
 
 ^^Midge!'' screamed she, with shaking fist, ^Vill 
 you come here? I wants youse." 
 
 Hilda saw the boy drop down among the chil- 
 dren, hiding from the terrible creature. 
 
 ^'Where in de devil is dat kid?" shouted the 
 woman, as she came rushing on toward the dirty 
 bunch of urchins. 
 
 "He ain't here, mum,'' said an older child,, 
 pushing back toward Midge, for since the boy had 
 asserted himself and insisted upon the trousers 
 due his dignity and years, the little fellow had 
 been proclaimed King of the Bowery. 
 
 But the sharp eyes of the old hag were as edged 
 as her teeth. She saw a golden gleam, and, stoop- 
 ing down, picked the child out from among the 
 rest by his curls. The roar that went up from 
 the red lips was anything but refined, and a few 
 oaths dropped from between the set teeth. 
 
 "Let me go, you old wench !" shouted the lad. 
 "I hate you, you let me go !" But he was being ^ 
 walked away by the hair of his head, and had 
 not Hilda interfered there is no telling what 
 would have happened to Midge. 
 
A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 133 
 
 Mag turned as the beautiful lady drove to her 
 Bide. 
 
 "Is that the child who sells the flowers?" said 
 «he, thinking if she told her real errand she would 
 be balked by the hag. "I purchased some from 
 him the other day, and want some more." 
 
 The long, bony fingers loosened themselves 
 from the curls, and Midge stood with drooping 
 €yes before the first woman who had ever kissed 
 him. Well did the little chap remember that ca- 
 rees ! He had even hated to wash his face for fear 
 of losing the sweet sensation. But he remem- 
 bered that next morning after a ducking in the 
 river his heart had burned as hard and the kiss 
 was as sweet as when first placed there by the 
 rosy lips of the beauty. 
 
 "You will take this money, woman," said 
 Hilda, holding out a bill toward the old hag, "and 
 let the child come in here with me, so that he can 
 get me some more flowers." 
 
 "Ah, that's right, my little boy," wheedled 
 she. "He is such a good boy, and gives his mother 
 all the money he gets. I loves dat boy, I do." 
 And croning over the paper in her hand she 
 
i 
 134 A CHiLD OP THE SLUMS. 
 
 watched the little lad bundled into the cab anc 
 the driver turn the horse's head toward Broad- 
 w ay. Midge counted himself a lucky boy. May-' 
 be he would get another kiss. He had no doubw 
 that the lady really did want the flowers, but 
 another caress he must have. 
 
 Hilda said no word as they drove 'along, but 
 Midge feared he was going to be cheated out of 
 the kiss. 
 
 Raising his face toward hers, Hilda saw tin 
 black eyes which stirred her to the very soul 
 looking into her face. 
 
 "Will you do him ag'in?" and Midge delicately 
 touched the sacred spot where the two beautiful 
 lips had rested before. 
 
 The mother-heart in the woman opened like a 
 flood. There was something in this dirty little 
 child that carried her out of herself. 
 
 She placed her two arms tightly about him. 
 Pressing her lips to his she gathered in the kissea 
 as if hungry. The fair face of the boy flushed 
 under the emotion, but Hilda remembered after 
 he was gone that he clung to her with a fervor 
 equal to her own. 
 
A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 135 
 
 "Do you live with that dreadful woman ?'^ 
 fvSked Hilda, when she had made the child under- 
 ^itand that she only wanted to talk with him 
 ^gain, and did not want flowers. 
 
 "I lives with her, but she ain't my mother,'^ 
 was the answer. 
 
 "Have you no friends, then, at all? No one to 
 kiss you like I did?" and the flood of color which 
 «wept over the woman's face to the lovely neck 
 was answered by one equally vivid in the face 
 ^f the boy. 
 
 "I were never kissed before," said he. 
 
 "Then, poor little fellow, you have not a friend 
 in the world?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, I has one, and he is a good man: 
 that is Mr. Wentworth, but he is awful sick and 
 maybe won't get well." 
 
