Apron-Strings. Gates Eleanor
other was not to be gainsaid. "Yes, he was," he persisted; "and it's him."
"Aw, that's a Bishop—or somethin'. There's Momsey's father." Beside the library door stood a small writing-desk. Atop it, in a wooden frame, was a photograph. This was now caught up, and went from hand to hand among the crowding boys. "That's him, and he's been dead twenty years."
"Let me see!" A shining tow-head wriggled up from under the arms of taller boys, and a freckled hand captured the picture. "Why, he looks like Momsey!"
The tousled songster seized the photograph in righteous anger. "Sure!" he cried, waving it in the face of the tow-headed boy; "you don't think she takes after her mother, do y'?"
A chorus of protests, all aimed at the tow-head, which was turned defensively from side to side.
"Y' know what I think?" demanded the tousled one. He motioned the others to gather round. "I don't believe the old lady is Momsey's mother at a-a-all!"
"Oo-oo-oo!" The choir gasped and stared.
"No, I don't," persisted the boy. "I believe that years, and years, and years ago, some nice, poor lady come cree-ee-eepin' through the little white door, and left Momsey—in the basket!"
Nine small countenances beamed with delight. "You're right!" the choir clamored. "You're right! You're dead right!" White sleeves were waved joyously aloft.
Now the heavy door to the library began to swing against the backs of two or three. The choir did not wait to see who was entering. Smiles vanished. Eyes grew frightened. Like one, the boys wheeled and fled. The door into the passage stood wide. They crowded through it, and halted only when the last cotta was across the sill. Then, like a flock of scared quail, they faced about, panting, and ready for further flight.
One look, and ten musical throats emitted as many unmusical shouts of laughter. While the tousle-headed boy, swinging the photograph which he had failed to restore to its place, again set foot upon the Brussels of the drawing-room. "Oh! Oh!" he laughed. "Oh, golly, Dora, you scared me!"
With all the dignity of her sixteen years, and with all the authority of one who has graduated from the ranks of an Orphanage to the higher, if rarer, air of a Rector's residence, Dora surveyed with shocked countenance the saucy visages of the ten. On occasions she could assume a manner most impressive—a manner borrowed in part from a butler who had been installed, at one time, by a wealthy and high-living incumbent of St. Giles, and in part from ministers who had reigned there by turns and whose delivery and outward manifestations of inward sanctity she had carefully studied during the period of her own labor in the house. Now with finger-tips together, and with the spirit of those half-dozen ecclesiastics sounding in her nasal sing-song, she voiced her stern reproof:
"My dear brothers!"
"Aw," scoffed a boy, "we ain't neither your brothers."
"I am speaking in the broad sense," explained Dora, with the loftiness of one who addresses a throng from a pulpit. Then shaking a finger, "'The wicked flee when no man pursueth'—Proverbs, twenty-eighth chapter, and first verse."
"We're not wicked," denied the boy. "Mr. Farvel told us to come."
"We're goin' to rehearse for the weddin'," chimed in the tow-headed one.
Dora let her look travel from face to face, the while she shook her head solemnly. "But," she reminded, "if Mrs. Milo finds you here, only a miracle can save you!"
"Aw, I'm not afraid of her,"—the uncombed chorister advanced bravely.
"She's only a boarder. And after this, I'm goin' to mind just Mr.
Farvel."
Something like horrified pity lengthened the pale face of Dora. "Little boys," she advised, "in these brief years since I left the Orphanage, I've seen ministers come and ministers go. But Mrs. Milo"—she turned away—"like the poor——" Her ministerial gesture was eloquent of hopelessness.
The boys in the passage stared at one another apprehensively. But their leader was flushed with excitement and wrath. "Dora," he cried, hurrying over to check her going, "do you know what I wish would happen?"
She turned accusingly. "Oh, Bobbie! What a sinful thought!"
"But I wasn't wishin' that!"
"Drive it out of your heart!" she counseled, with all the passion of an evangelist. "Drive it out of your heart! Remember: she can't live forever. She ain't immortal. But let her stay her appointed time,"—this last with the bowed head proper to the sentiment, so that two short, tight braids stood ceilingward.
The stifled exclamations of the waiting ten brought her head up once more. From the vestibule, resplendent in shining satin and billows of tulle, had appeared a vision. The choir gazed on it in open-mouthed wonder. "Oh, look! The bride! Mm! Ain't it beautiful!"
Hattie was equal to the occasion. Dropping all the tulle into place, she walked from bay-window to table and back again, displaying her finery. "Isn't it pretty?" she agreed. "See the veil. And look!"
Head on one side, the ever-philosophical Dora watched her. And Hattie, halting, turned once around for the benefit of all observers, but with an inviting smile toward the girl, as to a sister-spirit who would be certain to appreciate.
Dora lifted gingham-clad shoulders in a weary shrug. "'Can a maid forget her ornaments?'" she quoted; "'or a bride her attire?'"
"Well, I like that!" cried Hattie.
Quickly Dora extended a hand with a gesture unmistakably cleric.
"Jeremiah," she explained; "—second chapter, and thirty-second verse."
But Hattie was not deceived. She rustled forward. "Yes!" she retorted. "And Hattie Balcome, first chapter, and first verse, reads: 'Can a maid forget her manners?'"
Dora was suddenly all meekness. "If she forgets her duties," she answered, "she shall flee from Mrs. Milo—and the wrath to come!" Whereupon, with a bounce and a giggle, neither of which was in keeping with her spoken fears, she went out, banging the library door.
Hattie turned, and here was the choir at her back, engrossed in the beauties of her apparel. She gave the little group a friendly nod and a smile. "So you are the boys," she commented.
Bobbie was quick to explain. "We're some of the boys," he said. "There's about fifty more of us, and pretty near fifty girls, too, over in the Orphanage."
"But—aren't you all rather big to be left in a basket?"
"Oh, not all of us are left in the basket." Bobbie shook his rumpled mop with great finality.
"No." It was a smaller boy. "Just the fellers that never had any mothers or fathers."
"Like me," piped a chorister from the rear.
"And me," put in the tow-headed boy.
Hattie looked them over carefully. "Which," she inquired, "is the one that is borrowed from his aunt?"
The group stirred. A murmur went from boy to boy. "Mm! Yes! That one!
Oh, him!"
"That's Ikey Einstein," explained Bobbie. "And he's in the Church right now. You see, he's borrowed on account of his won-der-ful voice. Momsey says Ikey's got a song-bird in his throat."
Once more the group stirred, murmuring its assent. It was the testimony of a choir to its finest songster—a testimony strong with pride.
At that same moment, sounding from beyond the heavy door that gave to the Church, came a long-drawn howl of mingled rage and woe. "Wa-ah!"—it was the voice of a boy; "oh, wa-a-a-ah!"
Bobbie lifted a finger to point. "That," said he proudly, "is Ikey now."
He motioned the choir into the bay-window, and Hattie followed.
The wails increased in volume. The door at the end of the passage swung open; and into sight, amid loud boo-hoos, pressed a squirming trio. There were two torn and dirty boys, their faces streaked with tears, their