THE JUDGE’S VOW
The Judge often looked up at a large painting on his study wall—“Even
This Shall Pass Away.”
The words were issuing from the lips of an Oriental king who, seated on
a magnificent throne, was receiving the homage of his courtiers. A
half-sad, half-indulgent smile played about his face, and on his
uplifted hand there could be seen the words deeply cut on a finger ring,
“Even This Shall Pass Away.”
The Judge often looked at this picture. How many, many things had passed
away in his experience—things that apparently never would pass away! How
the time had dragged when Titus lay ill in the hospital! It had seemed
as if he would always be ill, as if his grandfather would always be at
home, a worried and suffering man. But now only a few weeks had gone by
and Titus was at home, and things were going on as they had before his
accident.
The boy was going to school again—no fear of fights now. He could
stutter as much as he pleased. The boys, half savages as some of them
appeared to be, were afraid to touch him.
After breakfast the Judge read his paper, went downtown to the post
office, the bank, and his club, then came home.
The princess was always waiting for him, in her basket by the hearth rug
if it were raining, or on the balcony if it were fine.
As soon as he appeared in the doorway she flew to meet him, lighted on
his shoulder, rubbed her beak gently against his ear, saying “Rookety
cahoo!” a great number of times.
When he put her on the hardwood floor she would circle round his feet,
and finally retire to her basket, where she sat and watched him.
He had become her prime favorite. She liked Mrs. Blodgett and Higby, and
she endured Titus, but she loved the Judge.
On this particular day, or rather evening, she was very much disturbed.
The Judge had had his nap in the afternoon, and his drive, and his
dinner, and now in the firelight and incandescent light, when the room
was snug and cozy, he ought to be reading in his big chair, with
herself, the princess, on one arm of it, occasionally getting her head
scratched. But instead of following the usual order of things he was
muttering to himself something about a vow, and was pacing about the
room.
The princess did not like it, and showed her displeasure by a succession
of sulky “Rookety cahoos!” uttered from her basket.
After a time the Judge rang the bell.
“Jennie,” he said when the parlor maid appeared, “ask Master Titus to
come here after he finishes studying his lessons.”
Half an hour later Titus came whistling down the hall.
“W-w-well, grandfather,” he said, as he came into the study, “what do
you want—a-a-a game of backgammon?”
“No,” said the Judge, “I want to talk to you. Sit down.”
Titus threw himself into a chair, and stared at him.
“When you were ill,” began the Judge, “I, in my extremity, promised my
Maker that if you were spared to me I would show my gratitude by
adopting some poor child who had no home of his own.”
“W-w-whew!” exclaimed Titus, and he drew his black brows together.
The Judge was not surprised. He had feared that Titus might be jealous
of another lad.
He waited a minute or two, then he went on firmly: “This was not blind
impulse. I have all my life known that it was not good for a child to be
brought up alone. Being alone tends to egotism. We are very happy, you
and I, yet I know it would be better for you to have another lad to
share your sorrows and joys.”
“H-h-he might fight me,” said Titus, gloomily.
“I shall get one much younger than you,” replied the Judge.
“O-O-O!” said Titus, easily, “then I can lick him.”
“Titus,” said the Judge, “you know that there are boys and girls in the
world less favored than yourself.”
“Y-y-yes, sir, but they are dirty and lazy, and they have awful
manners.”
“If we get a young child we can mold him. I feel it my duty, boy. I have
enough for you and another lad. There is a fearful amount of suffering
in the world. We should do what we can to lessen it.”
“I-I-I don’t want one of those River Street cubs,” said Titus, sharply.
“I shall take the greatest pains to get a boy of good antecedents,” said
the Judge, decidedly. “You know that my profession has brought me into
contact with crime and criminals. I have a horror of inherited vicious
tendencies.”
“A-a-all right, sir,” replied Titus, with a sigh. “If you’ve promised
we’ve got to do it,” and getting up he walked over to his grandfather
and threw his arm over his shoulder.
Titus was a reserved boy, but just now his slim young figure, pressed
close to the chair in which the Judge sat, was brimful of eloquence.
