PETER.

Peter was thinking. Not that it was an unusual event for Peter to think.

Quite the contrary! To Peter himself it seemed that life was one

continuous round of thinking and planning and worrying. It certainly was

for him, especially since the advent of the baby, that wonderful baby

sister of his. Somehow things had not mattered so much before, when

there was no one to be considered but himself. Now it was different,

with his baby to be thought of and cared for. Peter was worried and

anxious. He felt that a great responsibility rested upon his shoulders.

They were young shoulders, too, far too young to be burdened with the

cares and troubles of life.

The winter wind came tearing down the street, stinging his face and

piercing through his thin garments. Shivering, he turned up the collar

of his worn and ragged coat and thrust his hands deep into the pockets.

Then he hastened on with eyes on the ground and bent down head, for

Peter was thinking. A mighty problem confronted him, a problem which

must be solved at once.

He turned into the dirty, narrow alley in which he lived, opened the

door of a tenement house, and, running quickly up a flight of stairs,

entered Mrs. Dempsey's kitchen. The savory odor of frying ham greeted

his nostrils and reminded him that he had had nothing to eat since

morning. Well, never mind that, he would have supper soon now, he and

baby together.

"Bless me, Peter, is that you home so early?" cried cheery Mrs. Dempsey

turning around from the stove, frying-pan in one hand, a large fork in

the other. "You must have had good luck to-night to be back so early."

Peter caught up in his arms the pretty child who toddled across the

floor and threw herself upon him with a shriek of delight. With a

gravity befitting his great responsibility, he seated himself upon a

nearby chair, holding the baby close to him and smoothing back the

tangled yellow curls.

"Yes, Mrs. Dempsey, I had real good luck to-night. Was all sold out long

afore the other fellers, then hustled right home to baby. I hope she

wasn't no bother to ye, Mrs. Dempsey."

"Bother is it? The darlin', an' she as quiet as a little lamb. It's an

angel she is entirely an' ye'd think so yerself if ye could have seen

the nice supper of bread and milk she ate along with my own young ones."

"Does angels eat bread and milk, Mrs. Dempsey?" Peter asked the question

in all sincerity. He had often wondered about angels and he really

wanted to know.

"Oh, I guess they does," replied the good woman absently, too busy with

her cooking to pay much heed to what Peter was saying. "Goin', Peter?

Wish ye could stay and have a bite yerself, but I suppose if that

precious father of your'n come home and his supper warn't ready he'd

make it pretty hot for you, poor child. Well, good-night, Peter. Bring

the baby back in the morning."

"By the way, Peter," she called after him just as he was closing the

door. "To-morrow's Christmas day ye know. Don't forget to drop into the

church on yer way home and hear Mass, like a good boy."

Peter's ideas on the subject of religion were very vague. Mrs. Dempsey

had told him he must always attend Mass on Sunday and reminded him of

the fact every Saturday night when he would come to claim the baby.

Perhaps Christmas was another sort of Sunday, thought Peter. To him

Christmas had always meant a time when other boys and girls talked of

nothing but Christmas trees and turkey and wonderful presents they had

received. No one had ever given Peter anything. He wondered if Mrs.

Dempsey would. He had not known Mrs. Dempsey last Christmas; she came to

the alley only a few months ago. Life had been somewhat easier for Peter

since her coming for she helped so much in caring for baby while he was

out. He wished Mrs. Dempsey would give baby something for Christmas. He

had hoped to do so himself, but somehow he never could find a cent for

anything except the absolute necessities of life. Sometimes he could do

no more than provide bread and milk for the baby and go hungry himself.

That was when father would beat him and take away the few pennies he was

saving to buy food for the little sister and himself.

With baby held carefully in his arms, Peter descended the two flights of

stairs to his home in the cellar. As he pushed open the door of the

room which served as kitchen and living room in the daytime and as

sleeping apartment for himself and baby at night, the damp chill of the

place struck him as it never had done before. Groping his way to the

table he lighted the candle upon it. Then, after wrapping baby in his

mother's old shawl and depositing her upon their bed in the corner, he

proceeded to make a fire in the cracked and rusty stove. Peter was only

eleven, but the children of the slums are little men and women almost

from their cradles, and Peter was really the man of the family. He it

was who cared for the baby and prepared their frugal meals; he it was

who cried his papers upon the street in the cold darkness of the winter

mornings, who ran errands all day for the grocer on the next corner and

again in the evening sallied forth with his papers under his arm in

order to procure food to keep the life in their bodies. If father ever

earned any money but little of it was contributed to the family support.

