Not one of them had ever before been in a tenement house like the one to which Mrs. Rawson led them, and they shrank from the rude children and coarse women whom they encountered in the halls and on the stairs, and pressed closer together, grasping each other’s hands.

  Nan’s face whitened and her thin hands were clasped tightly together as she heard them coming along the hall. She knew it was they, so different were their quiet footsteps from most that passed her door.

  Nan opened the door in response to Mrs. Rawson’s knock and the girls flocked in, looking so dainty and pretty in their fresh shirt-waists and dimities, and their gay ribbons. As Nan looked at them she was painfully conscious of her own faded calico and worn shoes, and her cheeks flushed, but the girls gave her no time to think of these things. They crowded about her, introducing each other with merry laughter and gay little jokes, seeming to take Nan right in among them as one of themselves, and taking prompt possession of the baby, who wasn’t a bit shy, and appeared to like to be passed from one to another, and kissed, and called sweet names.

  Nan had borrowed all Mrs. Hunt’s chairs, but still there were not enough, and three or four girls gleefully settled themselves on the bed. Every one of them had come with her hands full of flowers, and seeing these, Mrs. Rawson had brought along a big glass rose bowl, which the girls speedily filled and set in the middle of the table.

  A tap at the door announced the arrival of a boy with a box and a bag for Mrs. Rawson, and out of the box she lifted a baby sewing machine, which she fastened to the table. Then from the bag she took the lawn and gingham as she said,

  “Now, girls, your tongues can run just as fast as your fingers sew, but remember this tiny machine works very rapidly and you’ve got to keep it supplied. I’ll hem this skirt first.”

  In an instant every girl had on her thimble, and they all set to work with right good will.

  “Can’t I do some, too?” said Nan. “I don’t want to be the only idle one.”

  “You can gather some ruffles in a few minutes—as soon as I have hemmed them,” answered Mrs. Rawson, smiling to herself, as she saw how bright and interested Nan looked already.

  All that long, bright afternoon tongues and needles were about equally busy. Fortunately it was cooler, else the girls would have been uncomfortable in the small room, but as it was, not even Nan gave more than a passing thought to the bare room and its lack of comfort. Indeed, after the first few moments, Nan forgot all about herself and just gave herself up to the delight of being once more a girl among girls. She thought them lovely, every one, and indeed they were lovely to her in every way, for her sweet face and gentle manners had won them all at first sight. How they did chatter! Never before had that room—or indeed any room in that dreary building, held such a company as gathered there that day.

  At half-past five there came another rap on the door, and Mrs. Rawson exclaimed, “Put up your sewing, girls. We’ve business of another sort to attend to now.”

  The girls looked at her inquiringly as Nan opened the door again.

  “Bring them in,” called Mrs. Rawson, and a man edged his way gingerly among the girls and set two big baskets and an ice cream freezer beside the table.

  “A house picnic! Mrs. Rawson, you’re a darling!” called one and another of the girls.

  Mrs. Rawson nodded a laughing acknowledgment of the compliment, as she said, “Open the baskets, girls. The dishes are in the round one. I thought Nan might not be prepared for quite such a family party.”

  With quick, deft fingers the girls swept aside the sewing, unscrewed the little machine, spread a fine damask cloth over the pine table, and on it arranged the pretty green and gold dishes and glasses, putting the big bowl of roses in the centre.

  Then from the other basket they took tiny buttered biscuits, three-cornered sandwiches, tied with narrow green ribbons, a dish of chicken salad, and a big loaf of nut cake. All these quite covered the table so that the cream had to be left in the freezer until it was wanted.

  How Nan did enjoy that feast! How her eyes shone with quiet happiness as she watched the bright faces and listened to the merry talk; not all merry either, for more than once it touched upon the deep things of life, showing that the girls had thought much, even if their lives had been happy, sheltered ones.

  When the feast was ended, the dishes repacked in the basket, and the unfinished work put away, the girls gathered about Nan to say “goodbye,” and she wondered how she could have dreaded their coming,—for now it seemed as if she could not let them go. She felt as if all the joyous brightness would vanish with them. The quick young eyes read something of this feeling in her face, and more than one girl left a kiss with her cordial farewell.