The Judge’s lip quivered. “Titus,” he said, slowly, “I shall never love
another boy as I love you, and, to tell the truth, I half wish now that
I had not made that vow; but I was in dire trouble, and the Lord
delivered me out of it. Should I not show gratitude?”
“Y-y-yes, sir,” said Titus, hastily. “We’ve had a hard time. I had
thoughts too, sir, when I was lying in bed so long. I’ve deceived you in
lots of things. I’m going to be more straight—I-I-I guess it’s all right
to take a kid. W-w-we’ll bring him to be just like you and me,” and with
a grin he rubbed his black head against his grandfather’s white one, and
then scampered away to bed.
Now the princess was happy. With a great sigh of relief the Judge
settled himself back in his chair, pulled the reading light toward him,
and took up a book.
Sukey flew to his side, and when he became too much absorbed in his
reading to rub her white head she leaned over and gently pecked his
hand.
Young Titus’s illness had extended over a long and cold autumn and into
the first part of December. By Christmas time he was dashing about in
his old way, though he still had a slight limp. Only time would cure
that, the doctors said.
The limp did not keep him off his feet. From morning till night he was
rushing about somewhere, and when the Christmas holidays came he was
simply omnipresent.
According to a long-established custom, he and his grandfather went
downtown every Christmas Eve to see the shops and the people. They
started early on this Christmas Eve—just as soon as they had had their
dinner—and they both would have been very much surprised if anyone had
told them that during this evening a chance would come for the
fulfillment of the Judge’s vow.
Ever since he had mentioned the matter to Titus the Judge had been
quietly looking about for a boy. He had visited several orphan asylums,
and he had written to friends, but though the orphans were plentiful he
was fastidious, and so far some defect had been found in every one
proposed to him.
“This is a joyful season, sir,” said young Titus, as he endeavored to
stride along in a manly fashion beside his grandfather.
The Judge nodded, for this particular season was, as Titus said, an
ideal one. Enough snow had fallen to make sleighing pleasant, the air
was clear and frosty, but not too sharp, and the days were cloudless and
the nights bright. It was a pleasure to be out.
The usual Christmas stir prevailed. The streets were full of people, the
shops were crowded. The Judge and Titus had nothing to buy. The boy had
bought his presents for his grandfather and the servants, and the Judge
had his gifts all neatly done up and labeled. They were in two of the
big drawers of one of his bookcases, and Princess Sukey, the pigeon, had
been the only one to see them as yet.
Everything was gay and cheerful. Nobody seemed sad, nobody sorry. Boys
and girls, men and women, were laughing and talking cheerily, and Titus
was staring about, his eyes going this way and that way, until at last
his grandfather turned his wandering gaze in one direction by saying,
“What do you suppose is the matter with that boy?”
Titus looked straight in front of him.
A small child clad in a long coat and having on a shabby fur cap was
trotting along in front of them. Sometimes he would take several steps
in a straight and assured way, then he would falter and stagger. Once in
a while he would reel up against the shop windows. Upon one of these
occasions he pressed his little face against the frosty glass and gazed
in at the toys.
The child’s cheeks were white and dirty, his eyes were sleepy, and Titus
said in a puzzled way, “Do you suppose anyone would give him anything to
make him stagger?”
“Hardly,” said the Judge, “the little fellow must have extraordinarily
weak ankles. Watch him.”
The child set out again, and this time he staggered so badly that he
fell on the snowy pavement. There he sat with his little face bent, a
curious smile playing about his lips as he gazed, not at the passersby,
but down at the ice and snow.
The Judge and Titus were the first to reach him. “Here,” said the Judge,
and he looked down at the child, “try again,” and he set him on his
feet.
The little boy gave him a slow, scrutinizing glance, then he smiled
mysteriously and said, “My little trotters slipped on the ghosts of
running things.”
“A-a-are you ill?” asked Titus, sharply.
The child softly patted the front of his coat with his mittened hand,
“They kept me late, and Mr. Rat is at his old tricks.”
“You are hungry,” said the Judge.
The child yawned—such a tired, weak little yawn that, to the Judge’s
surprise, he tried to suppress. Then he nodded his little head a great
many times. “There’s something in the oven for me, but it’s a long way
there.”