 Hilda caught her breath. Had the villain now 
 seeking to marry a good girl lied to her as to the 
 death of the heir to a fortune which Gerson had 
 claimed? v 
 
 She did not say anything for a long time, and 
 then took the child's face in her hands and again 
 kissed it. Midge was getting used to such warra„ 
 
136 A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 
 
 passionate kisses ; he could now enjoy it without 
 the guilty flush. 
 
 ^^I love you, little lad,'' said Hilda, "and I 
 wonder if you would like to come home and live 
 wdth me?" 
 
 Ah, how strong are the ties of motherhood, 
 and how tense the longing for her lost oae ! Who 
 can tell but that the very vibrations of the air 
 had led the golden-haired woman to the dark- 
 «yed child in the Bowery? 
 
A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 137 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 ^'Willing to go with her, to be kissed and loved 
 forever?" 
 
 This was the thought that flashed over Midge, 
 as with proprietary action he leaned back, with 
 a sigh, in the cab. 
 
 "Would you like to live with me always?'^ 
 Hilda said again. 
 
 "Course I would,'' replied the child,'' and I 
 could have all der kisses you has, couldn't I?" 
 
 Hilda laughed happily. Something in her 
 heart answered to the wish of the child for 
 caresses. 
 
 "I have a good husband at my home, who would 
 be very good to you, Midge." Hilda had almost 
 y said "Dicky." She would call him "Dick," if he 
 should come home with her. 
 
 "Tell me about this Mr. Wentworth," said she. 
 *^Tell where he is and how he came to live in such 
 a place." 
 
 ^^Well, youse see," began Midge, "dat he ain't 
 
138 A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 
 
 got no money. And his friend went off and left 
 him for dead, so the man ain't got no one but mc. 
 I'll stand by him till the dogs are all et up.'^ 
 
 "The what?" questioned Hilda. 
 
 *'Dogs, weinerwursts, frankfurters," said the ^ 
 €hild, trying to explain away the mystified look 
 tliat came into the blue eyes. 
 
 "Oh," was all she said. 
 
 Hilda did not forget to give the child i .v..,.,.. 
 money to appease the wrath of the woman witli 
 whom he lived, telling him that it would not be 
 long before she would see him again. She toolc 
 him into a store and purchased him a pretty suit, 
 having his face washed at the barber shop, where 
 the tangled hair was cleaned and put to rights. 
 
 Midge strutted along in his new boots and fine 
 clothes, and Mag could not believe her eyes when 
 he slipped another bill into her hand. 
 
 "You ain't goin' to wear them brand-new 
 shoes, you little loafer," said she, with a squeak. 
 ^^You take them right over to the shop and get a 
 dollar an' bring it back to me." 
 
 "I guess not," replied Midge, "for the lady is 
 comin' again, and she said if I did not have dese 
 
A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 13(> 
 
 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 
 <jerson, firmly^ "for if certain people get a sight 
 of his face the game will all be off. Do you 
 mderstand?" 
 
 Bill stuck out his tongue and rolled a large 
 ^uid of tobacco into his cheek. 
 
 "Leave the sick bird to me. I always did hate 
 Jiim, he was so tender with the kid. Why, once 
 
A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 153 
 
 altec I had strapped the brat, I saw the fellow 
 bathing off the blood wid a wet rag.'^ 
 
 Gerson shuddered. 
 ^ Such cruelty as was in the big, ugly body 
 would deal summarily with the weak man he had 
 left in the^ark. 
 
 As he walked aw^ay a good impulse came over 
 him to undo the dreadful work. He was taken 
 back into the past when, one day, he, with five 
 other good fellows, lay waiting for the coming 
 of a maiden. Yet Gterson could hear the sweet 
 voice sing: 
 
 ^^The hours I have spent with you, dear heart, 
 Are as a string of pearls to me." 
 
 And again the heated imagination could detect 
 the sigh which came with the words : 
 
 "I kiss each bead and strive at last 
 To learn to kiss the cross.'' 
 