  The room seemed very still and lonely to Nan when the last flutter of light dresses was gone and the last faint echo of girlish voices and footsteps had died on her eagerly listening ears. She dropped into the rocking-chair and looked about the room, trying to repeople it with those fair, young, friendly faces. She could almost have imagined it all a dream but for the cake and sandwiches and ice cream on the table.

  The sight of the fast melting cream suggested another thought to her. Hastily filling a plate with portions of everything on the table, she set it away for Theodore and then went across to Mrs. Hunt’s rooms to tell her to come with the children and take all that was left.

  The eyes of the children gleamed with delight at sight of the unexpected treat, and they speedily emptied the dishes which their mother then carried home to wash, while the children took back the borrowed chairs.

  By this time Nan began to feel very weary, and she threw herself down on the bed with the baby, but she kept in her hand some little scrips of the pretty lawns and ginghams that she had found on the floor. It seemed hardly possible to her that she could be going to have such dresses. Why—one of the scrips was exactly like a waist that one of those girls had worn. Nan gazed at it with a smile on her lips, a smile that lingered there until it was chased away by the remembrance of Theo’s loneliness when she and Little Brother should be far away.

  XIII. Nan’s Departure

  Theo was feeling that he needed sympathy about that time, for it seemed to him as if every one that he cared for was to be taken away from him.

  Mr. Scott had invited the boy to go with him for a row on the river and then to go home with him to supper. The river was beautiful in the afternoon sunlight, and Theodore enjoyed the row and the friendly talk with his teacher, but he felt a little shy with Mrs. Rawson and was not sorry to find her absent from the supper-table.

  When the meal was over Mr. Scott took the boy up to his own room to see some of his curiosities. Theo’s quick eyes took silent note of everything, and he mentally decided that some day he would have just such a room as that. He was thinking thus, when Mr. Scott said,

  “Theo, you haven’t asked me what Dr. Reed thinks about Nan and her little brother.”

  “She’s better to-day—Nan is,” exclaimed the boy, quickly.

  “Yes, I suppose the medicine has toned her up a little, but the doctor says that she must have a long rest. She has been working too hard.”

  “Well, she can. I’m earnin’ enough now to take care of ‘em,” interposed the boy.

  “Nan would never be content to let you do that, I think, but, Theo, that isn’t all.”

  Theo said nothing, but his anxious eyes asked the question that his lips refused to utter.

  Mr. Scott went on, “The doctor says that the baby must go away into the country or—he will die.”

  Theodore walked quickly to the window, and stood there looking out in silence. After a moment, his teacher crossed the room and laid his arm affectionately over the boy’s shoulders.

  “Sit down, Theodore,” he said, gently, “I want to tell you what we have planned for Nan and the little one.”

  Then in few words he told of Mrs. Rawson’s letter and the reply, describing the beautiful country home to which Nan and the baby were to go.

  “You will be glad to think of them in such a place during the hot summer days,” he went on, “even though their going leaves you very lonely, as I know it will, Theodore.”

  “I ought to be glad, Mr. Scott,” replied the boy, slowly, as his teacher paused, “an’ I am, but ye see you don’t know how hard ‘tis for a feller to keep straight when he ain’t got no home an’ nobody to talk to after his work’s done at night. Nan—well you know she ain’t like the rest o’ the folks down our way. She never scolds nor nags at me, but somehow I can’t ever look her straight in the eye if I’ve been doin’ anything mean.”

  “Nan has been a good friend to you, I’m sure, and I think you have been a good friend to her and the baby, Theodore. I know that she will miss you sadly at first, and if she thinks you are to be very lonely without them, I’m afraid she will worry about it and not get as much good from the change as she might otherwise,” Mr. Scott added.

  The boy drew a long breath. “I won’t let her know ‘t I care much ‘bout their goin’,” he said, bravely.

  “Nan will guess quite enough,” answered the gentleman, “but, Theodore, how would you like to come here? Mrs. Rawson has a little room over the L that she seldom uses, and she says that you can sleep there if you like, and pay for it the same that you pay for the dark room that you now have.”