“We are obstructing the way,” said the Judge, and indeed many persons
had stopped and were listening. “Take his hand, Titus—here, child, come
into this restaurant.”
Like one walking in sleep he gave his hand to Titus, and allowed himself
to be led into the brilliantly lighted white and gold room.
“W-w-wonder what he thinks of it?” murmured Titus to himself. “Here,
boy, take off your cap.”
The little boy struggled to keep his hairy or almost hairless headgear,
but Titus was inexorable. He finally gave it up, but he gazed at Titus
with a slightly injured air, as the bigger boy handed the shabby fur
thing to the waiter.
Then with babyish vanity he put up a hand and smoothed the thin crop of
curls plastered down on his forehead by a band of perspiration.
“What will you have?” said the Judge to him after they had seated
themselves at a small table.
“Cats like milk,” he said, dreamily, “and dogs like broo.”
Titus stared at him, then he said under his breath to his grandfather,
“I-i-is he crazy?”
“No, he is repeating a Scotch jingle. ‘Broo’ is broth. He is terribly
tired. Child,” he went on, “would you like me to read you the _menu_?”
“Please, sir,” he said, shyly, and with tired grace he handed the Judge
the bit of cardboard with which he was playing.
The Judge elevated his eyebrows, put on his eyeglasses, and took the
_menu_ from him.
“Oysters, sir,” said the child, seriously, when the Judge had run over
the list, “_bouillon_, and Democrat-Republican ice cream.”
Democrat-Republican ice cream was a specialty of this same first-class
restaurant, and Titus, hearing this poverty-stricken child show
familiarity with its merits, snickered aloud in his amusement.
His grandfather gave him a warning glance, but the child had not heard
him. He was wearily looking about the pretty room with an air that said,
“I have seen all this before.” Then, while waiting for their orders to
be filled, he quietly dropped to sleep.
Meanwhile the Judge and Titus studied his appearance.
“Do you see,” said the Judge, “that though his face and hands are dirty
his wrists are clean. He is only dirty outside. Look at his ragged
little shirt cuffs. They are quite white—and how nicely his coat is
darned.”
Titus nodded, and as the Judge noted the kindly look on the boy’s face
as he surveyed the sleeping child a light broke over his own face. He
was not romantic nor sentimental, but he was a religious man, and he
believed in the leadings of Providence.
He had been guided to this boy. What a brother he would make for
Titus—that is, and he prudently added an afterthought, if he was without
incumbrances, and his antecedents were good—and meanwhile the little
child slept on.
“B-b-boy,” said Titus, presently, “wake up, and eat your victuals.”
The child opened his eyes, smiled sweetly at him, and calmly took up a
fork.
He went to sleep between oysters and _bouillon_, and _bouillon_ and ice
cream. He slept putting a piece of bread to his mouth—indeed, he slept
with such frequency that Titus wondered how he managed to tuck away so
much food.
At last he had finished, and then he did something that considerably
mystified the Judge and Titus.
After wiping his mouth with his napkin he put the napkin on the table,
and unbuttoning his coat he slipped a hand in the front of it.
As he did this the sleepy look left his eyes, and a sorrowful one came
in its place. Drawing out a small handkerchief with a border of
marvelous lions and tigers, he unrolled it, pretended to take something
out of it and put it on the table. Then he placed crumbs of bread and
cake before this imaginary thing.
“W-w-what are you doing?” asked Titus, bluntly.
“Feeding the little one,” said the child, solemnly.
“W-w-what little one? There isn’t any there.”
“Don’t you see my little mouse?” he asked, impatiently.
“A-a-a mouse!” exclaimed Titus, “je-whillikens! I don’t like mice.”
“He’s dead,” said the child, softly; “a strange pussy killed him—not our
pussy.”
“H-h-how can you feed him if he’s dead?” pursued Titus, with boyish
callousness.
“But he has a little ghost,” said the strange child, gently shaking his
head, “and I carry it here—have you had enough, mousie?” and he tenderly
lowered his head to the table.