As Peter wrestled with the fire, which positively refused to kindle, he

was still revolving in his mind the problem which troubled him. He had

been thinking of it all day, and the only thing he could decide was

that something must be done at once, but what that something was to be

he could not imagine. Things had been going from bad to worse lately,

and after last night he would never know an easy moment while baby was

under the same roof with father and mother. For himself he did not care.

He had grown accustomed to the beatings, to the drunken quarrels and

fearful language; in fact, he had never known anything different. But

last night father had tried to hurt baby. He might try again and perhaps

next time no Peter would be at hand to save her. They were unusually bad

last night, both father and mother; the child was frightened and had

begun to whimper. Angered still further by the sound, the man had seized

a stove-lifter and flung it straight at baby's head. But Peter had

already sprung between and the missile struck him full on the forehead,

causing a wicked-looking bruise. He had lain stunned for a time, then

crept into bed with baby and listened in terror as the quarrel between

his father and mother progressed from words to blows. He had not minded

these things before, but what would he do if father should ever beat

baby as he, Peter, had been beaten so many times? And Peter felt the

time was coming when father would surely do it. Last night was but the

beginning.

A noise from the next room told him that mother must be waking from the

drunken sleep in which she had lain for several hours. At any moment she

might open that door and enter the kitchen, and her temper was always

terrible when she would first awaken from those long sleeps which

followed a carousal. In a few moments, too, father would come home. The

fire refused to burn; so supper would not be ready, and with mother in a

temper and no supper at hand, something would surely happen.

Peter looked at the sleeping baby and shuddered. For her sake he dared

not face another night like last night. Yet, what could he do? A volley

of imprecations from the next room decided him: he must take baby away

from here and at once. Yes, he would take her away, but where, where

could he go? Where in all the great city could he find a shelter for his

baby on this cold winter night? If he did take her away it might be only

to have her freeze to death on the street. Well, they must go, anyway.

No matter what happened to them later they must leave here at once.

Rearranging the shawl so that part of it covered the golden head, he

stooped and gathered the baby into his arms. Then it all came to him in

a sudden flash of inspiration and he almost laughed aloud in his joy as

he hurried from the room and out into the street. He knew exactly where

to go and wondered why he had not thought of it before. How foolish he

had been not to think of it at once!

One day last summer he had stood outside a tall iron railing and watched

a crowd of happy children at play in the grounds which the railing

enclosed. He could see it all now, the yard, the romping children and

the great brick building on the other side of that railing through which

he watched enviously. They were having such a good time, he did wish he

might go in and join in the fun. But he could not spare the time, he had

wasted too much already, and the grocer would scold him for being so

long on the errand which had brought him into the neighborhood of the

yard and the children. As he turned reluctantly away, two ladies passed

and he heard one say in answer to a question from her companion:

"That building? Why, that is St. Teresa's Orphanage, a home for poor

children who have no parents or else have bad ones who neglect or ill

treat them. The good sisters gather in all such needy children whom they

can find, care for them, educate them and teach them a trade so that

they may----"

The rest Peter had not heard, but those few words, spoken by the passing

lady on that day last summer, had suddenly recurred to his mind. "St.

Teresa's Orphanage, a home for children with bad parents who neglect or

ill treat them." That was their case exactly, baby's and his. To St.

Teresa's, then, they must go in search of a home. He was quite sure he

could find it again. It was ever so far away, over on the other side of

the city, but he remembered the way perfectly, and would have no

difficulty in reaching the orphanage.

For some time Peter trudged bravely along the city streets. It was quite

dark now and lights streamed from the windows of shops and houses as he

passed. Throngs of people hurried by anxious to escape from the cold

night to the firesides of home. All these people carried

mysterious-looking parcels; "Christmas presents for some happy little

boy or girl," thought Peter. Twice he stopped to shift the baby from one

shoulder to the other. He never knew before that she was so heavy; his

half frozen little arms almost refused to carry their burden any longer.

He was terribly tired, and he wondered why the lights were dancing so.

They were turning round and round and made him so dizzy he could scarce

see where he was going. He did not think, that day last summer, that the

way was quite so long as this. Surely, he must have been walking for

hours and hours. Oh! why was baby so heavy and why would those lights

persist in dancing so?

He wondered if they could be lost and what would happen to them if they

were. He was almost certain he had taken the right turnings every time,

but he might have made a mistake. At that last corner he was not quite

sure whether he should turn to the left or the right. If they were lost,

what would become of them?

