haunted by memories of his son's baby days, when the car stopped in the tenement-lined street, swarming with push-carts and children.
The damp, rank stench of the unwashed smote him as he stepped out and entered the dirty hallway, set with bells and letter boxes and littered with débris and filthy melting snow.
The place was certainly vile enough. A deformed woman with sore eyes directed him to the floor where the Schmidt family lived. On the landing he stumbled over several infants who were playing affectionately with a dead cat – probably the first substitute for a doll they had ever possessed. A fight in some room on the second floor arrested his attention, and he halted, alert and undecided, when the dim hallway resounded with screams of murder.
But a slatternly young woman who was passing explained very coolly that it was only "thim Cassidys mixing it"; and she went her way down stairs with her cracked pitcher, and he continued upward.
"Schmidt? In there," replied a small boy to his inquiry; and resumed his game of ball against the cracked plaster wall of the passage.
Answering his knock, a shapeless woman opened the door.
"Mrs. Schmidt?"
"Yes, sir," – retying the string which alone kept up her skirt.
He explained briefly who he was, where he had been, what he had done through the United Charities for the child, Stephanie.
"I'd like to take a look at her," he added, "if it's perfectly convenient."
Mrs. Schmidt began to cry:
"Ex-cuse me, sir; I'm so glad we can keep her. Albert has all he can do for our own kids – but the poor little thing! – it seemed hard to send her away to a Home – " She gouged out the tears abruptly with the back of a red, water-soaked hand.
"Steve! Here's a kind gentleman come to see you. Dry your hands, dearie, and come and thank him."
A grey-eyed child appeared – one of those slender little shapes, graceful in every unconscious movement of head and limbs. She was drying her thin red fingers on a bit of rag as she came forward, the steam of the wash-boiler still rising from her bare arms.
A loud, continuous noise arose in the further room, as though it were full of birds and animals fighting.
For a moment the tension of inquiry and embarrassment between the three endured in silence; then an odd, hot flush seemed to envelop the heart of Cleland Senior – and something tense within his brain loosened, flooding his entire being with infinite relief. The man had been starving for a child; that was all. He had suddenly found her. But he didn't realize it even now.
There was a shaky chair in the exceedingly clean but wretchedly furnished room. Cleland Senior went over and seated himself gingerly.
"Well, Steve?" he said with a pleasant, humourous smile. But his voice was not quite steady.
"Thank the good, kind gentleman!" burst out Mrs. Schmidt, beginning to sob again, and to swab the welling tears with the mottled backs of both fists. "You're going to stay with us, dearie. They ain't no policeman coming to take you to no institoot for orphan little girls! The good, kind gentleman has give the money for it. Go down onto your knees and thank him, Steve – !"
"Are you really going to keep me?" faltered the child. "Is it true?"
"Yes, it's true, dearie. Don't go a-kissing me! Go and thank the good, kind – "
"Let me talk to the child alone," interrupted Cleland drily. "And shut the door, please!" – glancing into the farther room where a clothes-boiler steamed, onions were frying, five yelling children swarmed over every inch of furniture, a baby made apocryphal remarks from a home-made cradle, and a canary bird sang shrilly and incessantly.
Mrs. Schmidt retired, sobbing, extolling the goodness and kindness of John Cleland, who endured it with patience until the closed door shut out eulogies, yells, canary and onions.
Then he said:
"Steve, you need not thank me. Just shake hands with me. Will you? I – I like children."
The little girl, whose head was still turned toward the closed door behind which had disappeared the only woman who had ever been consistently kind to her, now looked around at this large, strange man in his fur-lined coat, who sat there smiling at her in such friendly fashion.
And slowly, timidly, over the child's face the faintest of smiles crept in delicate response to his advances. Yet still in the wonderful grey eyes there remained that heart-rending expression of fearful inquiry which haunts the gaze of children who have been cruelly used.
"Is your name Stephanie?"
"Yes, sir."
"Stephanie Quest?"
"Yes, sir."
"What shall I call you? Steve?"
"Yes, sir," winningly grave.
"All right, then. Steve, will you shake hands?"
The child laid her thin, red, water-marred fingers in his gloved hand. He retained them, and drew her nearer.
"You've had a rather tough deal, Steve, haven't you?"
The child was silent, standing with head lowered, her bronzed brown hair hanging and shadowing shoulders and face.
"Do you go to school, Steve?"
"Yes, sir."
"Not to-day?"
"No, sir. It's Saturday."
"Oh, yes. I forgot. What do you learn in school?"
"Things – writing – reading."
"Do you like school?"
"Yes, sir."
"What do you like best?"
"Dancing."
"Do they teach that? What kind of dancing do you learn to do?"
"Fancy dancing – folk-dances. And I like the little plays that teacher gets up for us."
"Do you like any other of your studies?" he asked drily.
"Droring."
"Drawing?"
"Yes, sir," she replied, flushing painfully.
"Oh. So they teach you to draw? Who instructs you?"
"Miss Crowe. She comes every week. We copy picture cards and things."
"So you like to draw, Steve," nodded Cleland absently, thinking of his only son, who liked to write, and who, God willing, would have every chance to develop his bent in life. Then, still thinking of his only son, he looked up into the grey eyes of this little stranger.
As fate would have it, she smiled at him. And, looking at her in silence he felt the child-hunger gnawing in his heart – felt it, and for the first time, vaguely surmised what it really was that had so long ailed him.
But the idea, of course, seemed hopeless, impossible! It was not fair to his only son. Everything that he had was his son's – everything he had to give – care, sympathy, love, worldly possessions. These belonged to his son alone.
"Are you happy here with these kind people, Steve?" he asked hastily.
"Yes, sir."
But though his conscience should have instantly acquitted him, deep in his lonely heart the child-hunger gnawed, unsatisfied. If only there had been other children of his own – younger ones to play with, to have near him in his solitude, to cuddle, to caress, to fuss over as he and his dead wife had fussed over their only baby! —
"Steve?"
"Sir?"
"You are sure you will be quite happy here?"
"Yes, sir."
"Would you – " A pause; and again he looked up into the child's face, and again she smiled.
"Steve, I never had a little girl. It's funny, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir."
A silence.
"Would