Mrs. Reed seized the handkerchief. "But all men are selfish," she wailed from its folds; "even in a cityful of men you won't find any one that is n't selfish. Your father ate all the giblets up to the day he died. If you think there 's such a thing as an unselfish man, you 'll be an old maid sure. Oh, my goodness me! to think you 've sent Mr. Dwight away for a little thing like that! Oh, oh!"

"I don't want to marry just to be a slave," protested Emily. "I".

'But you can't be married without being a slave." Mrs. Reed's voice was faint with emotion for a little while, and then it swelled suddenly strong: "That is n't any kind of reason for giving a man up. What difference does being a slave make, anyhow, if only you 're married? The thing is to be married, Emily; and you 've let the only man in town go. And for such silly reasons-just because he told you beforehand what most men leave the girl to find out afterward. He'll marry one of the Motts now, I just know it,and instead of me telling Mrs. Mott, it'll be Mrs. Mott telling me!" Mrs. Reed's voice rose again, this time most dramatically until it succeeded in perching the last word on a hitherto unattained altitude of woe. Then she began to cry again.

"Mother," said Emily, gently, but in a tone of penetrating force, "would you choose to have me a mere drudge for the rest of my life just for the sake of being married? Do you really feel that way?"

"You'd have soon gotten used to it, sobbed Mrs. Reed. "Women always do. I was n't married more than six months before I was used to it."

"I don't wish to get used to it," the daughter declared. "I don't wish to marry in that way."

"Well, you won't be married in that way. You won't be married at all now,' her mother said. "I can just see Mrs. Mott's face when she comes to tell me! She'd go down on her knees and scrub floors for James Dwight. I would, too. I know what getting married means. Oh, Emily, to think that you 've had such a chance and lost it! To think of it!"

Emily leaned forward and kissed her mother on the forehead. "It 's no use our talking longer," she said, "if I leave you, you'll think it over quietly and see that I am right-"

"No, I sha'n't," interposed Mrs. Reed. 'And in the morning we 'll try and take a brighter view of it. I'm well content, absolutely content."

"Get me another handkerchief before you go," said Mrs. Reed, "I know I'm going to need it. O Emily, you 've broken my heart! Yes, you have. You were so difficult to raise with your notions, and now just see the end you 've made! Oh, oh!"

Emily brought the handkerchief. She was sorry for her mother, but she could not possibly regret James Dwight. "Good night, dear," she said gently. "Try to bear it bravely. I know it's very hard for you, but think if I had married him, how hard all my future would have been!"

"But you 'd have been married!" wailed the poor mother, "and now you never will be. Oh, oh!"

Emily turned and walked quietly out of the room. Neither her lips nor her resolution trembled; she had meant all that she had said-all that she had said to Dwight, and also all that she had said to her mother. She went to bed, and on this night she slept soundly.

And later, much later, Mrs. Reed slept,

too.

A

7

and watched the children file into her department, noting each face as it passed and listening to a dozen wondertales at once.

"My mother she says you should come to the house at once, if it please," whispered Minnie, clinging to her teacher's hand and stroking the soft fur of her muff.

"Yes, dear. Is it Willy again?" asked Miss Devons, with a sinking heart, for Willy had left his job three times in the last month, and she dreaded another interview with his angry employer.

"My mother she says you should come. She tells you," repeated Minnie, and gave way to a clamorous voice.

"Say, Teacher, kin youse git me a job? Me mudder says I kin go to work now."

"Very well, Mark, I'll see about it; but please go and wash your hands now. I'm afraid you forgot to do it this morning."

"Aw, dey 're all right," responded Mark, airily, as he shoved forward into the crowd.

"Mark!" Miss Devons's voice rose above the noise. "Go and wash them at once. You are not to go up-stairs like that. At once, do you hear me?"

As she watched the boy turn sulkily away, she caught sight of a new child standing by the table. He was a boy of twelve years, attired in long trousers, a dingy shirt, with a rolling collar and

LXXIX-12

scarlet handkerchief rolled around his waist. Among the crowd of closecropped, sweater-clad East Side boys he looked strangely picturesque; but Miss Devons shuddered inwardly as she noted the glances that were cast at his waving hair, which curled low on a forehead of Italian beauty. He might have posed for a child saint in some Preraphaelite canvas; but what she was to do with him in this Protestant Sunday-school, taxed her imagination.