The lights were acting very strangely to-night; they had stopped dancing

now but were all turning black, and what was this funny feeling that was

creeping over him? He sat down hurriedly on some steps he was passing

and leaned his head against the railing for support. He felt baby

slipping from his arms onto the step beside him but was powerless to

hold her. Once more that funny feeling was creeping over him and he

wondered if he could be dying. Mr. Dempsey's Tim had died. Peter had

gone upstairs to see him. They had put him into a funny-looking white

box that was nearly covered with flowers, and he looked so strange lying

there all white and still among the blossoms. The next day the white

box, the flowers and poor little Tim were carried away. The neighbors

said Tim was dead; Mrs. Dempsey said he had gone to heaven. Peter

wondered if he died would anyone put him in a white box and cover him

with flowers; if he died, would he go to heaven and see Tim there?

Peter had often been very anxious as to what heaven was like. He had

asked Mrs. Dempsey. Her answer had not been quite satisfactory, but then

she could not know exactly since she had never been there. And the

angels, what were they like? Again Mrs. Dempsey had been referred to and

again the reply was most disappointing. Beautiful beings with wings?

Why, birds had wings and some of them were very beautiful. As for

singing before the throne of God; well, Peter could not even guess what

the throne of God meant.

He guessed he must be dying; he felt dead already, all except his head.

That would go soon and then he would see the angels he had wondered so

much about. But if he died, what would become of baby? Who would look

after his precious baby? That dreadful thought caused him to open his

eyes suddenly. With a great effort he raised his head and the sight of

the iron railing against which he was leaning made his heart bound with

a sudden thrill of hope and put new life into the exhausted little

frame. It was the railing through which he had watched the children on

that day last summer, and the steps on which he sat were the steps of

St. Teresa's Orphanage. He had taken the right turning after all and had

reached his destination without knowing it.

With difficulty. Peter got upon his feet, lifted the baby and essayed to

drag himself up that long flight of steps. Panting, exhausted, he

reached the top and laid his burden down at the threshold of that door

which always opened so gladly to receive such waifs as he. In the

darkness Peter felt around for the bell. Surely, there must be a bell

somewhere. He must find it quickly for that dreadful feeling was

creeping over him and he knew in another moment he would fall. Where was

it; oh! why could he not find it? At last the despairing fingers touched

the button of an electric bell; they pressed it hard, and a loud peal

rang through the hall inside. Then Peter sank down to the ground beside

the baby and even his head went this time.

A moment later (or so it seemed to Peter) he opened his eyes and saw

bending over him the most beautiful face he had ever beheld. He knew now

that he was in heaven was looking on the face of an angel. It was just

what he should think an angel's face ought to be, so sweet and kind and

gentle, the soft eyes filled with heavenly love and pity. And there were

the wings, too, all white and shining, but Mrs. Dempsey had neglected to

mention that angels' wings grew out of their heads. Somehow, Peter had

supposed their wings grew from their shoulders; he was sure Mrs. Dempsey

had said so. He would like to send her a message and tell her how

mistaken she had been. He wondered if he could.

He felt a gentle hand slip beneath his shoulders and raise him a little

and the angel commenced to feed him with something warm and sweet upon a

spoon. It tasted better than anything he had ever eaten before.

Suddenly he thought of baby. What had happened to her? Was she in heaven

too? He tried to ask the angel, but found he could not utter a word; he

was too weak and tired. The kind eyes watching him interpreted rightly

the anxious look that crossed his face; they were well accustomed to

divining the unspoken troubles of worried little minds. The angel spoke

and to Peter the voice sounded like heavenly music:

"You must not try to talk, dear. Just finish this gruel like a good boy

and then go to sleep again. Your baby sister is quite safe, and is

sleeping sweetly in her crib over in the little one's dormitory. You

shall see her in the morning if you are good now and do as I tell you."

As he finished the gruel his eyes closed wearily for a moment, and when

he opened them again there were two angels leaning over him. The second

was not nearly so lovely as the first, but her face, too, bore that

same look of heavenly sweetness which Peter felt instinctively none but

angels' faces could wear. It was the look which older people than Peter

have often marveled at; the look one sees upon the faces of those who

have died to the world and to themselves and given their entire being to

God in a life of charity and self-sacrifice.

The second angel laid her fingers on his wrist and seemed to be counting

something as she kept her eyes on a small silver watch she held in her

hand. Then she poured a spoonful of bright-colored liquid from a bottle,

and, lifting his head, bade him swallow the medicine. Unquestioningly he

obeyed, and as his head was laid back upon the pillow he felt himself

slipping away into the land of oblivion. Just as consciousness was

leaving him, he heard a voice, seemingly far away, saying:

"He will do very nicely now, Sister Agnes. It was simply a case of

starvation and complete exhaustion."

Vaguely he wondered what she meant.