“Child, you’ve earned your place in this home. As long as I’m able to work you’re just as welcome here as the rest—you and the baby too.”

  Nan’s eyes were shining happily.

  “‘Twas nothing much to do,” she answered, “and I’ll find some way to pay for Little Brother and me if only we can stay here.”

  Dick had come in soon after his parents, and had listened in gloomy silence to the story of the children.

  “Humph!” he said to himself. “Twasn’t so awful much to put out that fire. I’d a done it in no time if I’d a been here.”

  It seemed to Dick that his father and mother were making altogether too much of this strange girl, and the evil spirit of jealousy reared its ugly head in his heart. He wished he had not brought those two home with him, anyhow.

  When, the next day, Tode met him on the street and inquired about Nan and Little Brother, Dick replied, gruffly,

  “Oh, they’re all right ‘nough.”

  “But are they goin’ ter stay’t your place?” questioned Tode.

  “‘Spect so.” Dick’s voice was gruffer than before.

  “I’m agoin’ ‘round there to see ‘em to-day,” remarked Tode.

  Dick made no reply.

  Tode repeated, “Don’t ye hear? I say I’m agoin’ ter see ‘em to-day.”

  “I heard what ye said. S’pose I’m deaf?” and Dick turned his back and marched off.

  Tode looked after him angrily. “Like ter punch his head fer him,” he said, under his breath. “Would, too, if his folks hadn’t let Little Brother stay on there.”

  Nothing daunted by Dick’s unfriendly manner, Tode presented himself that afternoon at Mrs. Hunt’s door. He found that good woman and Nan both busy over the paper bags. All the children except Dick were at school, and Little Brother was lying on the old shawl at his sister’s feet. Tode gave an awkward nod by way of greeting and dropped down on the floor beside the child.

  “Hello, little chap!” he said.

  There certainly was a mutual attraction between the two, for the baby again responded to his greeting with a smile, and held out his scrawny little hands.

  Tode was delighted. He lifted the child in his arms and sat down with him in an old rocking-chair.

  Nan cast a quick, disturbed glance at the two. She had dressed the baby in some clothes that Mrs. Hunt had found for her—a few that had survived Ted’s rough usage. They were old but clean, and it was trying to Nan to see Little Brother’s pure, sweet face and fresh garments held by Tode’s dirty hands against his dirtier jacket. But the baby did not mind. He looked as contented as Tode did, and when the boy’s grimy fingers touched his thin cheek, Little Brother laughed a soft, happy, gurgling laugh that was music in Tode’s ears. But suddenly the boy’s glance took in the contrast between his soiled hand and the little face against which it rested. For a moment he hesitated, then he arose hastily, placed the child gently on the old shawl again and said to Mrs. Hunt,

  “Ye ain’t got a bit o’ soap you could lend me, have ye?”

  Mrs. Hunt looked at him inquiringly, then she answered a little unwillingly, for even soap costs money, “You can take that bit on the shelf there.”

  Tode seized it and vanished. Few things escaped his quick eyes, and he had noticed a sink and a faucet in the hall outside the door. There he rubbed and scrubbed his hands for full five minutes vastly to their improvement, though even then he looked at them doubtfully.

  “Can’t do no better,” he muttered, as he wiped them—well, he had only one place to wipe them, and he did the best he could. When he went back he glanced somewhat sheepishly at Mrs. Hunt as he put the remains of the soap back on the shelf, and again took up the baby. Nan smiled at him but she made no remark, and tried not to look at his jacket.

  After he had gone Mrs. Hunt asked, thoughtfully, “How long have you known that boy, Nan?”

  “I never saw him until yesterday,” answered the girl. “He was good to me then.”

  “Yes, I know, an’ of course you don’t want to forget that, but, Nan, I’m afraid he’s a bad boy. Dick says he is. He says he lies and steals and swears. I guess you don’t want to have much to do with him.”