  The boy’s eyes were full of surprise and pleasure as he answered, gratefully, “I’d like that fine!”

  “Come on, then, and we’ll take a look at the place. It has been used as a storeroom and will, of course, need some fixing up.”

  As Mr. Scott threw open the door of the L room Theodore stepped in and looked about him with shining eyes. It was a long, low room with windows on three sides. The floor was covered with matting and the walls with a light, cheerful paper.

  “This for me!” exclaimed the boy. “Why, Mr. Scott, it’s—it’s too fine for a chap like me.”

  “Not a bit, my boy, but I think you can be very comfortable here, and you will know that you have friends close at hand. And now, Theodore, I suppose you will want to get home, for we hope to get Nan away next week.”

  “So soon!” cried the boy, a shadow falling on the face, a moment before so bright.

  “Yes, the sooner the better for the little one’s sake,” replied Mr. Scott, gravely.

  “You’ve been mighty good to me—an’ to Nan,” said the boy, simply, and then he went away.

  He walked rapidly through the streets, taking no note of what was passing around him, his thoughts were so full of this new trouble, for a great and sore trouble it seemed to him to lose Nan and Little Brother out of his life even for a few weeks. His way led him across the Common, but he hurried along with unseeing eyes until suddenly something bright attracted his attention, and he became aware that it was a shock of rough red hair under a ragged old cap. It was surely Carrots sitting on one of the benches, his eyes gazing moodily across the greensward to the street beyond. He did not notice Theo’s approach, but started up quickly, as the latter stopped in front of him.

  “Hold on, Carrots—don’t clear out. I want to tell you something,” cried Theo, hastily, laying a detaining hand on one ragged sleeve.

  Carrots looked at him suspiciously. “D’know what yer got ter say ter me,” he growled.

  “Sit down here, an’ I’ll tell ye.”

  Theodore sat down on the bench as he spoke, and after a moment’s hesitation the other boy dropped down beside him, but he kept a wary glance on his companion, and was plainly ready to “cut and run” at a moment’s notice.

  “You look’s if you were down on your luck,” began Theo, with a glance at the ragged garments, and dilapidated shoes of the other.

  “‘Course—I’m always down on my luck,” responded Carrots, in a tone that implied, “what business is that of yours?”

  “Sellin’ papers now?”

  “Yes, but a feller can’t make a livin’ out o’ that. There’s too many kids in the business, an’ folks’ll buy o’ the kids ev’ry time, ‘n’ give us big fellers the go-by,” Carrots said, in a gloomy tone.

  “That’s so. The little chaps always sell most,” assented Theodore. “Why don’t you get into some other business, Carrots?”

  “Can’t—‘cause my money’s all tied up in railroad stock,” retorted Carrots, with bitter sarcasm.

  “Carrots, what made ye play such a mean trick on Jim Hunt the other day?” asked Theodore, suddenly.

  Carrots grinned. “Hunt’s a fool,” he answered, “else he wouldn’t ‘a’ give me a chance ter work him so slick.”

  “Well, I don’t think you’ll play it on him again. I think you were the fool, Carrots, for you know well enough you can’t get such good stuff anywhere else for your money, an’ now ye can’t go to my stand.”

  “Got it ‘thout money that time,” chuckled Carrots, impudently, but still keeping a sharp eye on his companion.

  Theo flushed, and his fingers itched to pitch into the boy and give him a good drubbing, but he controlled himself, and said, quietly, “What’s the trouble with you, Carrots? Are you too lazy to work, or what?”

  The boy’s eyes flashed angrily, as he replied, “See here, Tode Bryan—what ye pokin’ yer nose int’ my business for, anyhow?”

  “‘Cause I can put you in the way of earnin’ honest money if you’re willin’ to do honest work.”

  “What sort o’ work?” Carrots inquired, suspiciously.

  “I’ll tell ye ‘bout it when I’m sure you’re ready to take hold of it, an’ not before. See here, Carrots, I’ve seen you lately loafin’ ‘round with some o’ the meanest fellers in this town, an’ if you don’t keep away from them you’ll find yourself where some of ‘em have been a’ready—behind the bars. I mean well by ye, an’ if you make up your mind to be a man instead of a tramp an’ a loafer, you can come to me, an’ I’ll give ye a start. Jim Hunt’ll tell ye where to find me.”

