"Mr. Breaux hurried North in response to his wife's summons, and some days following the ferry disaster, which occurred shortly after the girl left the hotel, a body was found in the river, which from its black cashmere dress, white apron and plain gold ring, was identified as that of poor Rosy.
"The girl had been taken on the recommendation of a former mistress and, as so often is the case, the Breaux' knew neither the name nor the address of this sister, and having,-in addition to the papers being filled with the matter,-advertised in vain, the body was buried and, despairing finally of recovering their child's body, they returned South. Though don't think," said pretty Ruth suddenly regarding Mr. Dilke's attentive face while she laughed, "that I received the story from Mrs. Buckley in any such direct fashion. Such people are not only illogical and irrelevant, they are secretive,-if ever you have to do with them as my work leads me to, you'll understand what I mean. But to continue with Mrs. Buckley. In order to convince her that neither Rosy nor the child, despite her evidence, were dead, I took her straight back to the hospital, and as she then admitted Rosy to be Rosy, any lingering doubts were put at rest. And now you see why I was so relieved when you came this evening. Mother has no better business head than I have, and I want you to help me determine how best to let these Breaux know the child is alive."
But Mr. Dilke, though far from a stupid young man, confessed himself a little dazed by Miss Ruth's rapid and excited story. Whereupon, laughing, she went over it again, adding, "And here is the address and the name is De Leon Breaux, and how shall we word the telegram?"
And after much speculation the following was written and sent:
"Nurse-girl, Rose O'Brien, found in hospital, paralyzed.
Child safe and well.
"VAN ALSTINE DILKE,
"HOTEL ST. GEORGE."
CHAPTER IX. MARY CAREW IS TEMPTED.
When Norma, on reaching home with the tired child, finished her story, which, truth to tell, lost nothing of its dramatic possibilities in her telling, Mary Carew looked up with her face so set and white that Norma, who had been too intent in her recital to notice the gradual change in the other's manner, was startled.
"Don't take on so, Mary," she cried, removing the child's wraps as she spoke, "I've always warned you she wasn't any deserted child, haven't I?" but there was a real tenderness in Norma's voice as she reminded the other of it.
"You'd better get your supper," Mary replied, "it's near time for you to be going," and she pushed her work aside and held out her arms for the child, her face softening as it did for nothing else in the world.
Tired, cold, dazed with crying, the drooping little soul crept into Mary's arms, which closed hungrily and held her close as the sobs began to come again.
Unlike her usual self, Mary let Norma prepare the supper unaided, while she sat gazing down on the flushed little face pillowed on her arm, and drew off the broken shoes, chafing and rubbing the cold, tired feet with her hand.
She wanted no supper, she declared shortly in response to Norma's call, but on being pressed, came to the table and drank a little tea thirstily, and fed the sleepy child from her own plate.
"Now don't take on so, Mary, don't fret about it while I'm gone," Norma begged as she hurried off to her nightly duties. "I'll miss her just as much as you, if it does turn out that we have to give her up, and for the darling's own sake, Mary, we ought to be glad to think she's going back to her own."
But Mary, laying the sleeping child down in the crib, burst forth as the door closed, "An' it's Norma Bonkowski can tell me I ought to be glad! She can tell me that, and then say she'll miss her the same as me! It's little then she knows about my feelings,-for it'll be to lose the one bright thing outer my life as has ever come in it. 'Go back to her own!' Like as not her own's a mother like them fine ones I see on the Avenoos as leaves their little ones to grow up with hired nurses. 'Give her up-give-her up-' Norma says so easy like,-when every word chokes me-" and struggling against her sobs, Mary fell on her knees beside the crib, burying her face in the covers, "an' I must go on sittin' here day after day sewin', an' my precious one gone; stitchin' an' stitchin', one day jus' like another stretchin' on ahead, long as life itself, an' no little feet a-patterin' up the stairs, an' no little voice a-callin' on me,-nothin' to live for, nothin' to keep me from thinkin' an' thinkin' till I'm nigh to goin' crazy with the stitchin'-give her up?"-a wild look was on Mary's face as she raised it suddenly, a desperate one in her eyes-"I'll not give her up-she's mine--"
For a moment she gazed at the flushed face framed about with the sunny hair, then she rose, and, moving about the room with feverish haste, she gathered together certain of the garments which hung from nails about the walls, and rolled them into a bundle. Then from between the mattress and the boards of the bed she drew an old purse, and counted its contents.
"Two dollars and seventy-five,-eighty-five, ninety,-that's mine,-the rest is Norma's," and she returned the remainder to the hiding-place. Then, putting on her own hat and shawl, she lifted the drowsy child, still dressed, and slipping on her cloak, rolled her in addition, in the shawl found with her that July morning almost five months before.
Then grimly picking up child and bundle, with one guilty, frightened look about the room that for so many years had meant home to her, she went out the door and hurried cautiously down the steps and out into the snowy night.
* * * * *
It was half-past twelve when Norma Bonkowski, returning, climbed the stairs of the Tenement wearily. She was cold, for her clothes were thin; she was tired, for the day had been a hard one; she was dispirited, for the manager had been more than usually sharp and critical of her performance that night.
When she entered her door the room was dark. The lamp had burned itself out and the room was filled with the sickening smell. The fire, too, was out, save for a few red embers. With a sudden realization that something was wrong, Norma groped about the littered mantel-shelf for a match, then hastily lit an end of candle. Bed and crib were empty, half the nails bare of their garments.
"Gone!" cried Norma, beginning to wring her hands. Intuitively she felt what had happened. Desperate at the thought of losing her darling, Mary Carew had fled.
But in a moment a re-assuring look replaced the fright on the blue, pinched features. "I know Mary better than she knows herself," declared the optimistic Norma, "she'll be back," and tossing her blonde head resolutely, she threw aside her hat and cape and began to rekindle the fire.
"I'll put on the tea-kettle, too," she told herself, "and be real comfortable and extravagant for once, and have a cup of tea ready when they come," for the good lady had no intention of going to bed, assuring herself she would not sleep if she did. So, moving about, she refilled the lamp, and drawing the machine nearer the stove, began to sew where Mary had left off. "I wonder how she thinks to make a livin'," Norma asked herself, smiling grimly, "seein' the machine's left behind. Poor Mary! I know her too well, she'll be back before morning."
One, two,-then three, a neighboring church clock tolled, and Norma stitched and waited, stitched and waited. Several times she fell asleep, her head upon the machine, to awake with a start, hurry to the door and listen.
A little before four she heard a step, and running to the door caught poor Mary as she staggered in, half-sinking with her burdens. Taking the frightened, wailing child and putting her down by the fire, Norma dragged Mary to a chair.
"Hush," she commanded, when Mary tried to speak, "I know-I understand," and for once regardless of the child's comfort, she dragged the sodden shoes from Mary's feet, drew off the wet skirts and wrapped her in anything, everything, warm she could find. By this time Mary was sobbing wildly, and Norma, half-distracted, turned to draw the tea and to toast some slices of the stale bread she had waiting.