 How many times had the lips which he would 
 have given worlds to press, kissed that same cross 
 ahe hstd sung about ! How many tears had washed 
 
154 A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 
 
 away the gilt from her rosary, the incense of 
 which would not and should not bless Frank 
 Wentworth ! 
 
 This thought made Gerson wheel about. He 
 hailed a cab, and looking out of the window as 
 he was being driven toward the avenue, he saw 
 Bill walk thoughtfully into the hovel where he 
 had left his wife. 
 
 There was much whispering between Bill and 
 Mag, once the w^oman strenuously objecting to 
 something. She got up and walked to a place 
 in the floor and raised a trap-door. Into this 
 she peered, flashing the stub of a candle about 
 to see the interior. 
 
 "He would die in there,'' said she, after the 
 examination. 
 
 i^Not if he will do as I tell him/' was the 
 answer. "He don't need to stay dere three hours 
 if he will go from the country, and a good gen- 
 tleman will pay his way." 
 
 "He must have a bug up his sleeve, this good 
 man," sneered Mag. "Oh, you can't fool me, Bill. 
 Youse is a-goin' to hurt that boy." 
 
 ''Ain't not," reiterated the man. "Won't a <. 
 
A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. 155 
 
 Bothin' to him but keep him from the light of 
 day.'' 
 
 "And I can guv him food and water as long as 
 he is there?" 
 
 "Feed him on the best in der land, Mag, if 
 youse wishes, only don't let der kid know where 
 he is." 
 
 Mag loved the ugly faced man who was talking 
 to her. He had promised to take her away from 
 the Bowery back to their old home in Ireland if 
 their plans worked, and as long as they would not 
 hurt the lad then she was in for the money. 
 
 Hardly had they ceased planning before the 
 door opened and Frank walked in. Now was 
 the time for action. 
 
 "Oh, I say, Mr. Wentworth, you have never 
 seen the shop I work in, have youse?" asked Bill 
 in such a friendly tone that the sick man turned* 
 
 "I believe not," he answered, languidly. 
 "Where is it?" 
 
 "Hold the candle, old woman, so the lad can 
 see to the very depths." 
 
 Prank cautiously stepped into the foul-smell- 
 ing cellar. The air made him feel faint. 
 
156 A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. 
 
 "This is where we do our work/' said Bill, 
 lifting a huge hammer and then dropping it on 
 the floor. "You can see by the thickness of dis 
 wall dat no human bein' on der outside can hear 
 one t'ing from der inside." 
 
 "How do you ventilate it?'' asked Frank, peer- 
 ing at the moulds and such-like things lying in 
 confusion upon the floor. 
 
 "We leaves the door open into the kitchen at 
 night ; 'twouldn't do to hev a window, with snoop- 
 ing kids about." 
 
 Prank made a move toward the stairs. But the 
 powerful body of Bill Maglone had borne him 
 to the earth before he could speak. 
 
 "You're goin' to stay in here for awhile," said 
 he, With a sneer, as he fixed a chained padlock 
 about the ankle. "There is a gentleman who is 
 anxious to hev you go abroad for youse health, 
 and when youse says youse will go, then we will 
 take you from this place." 
 
 No amount of persuading could make the coun- 
 terfeiter change his mind. Frank watched the 
 man as he climbed the stairs and rapped three 
 times upon the door. The trap lifted, the fellow 
 
A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. 157 
 
 squeezed through and the patient was alone. All 
 he could hear was the slight noise of walking 
 upon the floor overhead. He knew that the out- 
 side world was as far away as the depths of a 
 tomb would be from the shining sun. There 
 would be no use to call for help, he knew this. 
 It would be better to keep his waning strength 
 for future use. 
 
 It was at this time that Midge came home with 
 the little meagre message which the dark-haired 
 girl had sent. The long wait on the steps, the 
 coming night, the darkness, and yet no Frank, 
 filled the child with the sense of coming evil. He 
 could not imagine what had come to his friend. 
 Mag came out once and kicked the child into 
 action. 
 
 *^Get along wid youse,'^ shouted she, "and don't 
 sit there like a stupid fool !" 
 