He was giving the secretary his name in a soft, courteous tone, very different from the usual whines and shouts.

Giuseppe Salvatori. Ya-as, Signor. Twelva old. My address."

He held out a dingy slip of paper on which was written the number and street of his tenement, and faded into the crowd as noiselessly as he had emerged.

"No, Florabel," said Miss Devons, firmly; "I think you'd better call the new baby after some one else. My name is n't at all pretty, and two of your little cousins have it, anyway. Don't hold me, dearie; I must go up-stairs."

As she reached the gallery where her department sat during the opening service, she found Giuseppe Salvatori gazing wide-eyed at a circle of boys who were instructing him in the customs of a strange land.

"Thank you very much," said Miss Devons to the group. "It's very good of

93

you, boys; but I'll take charge of him. myself. How did you come here, Giuseppe?"

The child indicated a tall boy who stood a little way off, looking intensely disgusted.

"Oh, Alexander brought you, did he? That's very nice. Come here, Alexander, and tell me about it.'

The boy turned toward her reluctantly. "It ain't my fault, Miss Devons," he said. "My mother she 's got a cousin that's a Dago, and he sent for this kid to come over and live with him. He's been here about three months, and he knows some English, but he ain't a bit American. He plays with the other Dagos on the block, and my mother says he should come here and be made into a Protestant, 'cause his uncle don't care. And my mother she said I was to bring him to you; but just look at him, Miss Devons. They was guyin' us all along the street. Ain't it fierce!"

"Well, well," said Miss Devons, soothingly, "I daresay he 'll soon get into our ways. And perhaps you could show him how New York boys dress. I 'm afraid that costume is a little striking, though it's very pretty. Try to be nice to him, Alexander, for it must be hard for him all alone."

She placed the new-comer in the youngest division, and kept him after the session for a little talk. He was a charming child, all liquid consonants and soft glances. Already Florabel, a hopeless sentimentalist, was lingering behind on some flimsy pretext, and more than one admiring glance was cast on him as the girls filed out. After a few minutes Miss Devons walked to the street with him, and it was as well she did so, for a knot of boys were lingering outside, evidently waiting. for his appearance, and Miss Devons saw him safely on his way, and was rewarded by a fervent salute on the back of her hand before she left him.

"Though I must n't spoil him," she reflected. "I'm afraid he 's bound to be pretty soft; and I suppose he 'll have to toughen up before he can cope with his mates, poor little fellow!"

She called upon the elder Salvatori, and found him an oily, effusive personage, who bowed before her and entreated her to honor his shop by carrying away any and

all articles that might strike her fancy. Having declined this tempting offer, she spoke of Giuseppe, and was overwhelmed by a flood of gratitude. She should make him into a real American, a thing his uncle had unfortunately never had the time to become. But he voted as the Boss told him, and prospered. Therefore had he sent for one of his sister's numerous offspring, and he would train him up to succeed him in the business, while Miss. Devons should train him to cope with American sharpness, a thing from which he, Raffaelo, suffered grievously. Miss Devons had her own opinion about that, but she promised to do what she could, and left the shop with the assurance of Giuseppe's affectionate uncle ringing in her ears:

"An' si he not obey, you tell me, cut hees t'roat for heem.'

an' I

The following Sunday brought Giuseppe, radiant in a black patent-leather belt instead of the scarlet bandana. Miss Devons sighed over the artistic loss, but hailed the substitute as the first step toward American citizenship. During the lesson he listened attentively, which was more than could be said of Florabel, who could not take her eyes off the vision. Her example demoralized the rest of the class to such an extent that Miss Devons finally lost all patience with them, and entered upon a scathing rebuke, not one word of which penetrated to their love-lorn brains. Louisa May, indeed, formerly the star of the class, was discovered drawing pictures of angelic little boys, with curling lovelocks, and wept bitterly when these were confiscated.

