It was Saturday afternoon on a busy street in the city. Moses Wopp and Clarence Crump, at whose home the former was spending the week end, were on their way to the skating-rink. If they had wanted to skate there, the streets would have accommodated them with a sufficiently smooth surface, as an early frost had rimed the pavement.,
What matter if the telegraph poles that were to be just twelve feet—that is, twelve inches—fell short or long sometimes.,
She put back his tumbled hair, looked long into his eyes, realizing with a shock that she was looking up. Her little boy was gone.,
“My religion’s purty well wartered now, I guess,” said Moses, sheepishly, to Clarence, who met him at the end of the fateful corridor. That youth had followed his country friend from the Sunday-school hall, but not in time to direct his erring steps.
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“Every tub must stan’ on its own bottom,” commented Mrs. Wopp. But even as she spoke, an unmistakable expression of gratified pride spread over her large motherly countenance.,
“I forgive you,” he condoned.,
“Heavens to Betsey! We’ll do it!”,
“Never min’, Pete, an’ thank you anyways, but sence the lesson’s a hull lot about the sea, I’ll jist write with blue chork.”
“Here is Isobel. What kept you so late, young lady?” As Mr. Crump spoke he viewed the young girl with justifiable pride.
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Edith had quickly put her plan in execution, aided by the willing newspapers; but so far nothing had come of it, and mother and daughter feared their charge had lost more than aunt and cousin. South America, a very definite spot in the child’s mind, was still too vague a postoffice address for even Uncle Sam’s marvellous mail-carrying; and so, while encouraging May Nell, the two women tacitly adopted her into their hearts and discussed her future as if she were their own.
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A dull yellow glow from the kerosene lamp, placed by Moses on the bureau, lighted up the figure of Betty reclining on snowy pillows. On one side of her was seated Howard, his arm about the drowsy child. On the side of the bed, squarely seated on one of Mrs. Wopp’s texts worked into the patchwork quilt, was Nell, watching the little pallid face and trying to avoid the eyes of her silent lover.
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When the train snorted into the station the two were there, Billy with his loaf under his arm, his can dangling. Most of the arrivals were townsfolk home from visits to the stricken city; but a few, evidently strangers, descended and stood by themselves.
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>For I’m a young thing and cannot leave my mother.”
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