Mother Gray and her husband were sitting before a cheery fire in their little parlor, at the Institution for Helping the Unemployed. The cold November rain without came beating against the window panes in heavy gusts, and the wind sighed and moaned about the corners of the house and down the chimney.
"Winter's coming, wife," said Mr. Gray, as he aroused himself and stirred the fire. "We'll not be having such an easy time as we did this summer. When cold weather gets here in earnest the poor will begin calling on us."
"Yes, but that's the time people need kindling wood the worst, so there will be enough to feed them," answered the good wife brightly, as she too aroused and began knitting with great vigor.
"I fear we are going to have a hard winter this year, mother; my old bones begin to complain a little now; but thank God, we're sure of a comfortable home and enough to eat. What we'd a done without this place is more than I know, with Joe away and me not able to do heavy work in the mines. If Maggie were only with us." And the old man wiped a tear from his eyes.
"Yes, father, but Maggie is better off than we. It's Joe that hurts my heart. To think that he may be hungry and cold like some of the poor fellows we fed here last spring. Hark. Isn't that someone knocking at the door?" She dropped her knitting to listen.
The old man arose and stepped into the next apartment, which was used as a kind of reception hall and office. A faint rapping sounded more clearly from there; and crossing the room, he opened the door, and in the light streaming out, saw a woman. "Come in," he cried, reaching forth and taking her by the arm. "Come in out of the rain. Why, you're soaked through."
"Oh please sir, can I stay here all night? They told me this was a place for people to stop. I'm so hungry and tired."
And indeed she looked it, poor thing. Her dress, though of good material and nicely made, was soiled with mud and rain. Beneath the sailor hat, from which the water ran in sparkling drops, her hair hung wet and disheveled; her eyes were wild and pleading; her cheeks sunken and ashy pale; while the delicately turned nostrils and finely curved, trembling lips, were blue with cold. Beyond all doubt, she had once been beautiful.
Mr. Gray, old in experience, noted more than all this, as he said, "We are not allowed to keep women here, but it's a little different in your case, and I'll see my wife. Sit down and wait a minute."
He gave her a chair and went back to the sitting-room, returning a moment later with Mother Gray at his heels.
"My poor dear," said the good woman, "of course you must stay here. I know, I know," as the girl looked at her in a questioning manner. "Anyone can see your condition; but bless your heart, our Master befriended a poor woman, and why should not we?"
And soon the girl was in the other room and Mrs. Gray was removing her hat and loosening her clothing.
"Father," whispered the old lady, "I think you had better go for Dr. Jordan. He'll be needed here before morning."
When the doctor returned with Mr. Gray, the patient, dry and clean, was wrapped in the soft blankets of Mother Gray's own bed, with one of Maggie's old night-dresses on, and hot bricks at her tired feet. But warmth and kindness had come too late. The long, weary tramp about the streets of the city, in the rain; the friendless shutting of doors in her face; the consciousness that she was a mark for all eyes; and the horror of what was to come, with the cold and hunger, had done their work. When the morning sun, which has chased away the storm clouds, peeped in at the little chamber window, Dr. Jordan straightened up with a long breath, "She will suffer no more pain now, mother, until the end."
"And when will that be, Doctor?"
"In a few hours, at most; I cannot tell exactly."
"And there is no hope?" asked Mrs. Gray, smoothing the marble brow on the pillow, as she would have touched her Maggie.
"Absolutely no hope, Mother," said the physician, who knew her well.
"Ah well, tis better so," murmured the old lady. "This world is not the place for such as she. Christ may forgive, but men won't. The man alone can go free. And the little one too--surely God is good to take them both together. Will she come to, do you think, Doctor, before she goes?"
"Yes, it is probable that she will rally for a little while, and you may find out her name perhaps. There was no mark on her clothing, you say?"
"Not the sign of a mark, and she would tell me nothing; and see, there is no wedding ring."
They were silent for some time, and then: "She is awakening," said the doctor.
The blue eyes opened slowly and looked wonderingly about the room. "Mother," she said, in a weak voice, "Mother--who are you?--" looking at the doctor and Mrs. Gray. "Where am I?" and she tried to raise her head.
"There, there, dear; lie still now and rest. You have been sick you know. We are your friends and this is the doctor. Your mother shall come when you tell us where to send for her."
The poor creature looked for a full minute into the kind old face above her, and then slowly the look of wonder in her eyes gave place to one of firmness, pain and sorrow, and the lips closed tightly, as though in fear that her secret would get out.
"Oh honey, don't look like that, don't. Tell us who you are. Have you no mother? I know you have. Let us send for her at once, that she may come to you."
The lips parted in a sweet, sad smile. "I'm going to die then? You would not look so if I were not. Oh, I am so glad, so glad." And in a moment she was sleeping like a child.
"Poor girl," muttered Doctor Jordan, wiping his own eyes. Very sharp professional eyes they were too. "I fear you will have to take her mother's place. I must go now, but I will look in again during the day. Don't have any false hopes; there is nothing to be done, save to make the end easy."
For an hour the stranger slept, with a smile on her lips; and then opened her eyes again. But there was no pain, no fear in them now; only just a shadow of trouble, as she asked in a whisper, "Where is it?"
The woman, with one hand smoothed back the hair from the forehead of her patient, and with the other pointed upward; the troubled shadow passed from the eyes of the young mother, and she slept again. Later in the day, the doctor called, and once more she awoke.
"I thank you, doctor," she said, in a weak voice; but shook her head when he offered her medicine.
"But, dear child, it is only to relieve you from any pain."
She answered, "you said I must go; let me go as I am. Oh, this world is cold and harsh. God knows that I do not fear to die. Christ, who welcomed little children, has my babe, and he knows that in my heart I am innocent."
"But won't you tell us of your friends?"