“Yes,” he said, softly speaking to himself; then he took up the ghost,
wrapped it in his handkerchief, and put it back in his little bosom.
The Judge felt a strange misgiving. Another animal enthusiast—and this
one worse than Titus, for Titus had little imagination, and interested
himself only with the live bodies of animals, not their dead shades.
The mouse episode over, the child again became sleepy. Titus, who had
managed to dispose of some ice cream himself, jammed the boy’s fur cap
down on his head, and guided his steps behind the Judge to the door of
the restaurant.
There the child sank down on the doorstep.
“U-u-upon my word,” stuttered Titus, “he’s saying his prayers. T-t-this
time he’ll be off for good—must have been drugged.”
“It’s a case of natural or unnatural fatigue,” said his grandfather.
“Drugs would probably cause him to sleep uninterruptedly. Go get a
sleigh and we will drive him home. Child,” and he bent down and slightly
shook him, “where do you live?”
“Forty-five River Street,” he replied, drowsily, “at Mrs. Tingsby’s.”
When he found himself lifted in among warm fur sleigh robes he slept
more soundly than ever.
“River Street—River Street,” said the Judge. “Poor child!”
In a short time they had left the crowded, brightly lighted streets, and
were traversing the long, dingy narrow one that Titus so much disliked.
On one side of the street there were wharves behind the houses. The
traffic for the day was over, and the wharves were dull and deserted,
but there was some life on the street, particularly about the saloons
and small shops.
Even River Street must have its Christmas Eve.
“Forty-five,” said the driver, “here it is,” and he stopped beside a
narrow house—the middle one of three dingy, uninviting dwellings.
“Mere shells of buildings,” muttered the Judge, glancing up at the
houses, “and the poor haven’t coal to heat them, while we with well
built houses have plenty of fuel.”
When the sleigh stopped, and the merry jingle of the horses’ bells
ceased, a curtain was pulled aside from a window of number forty-five,
then the door flew open, and a thin slip of a woman in a cotton dress
ran out to meet them.
“O, the child! the child!—don’t say death to me!”
“Motherly anxiety,” commented the Judge to himself, and strange to say
his heart sank. If the boy had a mother he would never get him.
He stared at the excited wisp of a woman who was dragging the child from
the fur robes, and was violently hugging him. “O, Bethany! Bethany! you
aint dead.”
“Dead, no,” said the Judge, “he is only asleep,” and he proceeded to
tell the woman the story of their finding the child.
She listened to him, holding her head up, and with a strained expression
on her thin face, and after a time the Judge stopped talking, for he
discovered that she had not heard a word of what he was saying.
“I’m deef!” she exclaimed, “deefer than that iron post. Come in, come
in,” and clutching the little boy firmly by the hand she backed into a
tiny hall, and threw open the door of a small front room where a table
was set as if for a meal.
“Wait for us,” said the Judge to the cabman, then he followed her.
The cloth on the table was white but threadbare, and the appointments
were all so meager that the Judge averted his head. He had a tender
heart, and now that he was getting toward old age the awful inequality
between the lot of the rich and the poor struck a painful sympathy to
his heart.
“What makes this boy so sleepy?” he asked, pointing to the little child.
The woman saw his gesture. “Ah! sir,” she said, “it’s cruel to keep them
so late. They begin work at nine in the morning.”
“Work!” echoed Titus.
His clear young voice reached the deaf woman’s ear.
“That there child,” she said, pointing to the little boy, who was
sitting on a small stool stifling yawns, “has been at work sence nine
this morning with bare an hour for lunch—just as sure as I’m a livin’
woman.”
“What work does he do?” asked the Judge.
The woman did not hear him, but she guessed what his question would be.
“From nine to five is the hours, and in the sight of my Maker I vow I’d
not let any child in my care go to sech slavery, if it weren’t that I’m
so hard pressed that upon my word the soul is fairly racked out of me to
get victuals for my children.”
“What does he do?” roared the Judge in her ear.