 But the boy only moved to a step farther up 
 the street and remained silent. After it had be- 
 come so late that he feared a beating he stole 
 back into the house and laid twenty-five cents be- 
 side the sleeping old woman^ whom the husband 
 had charged not to leave the room during his 
 
15S A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. 
 
 absence. Midge, without supper, climbed the 
 ?^tairs and proceeded to take off his small trousers 
 and slide into bed. The money on her plate sat- 
 i>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 
 <?urls arranged by the maid and the little white 
 suit standing out straight and stiff. 
 
 Tom laughed as, taking the youngster in his 
 arms, he kissed the pink face with satisfaction. 
 
 "Certainly, he is a winner," said the big fel- 
 low to Hilda, who displayed Midge with pride. 
 
 "He is not going to swear any more," said she ; 
 *^are you Midge? And then when he goes to school 
 all the children will think he is such a nice boy." 
 
 "What did the old people think of giving him 
 up to you?" asked Brittle. 
 
 "I didn't ask them, I just took him," answered 
 Hilda, innocently, giving Midge another kiss. 
 ' Brittle went into fits of laughter. Hilda 
 fxUsLed, while the boy looked surprised. 
 
A CHILD OF THH SLUMS. 175 
 
 **Why, little woman/^ said Tom, as soon as he 
 could get his breath, "they will be after you for 
 kidnapping before the day is out. You can't take 
 a person's child without asking." 
 
 Midge drew nearer to Hilda. 
 
 "Do I have to go back?" whimpered he, bob- 
 bing his curls about before the glass with pride. 
 ^^I don't like Mag and Bill, now that Mr. Frank 
 is gone." 
 
 "If you go, little lad," Brittle said assuringly, 
 "you shall come back again. We will go with 
 him and get papers of release." 
 
 With a sinking heart Midge and Hilda, in the 
 cab beside Tom, drove to the slums. 
 
 Mag and Bill were speculating upon the advis- 
 :^Mlity of hunting for the child at all. They were 
 r; raid of calling the attention of the police to 
 Heir illicit money factory under the walk. 
 
 Then Wentworth would be found and all their 
 plans ruined. In M^g's mind floated the scene 
 lof her childhood. The river which ran along the 
 Irish home appealed to her sense more than 
 anything else. If the young man in the cellar 
 could be made to understand that he must come 
 
176 A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. 
 
 to their terms, all would be well. But a mo: 
 obdurate man could not be found. Gerson hi\ 
 not come again, and all the torturing of the lii. 
 den man had been done by Bill, added to ^ilag 
 coaxing. 
 
 Brittle and Hilda, holding tightly to Midge 
 hand, walked into the shanty. 
 
 "Oh, you're back, are you, kid?'' sneered Mag,, 
 trying to put her hand upon the child's arm. 
 ^^It's about time you came back and did the work 
 for youse poor mother." 
 
 Brittle lifted his hand with a gesture of impa- 
 tience. Midge only tightened his grasp upon the 
 white fingers, which gave back an answering 
 pressure. 
 
 "Have you any papers about the parentage of 
 this child?" asked Tom. "If you have, it will be 
 to your advantage to produce them." 
 
 "The child was left here one dark night by ita 
 mother. She is dead and Midge has been here 
 ever since." 
 
 "Then she left some letters or something. I 
 will give you one hundred dollars to give them 
 to me." 
 
A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. 17/ 
 
 '^Don't want to give up the kid/' obstinately 
 said the hag, with a sidelong glance at Bill, whx v 
 had remained quiet during the interview. 
 
 "But you will be made to give him up,- ^^^^ . 
 Brittle, sharply, "so you might as well get name 
 good out of it. If the court takes him away or 
 the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Chil- 
 dren, you will get nothing. Now, what do jou 
 say? May I have the papers for one hxmdredi 
 dollars?'^ 
 
 "You may have the kid for that price," drawled 
 Bill. 
 
 "No, I am not buying flesh," said Tom, "Yoa 
 have some letters; these you will give to me." 
 
 Bill looked at Mag. She gave him a knowing: 
 wink. Together they stepped into the yard. 
 