  Nan looked troubled. She answered, slowly,

  “I guess he hasn’t had much of a chance, Mrs. Hunt. He can’t remember anything about his father and mother, and he says he’s never had any home except the street. Do you s’pose ‘twill hurt for him to come here sometimes to see Little Brother? ‘Seems as if it might help him to be a better boy. He likes Little Brother.”

  For a moment Mrs. Hunt was silent. She was thinking how hard she tried to bring up her children to be good boys and girls, and yet they were not always good. She wondered what kind of a boy her Dick would have been if he, like Tode, had had no home and no one to keep him from evil ways.

  “If that’s so, there’s some excuse for him,” she said, in response to Nan’s plea for Tode.

  “P’raps ‘twill help him somehow if he gets to carin’ for that innocent baby, an’ I don’t mind his comin’ here sometimes, only be careful that you don’t learn any evil from him, my dear,” and she leaned over and kissed the girl’s cheek.

  “Oh, Mrs. Hunt, I must be good always, you know, for Little Brother’s sake. I can’t ever forget or break my promise to mother,” Nan answered, earnestly. And Mrs. Hunt, as she saw the solemn look in the dark eyes uplifted to her own, felt that she need not worry about Nan and Tode.

  III. An Accident

  Tode Bryan was sauntering down the street, his hands in his pockets, as usual, when he was not selling papers. He was whistling a lively tune, but he was on the lookout for anything interesting that might happen. As he passed a fruit stand kept by an old woman, he slyly snatched a handful of peanuts which he ate as he went on. He had sold out his papers more quickly than usual, for it was still early in the evening, and the streets were full of business-men on their way to their homes.

  Suddenly the boy stopped short and listened, and the next moment there was a general rush into doorways and side streets as a fire-engine came dashing around the corner, while the police rushed from side to side clearing the way through the narrow street.

  As the engine passed, Tode, like every other boy within sight or hearing, raced madly after it, shouting and yelling “fire” with all the power of his healthy lungs. Hearing somebody say where the fire was, he slipped through a narrow cross street and an alley, so coming out ahead of the engine which the next moment swung around the nearest corner.

  An old man was just crossing the street, and as he heard the clang of the gong and the clatter of the engine, he looked about in a dazed, frightened way, and, instead of hurrying across, hesitated a moment and then turned uncertainly back. The driver did his best to avoid him but when the engine had passed the old man lay motionless upon the ground.

  Instantly a crowd gathered about him and Tode pressed forward to the front rank. One policeman was raising the old man’s head and another was asking if anybody knew who the injured man was.

  It was Tode, who, peering curiously at the pale face, remarked,

  “I know him. He buys papers o’ me.”

  “What’s his name? Where does he live?” questioned the officer.

  “Do’ know. He keeps a bookstand down on School street.”

  “Well, we’ll have to send him to the hospital. Ring up the ambulance, Dick,” said the officer to his companion.

  Tode was just dashing off after the engine when one of the policemen collared him.

  “Here you!” he exclaimed. “None o’ your cuttin’ off! If you know this man you’ve got to go to the hospital an’ ‘dentify him.”

  Tode looked uncomfortable and tried to squirm out of the man’s grasp—a fruitless effort, for his strength availed nothing against that iron grip. The boy had no idea what “‘dentify” might mean but he had his reasons for preferring to keep at a distance from the guardians of the law. There was no help for it, however, so with many inward misgivings, he submitted and waited for the ambulance. When it appeared the still insensible old man was lifted in and Tode was ordered to the front seat where he rode securely between the driver and the policeman. The boy had never before been in a hospital and he felt very ill at ease when he found himself inside the building with its big rooms and long bare halls. He was left alone with the policeman for a while, and then both of them were called into another room and questioned in regard to the accident. Finally Tode was dismissed with strict orders to return the next day.

  “He’ll be here. I know him, an’ if he don’t show up, you jest send me word an’ I’ll find him for ye,” the officer said to the doctor, with a threatening glance at the boy.

  Tode said nothing, but in his heart he was determined not to return the next day. The officer, however, kept his eye on him, and the next afternoon pounced upon him and put him on a street car with strict orders to the conductor not to let him off until he reached the hospital. So finding himself thus under watch and ward, Tode concluded that he might as well obey orders, and he rang the bell at the hospital door. He was met by the doctor whom he had seen the night before, and taken at once to the ward where the injured man was lying.