“Do, sir—makes paper boxes. You know about Christmas time how the rich
folks must have boxes to put their candy in. The contracts for boxes is
let out to men who swallow up the poor. There’s dozens of poor children
a-slavin’ in this city, agin’ the law and unbeknownst to the law. I wish
the Lord had never made Christmas. It’s a good time for the rich. You
take out your fat pocketbooks an’ order presents for each other, an’ you
wait till the last minute, an’ then the poor has to go to work.”
The Judge wrinkled his white brows.
“Look at that table, sir,” continued the woman, “set sence five o’clock
this evenin’—the time the poor is supposed to git off. Look at the sour
bread the baker sells us, an’ the salt butter the grocer weighs us, an’
the molasses, an’ rind of cheese. That’s our Christmas Eve supper, but
sech as it is it’s been waitin’ for hours for my boarders.”
The Judge said nothing, but his gaze went round the shabby room. Nothing
more unlike his idea of a boarding house could be imagined.
The little thin woman with the sharp eyes interpreted his glance.
“Yes, sir, I earns my livin’ by keepin’ boarders—ever sence my husband
was poisoned to death by work in the city sewers. There’s that boarder,”
and she pointed to a plate on the table—“Matthew Jones. He works in a
fur store—overtime now, because it’s Christmas, and some grand lady must
have her set of sables to-night. The light is poor in his workroom, an’
his eyes is bad, but no matter—he’s got to work or be fired. Then next
to him sits Harry Ray. He’s in the express employ. Only seventeen, an’
an orphan. He’s drivin’ till one and two every night now, an’ eatin’ his
lunch on his seat in his cart. He’s got an awful cold. After Christmas
he’ll likely take time to have newmania or grip. Then there’s old man
Fanley. He’s carryin’ parcels for a small firm—poor old soul, stumblin’
round in the cold at night when he ought to be in bed. O! sir, we don’t
hate work, we poor uns, we’ll slave all day, but I do think the rich
might let us have our nights. We’d serve ’em better, sir, we would.”
The Judge bent his white head and nodded it sadly. At times there seemed
no joy, no pleasure in life, only stern taskmasters and shrinking
slaves.
“It’s hardest on the children,” pursued the woman in a lower tone. “My
heart bleeds for ’em. I’ve just got me own in bed. They’re all workin’
too, now that it’s holiday time. I was just waitin’ for this stray
lamb,” and her glance softened as it fell on the bobbing form of the
sleeping child.
The Judge raised his head. “Isn’t this your child?” he asked, sharply.
The woman turned to Titus. “What do he say?”
Titus repeated the question, and she intently watched the motion of his
lips.
“My child!” she exclaimed. “O, law no! Look at my hair, sir, black as a
crow’s. Those curls be quite light,” and she stepped over and laid a
hand on the child’s head.
“Whose child is he?” asked the Judge.
The woman turned to Titus with an impatient gesture. “You say it. His
mustache do cover his lips. I can’t see ’em.”
“P-parents,” cried Titus, “of that boy. Who is his mother?”
“Mother!” repeated Mrs. Tingsby, “nay, that I can’t say till I finds an
owner for the child. ‘Susan Tingsby,’ said his ma when she lay a-dyin’
in this very house, ‘Susan Tingsby, you’ve been a good friend to me.
When the Lord sends some one to take my baby tell my poor story, such as
it is’—an’, sir, I’ve kept the child these ten months. Often I’ve hardly
had bread for me own, but the child of the stranger never suffered.”
The Judge sat quietly for a few minutes. Now that his attention was
called to the fact that the woman was not the child’s mother he saw
quite a difference in their faces. Mrs. Tingsby’s sharp, dark features
were very unlike the pale, plump face of the little one.
“Yes!” she suddenly ejaculated, “the child’s fat enough.”
The Judge looked at her. Though deaf she was not stupid, and she was
marvelously clever at understanding one’s thoughts.
“The children of the poor is mostly that,” she continued. “Much sour
bread puffs ’em out, an’ likewise fresh air which they has plenty of.
But bless your heart, it aint good flesh like rich children’s. Newmania
and consumption takes ’em off like smoke.”
“Ask her to what station in life the boy’s mother belonged,” said the
Judge to Titus.
“W-w-was its mother a lady?” vociferated the boy, with a nod toward the
child.