 "You'd better give the kid for the money," said 
 the man ; "and if youse got any papers, hand 'em 
 over." 
 
 Mag entered the house again and went mysteri- 
 ously into the inner room, where she and Bill 
 slept. 
 
 Then, coming out, she knelt upon the floor,, 
 
178 ^ CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 
 
 loosened a board and shoved her hand into the 
 opening. 
 
 Suddenly a long, deep groan fell upon the ear 
 of the eager watchers. Brittle stepped upon 
 Hilda's foot to enjoin silence. Midge was too 
 well trained to move a lash. 
 
 So the incident passed unnoticed. Mag drew 
 out the bunch of papers and hastily »lammed 
 down the plank. 
 
 ^^Now, you'll give me the money 'fore you get 
 dese," said she, sullenly. 
 
 "I must first be assured that they are the ones 
 I want." 
 
 Mag gingerly unfolded the package of letters, 
 took out a little slip and placed it in Brittle's 
 hand. 
 
 This is what he read : 
 
 'When I am dead, notify Tom Brittle, 48 Wall 
 street, and tell him I stole the little golden- 
 haired child from a woman on the train. 
 
 "Agnes Brittle.^' 
 
 For a few moments Tom Brittle looked so 
 dazed at the paper in his hand that Hilda thought 
 
A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. lYf 
 
 he was ilL She leaned over and murmured, 
 ^*Dear Tom, has anything happened ?'' 
 
 The answer was the slip. Hilda read, with 
 mingled emotions, the little deathbed plea, know- 
 ing full well that she had recovered her child. 
 
 "He is mine after all, Tom," screamed she, 
 gathering Midge into her close embrace. "My 
 little lost Dicky ! Oh, my baby, my baby !" 
 
 Still Tom Brittle did not move. Back into the 
 past, like a glint of vivid lightning in the sky, 
 went his mind, to that little sister, Agnes, and 
 the awful uncertainty of her fate. How the dear 
 mother had mourned her as dead! None knew 
 where she had gone. And all these years she was 
 lying in Potter's Field! 
 
 Mechanically he handed out the five twenty 
 dollar bills to Mag. Then he opened the letters 
 and for a long time read, read with tears cours- 
 ing down his cheeks, his heart filled with pain. 
 
 There was no mistake about the dead woman, 
 and Hilda knew that she had found her child. 
 Only Midge kept his eye upon the board where 
 the groan came from, and through the alert^ 
 
;180 A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. 
 
 childish mind swept the idea that Frank Went* 
 worth was being held there against his will. 
 
 He did not dare to mention the fact, but waited 
 until they were safely out of doors. 
 
 Brittle asked many questions about the girl 
 Avho had tottered into the house those years ago. 
 and had died before help could be brought her, 
 Mag made the most of her action and the care 
 w^hich had been given the child. 
 
 Brittle handed her four hundred dollars more, 
 as appreciation, before going, making her sign a 
 receipt and also a release upon the child. 
 
 Midge watched with large, wondering eyes the 
 transaction, not understanding it all. He only 
 knew that a pair of tense white arms were about 
 his neck, and passionate kisses were ever being 
 showered upon his little upturned mouth. 
 
 "Do you understand, fittle boy," whispered 
 Hilda, "that you are my very own little lost 
 baby? That I am your mother?" 
 
 "Thank youse,'' answered Midge, gravely. "I 
 w^ants a mother. Mine is dead," and Midge 
 pointed a little finger in the direction of the 
 /river. 
 
A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. 18£ 
 
 *^But I am your own mother, Midge; it was not 
 yours that died; I was your mother when you 
 were a little baby. And a poor, sick girl stole 
 you from me* I will never let my little Dicky 
 go away again." 
 
 Lovingly did the mother repeat over the name, 
 while she smoothed back the curls which covered 
 the little head. 
 
 Brittle was talking about the woman, glean- 
 ing all the news he could for the little Puritan 
 mother of the dead up in the hills of New York. 
 
 Mag wanted to keep the money after the car- 
 riage had driven away, but Bill simply held out 
 his hands, and the bills were transferred. 
 