  As Tode gazed around the long room with its rows of white beds, a feeling of awe stole over him. He wanted to get away, for he did not know what to do or say.

  The old man was lying as if asleep, but when the doctor spoke to him he looked up and his dim eyes brightened at sight of the familiar face of the boy.

  “Oh, bishop, it’s you is it? Got a paper for me?” he said with a feeble smile.

  Tode wriggled uneasily as he answered gruffly, “Guess ye don’t want none to-day, do ye?”

  “No, I don’t believe I do. You can bring me one tomorrow, bishop,” and as he spoke the old man closed his eyes again, and turned his face away with a weary sigh.

  “Come away now,” said the doctor, and once outside the door he added, “He hasn’t said as much as that before. Seeing some one he knew aroused him as I hoped it would. Why does he call you bishop?”

  “I do’ know,” replied Tode, indifferently.

  “Well, you must come again tomorrow. Here’s a car ticket and a quarter. I’ll give you the same when you come tomorrow. Be here about this time, will you?”

  “All right—I’ll come,” answered the boy to whom the quarter was an inducement.

  The old man remained at the hospital for several weeks and Tode continued to visit him there at first for the sake of the money and because he dared not disobey the doctor’s orders, but after a while he became rather proud of the old man’s evident liking for him, and he would often sit and talk with him for half an hour at a time.

  One day Tode inquired curiously, “What d’ ye call me bishop for? ‘Tain’t my name.”

  And the old man answered dreamily, “You remind me of a boy I knew when I was about your age. He used to say that he was going to be a bishop when he grew up and so we boys always called him ‘bishop.’”

  “An’ did he?” questioned Tode.

  “Become a bishop? No, he entered the army and died in his first battle.”

  “W’at’s a bishop, anyhow?” asked Tode, after a moment’s silence.

  “You know what a minister is, Tode?”

  “A preacher, ye mean?”

  “Yes, a minister is a preacher. A bishop is a sort of head preacher—ranking higher, you know.”

  Tode nodded. “I’d rather be a soldier like that feller you knew,” he remarked.

  A day came when the old man was pronounced well enough to leave the hospital and the doctor ordered Tode to be on hand to take him home. The boy did not object. He was rather curious to see the little place in the rear of the bookstand where the old man lived alone. Since the accident the stand had been closed and Tode helped to open and air the room and then made a fire in the stove. When this was done the old man gave him money to buy materials for supper which of course the boy shared.

  After this he came daily to the place to run errands or do anything that was wanted, and by degrees the old man came to depend more and more upon him until the business of the little stand fell almost wholly into the boy’s hands, for the owner’s head still troubled him and he could not think clearly. It was a great relief to him to have some one to look after everything for him. Tode liked it and the business prospered in his hands. If he lacked experience, he was quicker and sharper than the old man. The two took their meals together, and at night Tode slept on a blanket on the floor, and was more comfortable and prosperous than he had ever been in his life before. He had money to spend too, for old Mr. Carey never asked for any account of the sums that passed through the boy’s hands. So he himself was undisturbed by troublesome questions and figures, the old man was content now, and each day found him a little weaker and feebler. Tode noticed this but he gave no thought to the matter. Why borrow trouble when things were so much to his mind? Tode lived in the present.

  He still sold the evening papers, considering it wise to keep possession of his route against future need, and never a week passed that he did not see Little Brother at least twice. He would have liked to see the child every day, but he knew instinctively that he was not a favorite with the Hunts, and that knowledge made him ill at ease with them. But it could not keep him away altogether. He found too much satisfaction in Little Brother’s love for him.

  More than once Mrs. Hunt had remarked to Nan that she didn’t “see what in the world made the baby so fond of that rough, dirty boy.” Nan herself wondered at it though she kept always a grateful remembrance of Tode’s kindness when she first met him.