“A lady! Well, I guess so,” replied Mrs. Tingsby, indignantly, “as much
as you be. She were a school-teacher—out of New York. I know her maiden
name. Her husband’s name weren’t nothin’ remarkable. I don’t mind sayin’
it. It were Smith.”
“Ask her what the husband’s character was,” said the Judge.
“H-h-husband,” continued Titus, “was he good?”
“He were an imp,” said Mrs. Tingsby, shortly.
“An imp,” murmured the Judge. “Go on, Titus, extract some more
information. You can guess pretty well what I want to know.”
“W-w-what do you mean by an imp?” stuttered the boy, speaking very
slowly, and shaping his words well with his mouth.
“Well, young sir,” said Mrs. Tingsby, ironically, “when you grows up and
marries a wife, and goes off an’ leaves her in a poor boardin’ place
like this, an’ only comes home once in a while, an’ takes her an’ the
child to a swell restaurant for lunch, an’ then goes off an’ leaves her
to bread and molasses again, I’ll say you are an imp.”
“I-I-I don’t care much for this woman,” said the abashed Titus under his
breath to his grandfather.
“Never mind, boy—she means well. Ask some more questions. What was the
husband’s business?”
Titus grinned in an embarrassed way. “W-w-what was the imp’s business?”
he inquired.
“Servin’ his master,” said the woman, shortly, and with a glance at the
now sleeping child, “an’ sometimes gettin’ big pay, an’ sometimes
poor—what’s his business?” and she abruptly jerked a forefinger in the
Judge’s direction.
“H-h-he’s a judge,” said the boy, proudly, “retired a few years
ago—o-o-on account of ill health,” he added; “but he’s all right now.”
“Ah!” replied Mrs. Tingsby, and still staring at the Judge she addressed
him significantly, “maybe you’ve seen him purfessionally.”
Judge Sancroft felt an inward recoil, though he said nothing. But he
rose almost immediately, and looked at his grandson.
Mrs. Tingsby was a remarkably shrewd woman. Under the Judge’s reserved
exterior she saw plainly that his heart had been going out to the orphan
child.
“The father is dead,” she said, briefly, “buried by the mother—an’ she
were a saint on earth, an’ is now a saint in heaven.”
The Judge said nothing, and picking up his fur gloves he slowly began to
draw them on.
Mrs. Tingsby’s strained, eager face was bent on him. “The father of the
imp were a minister of the gospel,” she continued, “an’ the imp’s wife—”
She paused an instant. The dead woman had told her clearly not to reveal
her maiden name except to the person who would adopt her child; but Mrs.
Tingsby was so sure that this person stood before her that she made up
her mind to a slight breach of confidence.
“The mother were a Hittaker,” she said, grandly.
The Judge had never heard of the Hittakers, and therefore did not look
impressed.
The woman in her anxiety pulled Titus by the sleeve. “Ask him—aint he
heard of Hittaker—big soap manufacturer. Why, it’s in all the
groceries.”
Titus shook his head. He saw that his grandfather did not know the name.
“Inquire why she does not apply to these people,” said Judge Sancroft.
Titus asked her.
“Apply to ’em! Bless you, didn’t she? What won’t a woman do for her
child. But her own parents be dead. These Hittakers be uncle and cousin
to her, an’ they wouldn’t do a thing—sent back her last letter.”
The Judge got up. “I’ll send some one to you,” he said. “Titus, you tell
her. I’ll report her case, and have some aid given her.”
Titus in his boyish fashion rattled off a sentence. “M-m-my grandfather
will send help to you. Maybe he can get the child a home.”
Mrs. Tingsby laid a lean hand on Titus, but she looked at his
grandfather. “An’ you don’t want the orphan yourself, sir?”
The Judge shook his head.
Mrs. Tingsby locked her hands together. “I like your face, sir. There
has been people fancyin’ the child, but I didn’t fancy ’em.”
Judge Sancroft smiled faintly. Then his hand went toward his pocket.
The little woman’s face flushed crimson. “I’m no beggar, sir. I’ve no
wish for money I can’t earn.” The Judge put out a hand and took hers.