 "Did you hear the noise he madQ when I opened 
 the board?" asked Mag, jerking her finger in the 
 direction of the trap. 
 
 "I think I did," answered Bill, "and I'll see 
 . that he don't do it again." 
 
 "What is youse going to do?" asked Mag, lay- 
 ing a detaining hand upon BilPs arm. 
 
 "Going to close his trap forever !" 
 
 Mag shuddered as she saw Bill take the heavjr 
 
183 A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. 
 
 thongs from the hook. His face was awful to 
 behold. 
 
 Should she allow him to enter that lower room 
 and torture the youth in his distress? When Mag 
 made up her mind she generally had her way. 
 
 ^^Now, don't do anything like dat, Bill/' argued 
 she, "fer I ain't goin' back to Killarney wid d: 
 death groans of a fellow a-ringing in my ears. 
 Don't do it, Bill." 
 
 But the man was determined. He snapped the 
 long whip within close proximity of his wife's 
 face, and with a sneer strode to the trap-door. 
 
 "If youse hurts him," said she, with a fearful 
 oath, "then I will bring dis ax down upon youse 
 pate 'fore you leaves him dead." 
 
 Still Bill kept on. He opened the door and 
 commenced to descend the steps heavily. 
 
 Mag was as good as her word. She raised the 
 ax in her hand to let it fall upon the old grey 
 head as it disappeared, but the weapon of death 
 was caught from behind. Mag turned and looked 
 into the fleishing eyes of Richard Gerson. 
 
A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 183 
 
 CHAPTER XIL 
 
 As the Brittles rolled away toward Broadway, 
 Midge suddenly spoke : ^^I t'inks they have Mr. 
 Frank in the counterfeiters' cellar." 
 
 Brittle called for the coachman to wait, as he 
 conferred with Hilda. 
 
 ^'We ought not to leave a fellow being in a 
 place like that. Maybe they will make away with 
 him now before help will come.'' 
 
 ^^Then let's go back/' said Hilda, bravely. ^*I 
 am willing, and especially if it might be Ruth's 
 Frank. I am so happy, darlings now, that my 
 heart is singing all the time. I would see my 
 little friend as happy as I am." 
 
 Brittle called a policeman standing on the cor- 
 ner and related the occurrence to him. The offi- 
 cer called two more and Brittle piloted the way 
 to the hovel they had just left. 
 
 Gerson, in taking the ax from the hand of Mag 
 
184 A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. 
 
 and the scuffle that followed, caused Bill to re- 
 ppear again from the cellar. 
 
 '^What's the racket?'' yelled he, and then, see- 
 rig Gnerson, he sat down to tell the story. 
 
 Midge was the son of Hilda, then, making the 
 ^oj^ his child, so thought Gerson. For a moment 
 i^he better depths stirred in the man's heart. He 
 < iild remember the shock he had received when 
 first seeing the child. It must have been the re- 
 lation between them, and the striking likeness ta 
 the girl he himself had ruined. 
 
 *^Now the kid has gone, what are you going to 
 do with him?" pointing toward the cellar. 
 
 "Finish him and take the body away to-night. 
 1 ain't going to be bothered any more wid him.'' 
 
 Gerson started. This was what he wanted. To 
 he rid of the man would be Heaven, indeed. 
 
 "I will give you ten thousand dollars if you put 
 Mm out of the world by morning." 
 
 Bill's eyes glittered. Such an amount had 
 mever been placed within his grasp before. How 
 ^much could be done, and, as Mag said, they would 
 .return to their old home and give up the danger* 
 aas business of making bad money. 
 
A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 185 
 
 ^*I'll do the job/' said he, with a satisfied grunt. 
 
 *^When?'' 
 
 "As soon as the old woman goes to sleep. She 
 is a buggy wench.'' 
 
 Mag was crooning over a pail of beer, which 
 had stood for some time, but it was all the same 
 to her perverted taste. 
 
 "My position is a dangerous one," went on Ger- 
 son, "and with that man living, I am not safe." 
 