After the hour, Miss Devons again kept Giuseppe, and suggested that his hair should be cut. The other boys were sure to pull it, she said, and perhaps it would be better to do like the Americans as long as one lived among them. Giuseppe listened attentively, thanked her courteously, kissed her hand, and bowed himself out. Five minutes later a clamor rose from the street, which brought even the seasoned workers of the parish house flying to the door. The sidewalk seethed with a shouting crowd, and a tumult of angry yells broke the Sabbath calm.

In the midst of the riot stood Giuseppe Salvatori, his eyes blazing, his red tie flying in the wind, his lithe body crouched

"What did he say?" asked Miss Devons, wonderingly. She had not yet come across this deadly insult, which never fails. to draw blood.

"I ain't a-goin' to tell you," repeated

my name, an' I won't take that from no kid, no I won't."

He tossed his head threateningly, and Miss Devons turned to Giuseppe, who stood smiling at her side.

At her question, he broke out in a torrent of explanation.

"I come out-a, an' they all teas-a me

t'ink-a how good-a, kind-a lady you be, an' he grab me by de neck, an' I am verree angree. I know he not understand Italiano, so I say it in Engleesh. I hear man

on street say so, an' oder man he is angree. So I say it. An' he tearrs at my hair. He tearrs out great-a piece. An' I pulls out

Drawn by Jay Hambidge

"No, you must n't say it again; so that 's all over. And if ever you have to defend yourself, you must do it with your fists, as American boys do. But you must never use a knife, and I am going to keep this one for you till you are old enough to have it without using it."

Giuseppe's brown eyes lighted up suddenly.

"No Amerrican de knife-a? Si, Signorina, I fight-a de oder way. You show me?"

He beamed upon Mark, who thawed in the sunshine of his smile.

"All right. You come to de club Tuesday night, an' Mr. Ward 'll learn you. Good-by, Teacher."

He lounged out with a careless nod, and Giuseppe followed him after another salutation to Miss Devons, and many fervent assurances of his devotion. Somewhat weary, she left the parish house only to find Florabel and Louisa May carefully dividing several curling strands which they had gathered from the sidewalk after the affray.

de knife-a, an' he no dare come on, an' evereebody scream."

He flourished his hands, and Miss Devons saw the whole scene.

"Now, Mark," she said, "I will not have Giuseppe bothered. You all thought he was a baby because he dressed differently from you and your friends; but you see he can be very dangerous, and you are not to tease him. He will learn our ways in time, and I think you'd better leave him alone till he does. Now shake hands and go away."

"He called me out o' me name," rcpeated Mark, sullenly, "an' he pulls a knife on me. I ain't shakin' hands wit' no kid like that."

"Yes, and what did you do to him? He was perfectly quiet till you excited him. I'm sorry he called you something you did n't like,-yes, I know,-called you out of your name, whatever that means; but he did n't know what he was saying, and I am going to take his knife away. Giuseppe, will you tell

Mark you are sorry you spoke as you did?"

"Sure-a, Signorina." Giuseppe extended a slender hand, which Mark took grudgingly. "I hear-a man say it. I t'inka it verree good t'ing say, too."

"You are very silly little girls," she told them. "I am sure Giuseppe would laugh hard if he knew what you are doing."

"Oh, no, Miss Devons, Ma'am," responded Louisa May. "He's promised us each a picture of himself, and Florabel can talk quite a lot of Eye-talian to him, 'count of the lady what lives in her house. I'm going to ask mommer can I take lessons with her."

As Louisa May's mother had lately been in dire straits, Miss Devons made a mental note to stop that extravagance, and went her way home, wondering at the wiles of "them Dagos."

Week after week witnessed the transfiguration of Giuseppe. His desire to be in all things American increased steadily, and Miss Devons had only to suggest that such and such a thing was the custom of the land for him to adopt it eagerly. One day he came to her with trouble in his dark eyes.

"Mees Devons," he began, having dropped the Signorina, to her great regret, "you explain somet'ing to me?"

"What is it, honey?" asked his teacher, drawing him to her side.