“Titus, shake hands with her,” he said.
“G-g-grandfather,” ejaculated the boy as they stepped over the threshold
of the door leading into the little dark hall, “look at her!”
Mrs. Tingsby stood holding the small lamp aloft for them, with tears
running down her cheeks, and a painful, almost terrified, expression in
her eyes.
“I’ve told a dead woman’s secret, sir,” she said in response to the
Judge’s look of inquiry. “I’ve risked me soul, an’ it aint done no
good.”
The woman’s expression of suffering was so genuine that the Judge
stopped short. How cruel to lay another burden on this already
overburdened back!
She was an honest woman, he could see that. He had had a long experience
in the study of human nature, and she would not have been able to
deceive him if she had wished. Suppose he took the child from her. With
his connections and influence he could easily find a home for it.
“Madam,” he said, courteously, and stepping back, “this is Christmas
Eve, and from my heart I wish you good cheer. If it will give you
pleasure, I am willing to take the child, and to pledge myself to find a
good home for him.”
The woman again twitched Titus by the sleeve. She had partly, but not
wholly, understood.
Titus, who was getting excited, stopped stuttering and told her.
When he finished she turned round, set the lamp down on the table, and
threw up her hands.
“Thank the Lord! Thank the Lord! Here, duckie, old Mother Tingsby has
found you a home. Stir up, and go with the gentleman,” and in feverish
haste she aroused the sleeping child, got him on his feet, and put his
cap on his head.
“Well, well,” said the Judge, in some hesitation, “I did not think of
taking him to-night.”
The woman did not hear him, though she spoke as if she had. “Better have
it over in darkness, with none to see and none to hear. I don’t want to
drag down that sweet woman’s child by any connection with me. Ah! sir,
she was like a sister to me. I’ll miss her child,” and with very genuine
regret she embraced the bewildered little boy.
“I assure you,” vociferated the Judge, “that I am not in the habit of
doing things in secret. I do not care who knows that I have taken a poor
child from River Street.”
Mrs. Tingsby did not hear him, and Titus was too excited to report, so
the Judge slightly shrugged his shoulders.
“I’ll miss my baby—I’ll miss my baby!” she cried, “for there’s not a
soul younger in the house but the kitten—good-bye, pet—good-bye. Old
Mother Tingsby will sometimes sneak up to look in your windows. Sir,
you’ll never give up this child—you’ll let your soul go first.”
The Judge smiled slightly, and catching this smile she suddenly flung up
her black head and fixed two shrewd eyes on him.
“Sir, don’t you be afraid of no fathers an’ grandfathers. Some of my
boarders was talkin’ the other evenin’. Says one of ’em, says he, ‘I’ve
been readin’ a magazine article. It says everyone of us has had thieves
an’ robbers in our ancestors.’ Do you believe that, sir?”
The Judge, in a slightly bewildered state of mind, was pushing his way
out to the hall door, beyond this flood of talk. He had a feeling that
he would like to reach the quiet of his own home, and think things over.
However, some sort of an answer was due to her, so he turned once more.
“I would rather have had that boy’s father an honest man.”
Mrs. Tingsby was so close on his heels, and was listening so intently,
that she caught a few words.
“Boy—yes!” she exclaimed, nodding her head at Titus, and grinning
amiably, “an honest boy!”
“I say,” roared the Judge, stopping short, “that I wish your little boy
had had an unblemished parentage.”
“My boy,” she responded, sadly, “my boy—why, sir, I have three—an’ how
I’m goin’ to raise ’em the Lord knows.”
Meanwhile the child was drawing back. He was now thoroughly roused from
sleep, and his little face was quite disturbed.
“Mother Tingsby,” he said, pulling at the woman’s gown, and drawing down
her ear to his small mouth, “is this the husband of the good third
mother?”
“Yes, lamb, yes,” said the woman, nodding her head a great many times,
“an’ your second mother bids you go. Be good an’ clever.”
The child gave her an anguished glance. He did not wish to go with these
strangers. However, he had been trained to look forward to just such an
event, and he made no protest. Putting his little hand in the one that
Titus held out, he followed the Judge to the street.