  Tode often brought little gifts to the child, and would have given him much more, but Nan would not allow it. The two had a long argument over the matter one day. It was a bright, sunny morning and Mrs. Hunt had said that the baby ought to be out in the fresh air, so Nan had taken him to the Common, and sat there keeping ever a watchful eye for their enemy, Mary Leary. Tode going down Beacon street espied the two and forgetting all about the errand on which he was bound, promptly joined them.

  “He’s gettin’ fat—he is,” the boy remarked, poking his finger at the dimple in the baby’s cheek, then drawing it quickly away again with an uncomfortable expression. Tode never cared how dirty his hands were except when he saw them in contrast with Little Brother’s pure face.

  “Yes, he’s getting well and strong,” assented Nan, with a happy smile.

  “I say, Nan, w’at’s the reason you won’t let me pay for his milk?” asked Tode, after a little.

  Then it was Nan’s turn to look uncomfortable, and the color rose in her cheeks as she answered, “I can pay now for all he needs. You know Mrs. Hunt gets a double quantity of bags and I work on them every day.”

  But this answer did not satisfy Tode. “That don’t make no diff’runce,” he growled. “Don’t see why you won’t let me do nothin’ for him,” and he cast a gloomy glance at the baby, but Little Brother laughed up at him and the gloom speedily melted away. After a moment’s silence he added, slowly, “It’s comin’ cold weather. He’ll want a jacket or somethin’, won’t he?”

  “He’ll have to have some warm clothes,” replied Nan, thoughtfully, “but I can get them—I guess.”

  Tode turned upon her fiercely. “I s’pose you’d let him freeze to death ‘fore you’d let me buy him any clothes,” he burst out, angrily. “I sh’d like ter know w’at’s the matter with ye, anyhow. Has that measly Dick Hunt ben stuffin’ ye ‘bout me?”

  Nan coloured again and dropped her eyes.

  “Say—has he? I’ll give it ter him next time I catch him out!” and Tode ground his heel suggestively into the gravel walk.

  “Oh, Tode, don’t! Please don’t fight Dick,” pleaded Nan. “How can you when his mother’s so good to Little Brother?”

  “Don’t care ‘f she is. He ain’t,” was Tode’s surly reply. “He don’t want you’n him to stay there.”

  Nan’s eyes were full of uneasiness.

  “Did he say so?” she questioned, for she had noticed Dick’s coldness and been vaguely disturbed by it.

  The boy nodded. “Yes,” he said, “he tol’ me so. Said there’s ‘nough fer his father ter feed ‘thout you’n him,” and he pointed to the baby.

  “But I work,” pleaded Nan. “I pay for all we eat.”

  “But ye don’t pay fer the rent an’ the fire, an’—an’ everything,” Tode replied, with a note of triumph in his voice, “so now, ye better let me pay fer Little Brother an’ then you c’n pay the rest.”

  Nan hesitated and her face was troubled. Finally she lifted her dark eyes to his and said bravely, “Tode, I guess I ought to tell you just why I couldn’t anyway let you do for Little Brother as you want to. It’s because—because you don’t get your money the right way.”

  “Who says I don’t? Did that Dick Hunt say so? I’ll”—began Tode, fiercely, but Nan laid her hand on his arm and looked steadily into his face.

  “Tode,” she said, earnestly, “if you will look straight into Little Brother’s eyes and tell me that you never steal—I’ll believe you.”

  “I never”—began the boy, boldly; then he met a grave, sweet glance from the baby’s big blue eyes, and he hesitated. The lying words died on his tongue, and turning his eyes away from the little face that he loved, he said gloomily, “What’s that got to do with it anyhow? S’posin’ I do hook a han’ful of peanuts sometimes. That ain’t nothin’.”

  “Tode, do you want Little Brother to hook a handful of peanuts sometimes when he gets big?” asked Nan, quietly.

  The boy turned his eyes again to the baby face and the hot blood burned in his own as he answered, quickly, “‘Course I don’t. He won’t be that sort.”

  “No, he won’t, if I can help it,” replied Nan, gravely.