  The night shadows were falling now and the street lamps were already lighted, and seeing this, Theodore started up, adding, “It’s later’n I thought. I must be off,” and he hurried away, leaving Carrots looking after him in a much bewildered state of mind.

  Theodore found Nan sitting by the window in the dark. She had rocked the baby to sleep, and was thinking over the happy afternoon that seemed now so like a beautiful dream. She lighted her lamp when Theodore came in, and brought out the food that she had put aside for him, and while he ate she told him of all that had happened. He did not eat much and he was very silent, so silent that at last she paused and said, anxiously,

  “You aren’t sick, are you, Theo?”

  “No,” he replied, gravely, “an’ Nan, I’m real glad you’re goin’ to such a nice place.” But though he spoke earnestly, there was in his voice a ring of pain that Nan detected instantly, and guessed its cause.

  “I’m going to miss you dreadfully, Theo,” she said, quickly, “and I don’t know what Little Brother will do without you. That’s the one thing about it that I don’t like—to think of you all alone here with no place to stay evenings.”

  “Mr. Scott says I can have a room where he lives—at Mrs. Rawson’s,” answered Theodore. “It’s a fine room—bigger’n this, an’ it’s got checked straw carpet an’ three windows.”

  “Oh, Theo, how glad I am!” cried the girl, delightedly. “That’s just splendid. Don’t you like it?” she added, as the boy still sat with serious eyes fixed on the floor.

  “Like it? The room you mean? Oh yes, it’s a grand room, but I don’t think I’ll go there,” he answered, slowly.

  The gladness died out of Nan’s face. “Oh, Theo, why not?” she exclaimed, in a disappointed tone.

  He answered again, slowly, “I think I shall stay here an’ take this room o’ yours ‘stead o’ my little one.”

  “This is ever so much better than yours, of course, an’ if you do that you can keep my furniture, and I s’pose you’d be comfortable, but ‘twould be lonesome all the same, and I shouldn’t think you’d like it half so well as being with Mr. Scott.”

  “‘Course I wouldn’t like it half nor quarter so well, Nan, but this is what I’ve been thinkin’. You know there’s a good many boys in these two houses that don’t have no place to stay evenin’s, ‘cept the streets, an’ I was thinkin’ as I came home tonight, how fine ‘twould be if there was a room where they could come an’ read an’ play games an’ talk, kind of a boys’ club room, don’t ye know, like the one Mr. Scott was tellin’ ‘bout they’re havin’ in some places. I think he’ll help me get some books an’ papers an’ games, an’ maybe he’ll come an’ give us a talk sometimes. It would be grand for fellers like Jimmy Hunt that ain’t bad yet, but will be if they stay in the streets every evenin’.”

  “Theo, I think it’s a splendid idea, only there ought to be just such a room for the girls. They need it even more than the boys do.” Nan hesitated a moment, then added, earnestly, “Theo, I’m proud of you.”

  Theodore’s face was the picture of utter amazement as he gazed at her. “Proud—of me?” he gasped. “I’d like to know what for.”

  “Well, never mind what for, but I want to say, Theo, what I’ve thought ever so many times lately. When I first knew you, you were good to Little Brother and me, so good that I can never forget it, but you weren’t”—

  “I was meaner’n dirt,” interposed the boy, sorrowfully.

  “No, but you’d never had any chance with nobody to teach you or help you, and I used to hate to have you touch Little Brother, because I thought you were not good.”

  “I wasn’t,” put in Theodore, sadly.

  “But since you came back from the bishop’s you’ve been so different, and it seems to me you’re always trying to help somebody now. Theo—if Little Brother lives, I hope he’ll be like you.” Theodore stared at her in incredulous silence. “Like me. Little Brother like me,” he whispered, softly, to himself, the colour mounting in his cheeks. Then he arose and walked over to the bed where the child lay, with one small hand thrown out across the bedclothes. The soft, golden hair lay in pretty rings on the moist forehead, but the little face looked waxen white.