 Together they went into the cellar with the 
 smoky little candle. Frank lay on his side, sleep- 
 ing. He groaned as the light flashed into his 
 face. 
 
 "You got company, Mr. Frank," said Bill, lay- 
 ing stress upon the name as they had all heard 
 Midge do; "a gentleman to see youse on busi- 
 ness." 
 
 "To settle your hash, once for all, Wentworth," 
 sneered Gerson. "You are not to have your own 
 way any longer." 
 
 "Am I to be killed?" asked Frank, wishing that 
 he had come to Bill's terms, and yet hating him- 
 self for the thought. 
 
 "Youse is going to have a chance for youse 
 
186 A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. 
 
 life/' said Bill, and Gerson looked at the man,, 
 wonderingly. 
 
 "He is goin' to fight youse, Mr. Gerson," be- 
 gan Bill, with a wink ; "his muscles are so strong 
 dat dere ain't no chance for youse." Bill blinked 
 lieavily his vile eyes and Gerson burst into loud 
 laughter. 
 
 "Now, then, we will start," and Bill unloos- 
 ened the chain which had cut deeply into the leg 
 of Frank. 
 
 Suddenly Ruth flashed into the sick man's 
 mind. Gerson had lied to him; she would not 
 take him as her husband. Now he knew that he 
 had been deceived all along and that the wicked 
 old woman now in her grave had told him a false- 
 hood in the letter she had called confidential. 
 
 He rose to his feet, staggering for the want of 
 strength. His strong face shining in the flicker- 
 ing flame caused Bill to grunt. 
 
 "I'll see dat there is fair play fer once/' whis- 
 pered he; "the bloke sha'n't be de one to cheat. '^ 
 
 Frank in his weakness grasped the big body 
 of Gerson. Like a child he was thrown upon the 
 stone floor. Gerson^s knee was upon his breast- 
 
A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. 187 
 
 They all heard a commotion upstairs, and Mag 
 appeared at the entrance of the hole. 
 
 "The cops is here, Bill," whispered she; "the 
 cops is here." 
 
 "Give me your knife, Bill," demanded Gerson. 
 "I will fix this throat so it won't tell on me." 
 
 But fate had willed a better ending for the 
 unhappy Frank. 
 
 Two officers pulled the fighting man from his 
 breast, while in a struggle with Bill the latter 
 was shot. Brittle raised Frank from his position 
 and almost carried him into the open day. There 
 Midge greeted him with tears of joy. 
 
 "She is my own mudder from the baby days," 
 said he, pointing proudly to Hilda, and she, anxi- 
 ous over her friend waiting for news of a lover 
 which never came, asked him about Ruth, and 
 if he had ever known such a girl. 
 
 "I have always loved her," sobbed Frank, weak 
 from his trial," but thank God, I shall see her 
 soon." 
 
 It did not take the party long to get to the 
 Mathers' home. 
 
188 A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 
 
 Euth little knew what happiness was in store 
 for her. 
 
 All the morning she had restlessly walked the 
 ' floor, waiting for the return of the Brittles. She 
 was so glad for the little, loving mother-heart 
 that Hilda had found some child to take the place 
 of her own lost darling. She did not yet know 
 that Midge was the little lost Dick. 
 
 She walked up and down the room in anxiety. 
 The very vibration of the air seemed to tell her 
 something had happened. Hilda was now run- 
 ning up the stairs, with Midge by the hand. 
 
 The sight of the pale girl reduced her to tears. 
 
 '^Darling Euth," cried she, "this little lad is 
 my own baby, and poor Tom found in the woman 
 who took Dicky, his own sister. We are going to 
 have her taken from Potter's Field and brought 
 to the family plot. She was deceived by a man 
 and her baby died. Tom's people never knew what 
 became of her." 
 
 "Yep, and," shouted Dicky, willing to tell all 
 
 the news, "you does not " Hilda placed her 
 
 hand over the little mouth. She chided the child, 
 and the youngster subsided, sitting like a little 
 
A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 189 
 
 drum-major, watching with big eyes as the two 
 women cried in each other's arms. 
 
