204 CHARITY'S SECRET.
innate dread of being found credulous and a dope. “You speak falsely. You were not one of the sufferers on Monday night. And I fear,” feeling my face burn, “it is too easy to guess at the means by which you live.”
I looked for a burst of fury, but to my surprise the girl made no word of reply. She got up and walked straight to the door, as if she had expected detection, and had no hope to succeed in her plan. But she turned there, staring about her at the clothes and food, her painted face distorted, her lips moving without a sound. She made a strange gesture with her hands, the fingers outspread, and then arm and hand falling nerveless—it was like one in a spasm.
I had heard so much of the depravity and cunning of her class in the large cities, that I felt an inexpressible loathing and disgust for her.
“It is quite useless to try to impose on me,” I said.
“And you are what they call a Christian?” she said, with a look which for years I did not forget. Then she turned and went out. I was angry, hurt, excited; I cried a few hot tears, and pitied myself. But as I went out to George I had an uneasy remembrance of the words, “Inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these, ye did it not to Me.”
It made me heighten her shamelessness, her fierce threatening when I told him the story. I was justifying myself to myself. He was smoking, and his face was turned from me, and as usual, he expressed no opinion, only saying,
“Is she gone?”
“No, zur,” said Ann. “When T let ‘her out, she just sated hersilf on the stip a few doors aff, and she’s there yit.”
-Dr. Brettler put on his hat and went out. I followed him to the door. I saw him go up to the figure sitting on the door-step, speak to her, and give her something which I supposed was money. Then he came back to me and waited. There was a bakery at one end of the street, a gin-shop at the other.
“She went for bread, not whisky,” he said. “Go in, Lou; I will be back in half an hour.”
It was near midnight when he came, and I was asleep. He was called out early in the morning, and only had time to say, the girl's story was partly true, Louisa. Her mother is dying of a slow, torturing disease. If she comes for help today, do not refuse her.”
“But she did not live in Second street, George.”
“No; but she was starving,” and having muffled his comforter about his neck, he went out.
“Men,” I thought, “had such an inconsiderate way of dismissing all subjects.” But the business of the day put her out of my mind—she did not come for aid.
The door was besieged as much as it had been the day before, the contributions as heavy. I noticed a slight change in the class of appli- cants, however; there was little or no gratitude expressed, they claimed the articles as their right; and when they did pray for the Virgin to watch’ over me, ‘cr the clouds to cover me, they did it with one eye speculatively measuring the garment I was giving to their next neighbor. My first business, the day before, had been to see that the other children of Mrs. Clincy, anil the nine of Mrs. Malone were thoroughly clothed, socked, and shod; but today I could not bit fancy that. they were all back again in their old filthy nakedness. About noon, a drove of children of all ages, principally boys, and of all degrees of dirt and rags, took possession of the front steps, making forays inside every quarter of an hour. After dinner, there could be no doubt as to the Malones and Clincy’s, I had clothed them in the morning as ‘Matt Smith's b’ys, mem;” and now they blossomed again in native undress as “Weymers.”
Mrs. Grew was in just after breakfast. “I’m thinking,” she said, “these pants ‘Il suit my Jemmy. “He’s a foine b’y, mum.”
“Jemmy? Wasn’t it Jemmy who was dead that you carried out? No; dying, you told me?”
“Shure, mem, and ’twas a fit he had. He's subject to dem fits. Shure, the yowling and the shindy he makes is enough to dhrive you from your sinses. He’s low, mem; very low.”
“Now, do you mean? Is he still ill?”
“Faith, an’ it’s the docther, as he’s jest left the dure. “Mrs. Grew,’ ses he, “it’s a chance if he holds out till the mornin’,’ ses he. Oh, me! Oh, me!” bursting into a cry of inexpressible pathos. “It’s tomorrow ye’ll be wakin’ him,’ ses he. So I thought the pants would give my poor dead b’y a dacent appearance; but ne'er a coat has he to purtect him from the cowld, an’ him in his coffin!”
“Take a coat by all means, Mrs. Grew,” I said. But, somehow, I could not mingle my tears with hers.
That evening two or three half-grown boys came in, smoking stumps of segars. “I think,” said one, “these breeches ’ud about fit me.”
“What is your name?” asked Ann, sharply.
“Jemmy Grew’s my name; Ireland is my nation.”
Our supper-table was not so cheerful that evening—at least, on my part. George’s face were its quiet, singular look of content when he was especially gratified.