 "I'm so glad that you are happy, Hilda. If my 
 lot were only as easy! I have no faith in that 
 awful man who is constantly urging me to be his ^ 
 wife, and yet I cannot be impolite and let him 
 know that I think he is masquerading under false 
 colors." 
 
 "Dat's what he was," shouted the irrepressible 
 Dick. 
 
 "Hush, Dicky, dear," again chided the gentle 
 mother. 
 
 "If I only knew that Frank were well, and not 
 in trouble," whispered Ruth, "I would be happy. 
 The summer will seem^ so long again. I think I 
 shall go to Europe." 
 
 "And take me, too, and mama, and the big 
 papa?" this from Dicky, who could not see why 
 ie could not talk as he wanted to, to his new' 
 Aunt Ruth. Then came the last and the best. 
 Ruth had suffered long and much. It is well be- 
 fore closing this story of human love and human 
 AYoes to give the brave little heroine her happi- 
 ness. 
 
190 A CHILD OP THE SLUMS. 
 
 Hilda took the girl by the arm and led her to 
 the music room. 
 
 ^*I want you to play for me, dear," said she, 
 ^^for I am so happy to-night." 
 
 Kuth sat at the piano, not knowing that a very 
 tall, pale young man was standing looking at her. 
 She played on for a few moments, singing that 
 old-time song, 
 
 ^The hours I've spent with you, dear heart. 
 Are as a string of pearls to me," 
 
 w^hen a sound at the back of the room, strangely 
 like a human groan, aroused her from the little 
 dirge-like melody she was playing. 
 
 Into her dark eyes were looking two darker 
 ones. Into a pair of waiting arms the girl glided. 
 She needed no one to tell her who the being was ; 
 her heart had fastened itself upon the rock, and 
 Euth was happy at last ! 
 
 ^'And I have waited for you so many years !" 
 f .sobbed she, stroking the pale face. "And what 
 liave they done with that dreadful man?" 
 
 ^^ We will not speak of him any more," said 
 
A CHILD OF THE SLUMS. 191 
 
 Frank, "for with his own hand he ended a bad 
 
 life." 
 
 Hilda and Brittle crept in. Dicky was prancing 
 for joy as he saw the two, Euth and Frank, in 
 each other's arms. 
 
 "Ain't dat nice, old bloke?" he asked lovingly 
 of Frank. "She am der daisy in the locket.'' 
 
 "Yes, I have back my darling, thanks to you," 
 said Frank, and Hilda and Tom left the lovers 
 to their happiness. 
 
 Dicky was being put to bed. His little face 
 was snuggled into the pillows, and after he had 
 fallen asleep his father and mother stood over 
 the child. 
 
 "Isift he a beautiful youngster?" said Tom, 
 with pride. "I wish we had a little fellow of our 
 own, dear." ( 
 
 Hilda's face covered with blushes as she re- 
 turned : "Dearest, if lots of little children play 
 about us and call us by the dearest names in the 
 world, we will" (and here Hilda stooped and 
 kissed the shining yellow hair) "we will never 
 forget this dear little Child of the Slums." 
 
 THE END. 
 
Books By Florence Edna Mc/ 
 
 THE UNWANTED CHJ.D 
 
 In her book founded on the. 
 famous play of the same name 
 the author has woven a story of 
 pastoral life, showing the diffi' 
 pulties experienced by one of 
 these children. With the gifted 
 pen of an able writer she wenves 
 a plot true to life, with touches 
 of shame and loathing, hatred and 
 rascality, pride and power, failure 
 and success, and fin<ally happijiess 
 and love crowning all. 
 Those who enjoy a new note in fiction and a 
 
 good love story should not fail to read this great life 
 
 romance. 
 
 Other books by the same author: 
 
 THE UNMARRIED MOTHER. Founded upon the 
 play. Read how the kindly hand of Protecting 
 Providence delivers this wisp of exquisite woman** 
 hood from the toils of a merciless fate. 
 
 THE UNLOVED WIFE. Founded upon the play. 
 Does your husband really love you> 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.