day know the glory to which his father had attained.
But when the earthly remains of the late distinguished Senator were borne down the aisle in solemn procession, the boy had a momentary return of grief.
"Is that papa in the box?" he whimpered.
His mother put her lips to his ear. "Yes," she gasped. "But don't talk. It isn't allowed."
The veiled man turned audibly uneasy. "Cuss it!" he fumed.
"Oh, father!" the boy sobbed.
With happy promptitude the veiled man acted. He put a hand over the boy's mouth. "For God's sake, Millie," he whispered to the woman, "let's get out of here! We'll be run in."
"Hush, dear!" the woman commanded: for she was much afraid.
After that, the child was quiet.
From the room in the Box Street tenement, meantime, the body of Dick Slade had been taken in a Department wagon to a resting-place befitting in degree.
"Millie," the veiled man protested, that night, "you didn't ought to fool the boy."
"It don't matter, Poddle," said she. "And I don't want him to feel bad."
"You didn't ought to do it," the man persisted. "It'll make trouble for him."
"I can't see him hurt," said the woman, doggedly. "I love him so much. Poddle, I just can't! It hurts me."
The boy was now in bed. "Mother," he asked, lifting himself from the pillow, "when will I die?"
"Why, child!" she ejaculated.
"I wish," said the boy, "it was to-morrow."
"There!" said the woman, in triumph, to the man. "He ain't afraid of death no more."
"I told you so, Millie!" the man exclaimed, at the same instant.
"But he ain't afraid to die," she persisted. "And that's all I want."
"You can't fool him always," the man warned.
The boy was then four years old…
THE RIVER
Top floor rear of the Box Street tenement looked out upon the river. It was lifted high: the activities of the broad stream and of the motley world of the other shore went silently; the petty noises of life – the creak and puff and rumble of its labouring machinery, – straying upward from the fussy places below, were lost in the space between.
Within: a bed, a stove, a table – the gaunt framework of home. But the window overlooked the river; and the boy was now seven years old, unknowing, unquestioning, serenely obedient to the circumstances of his life: feeling no desire that wandered beyond the familiar presence of his mother – her voice and touch and brooding love.
It was a magic window – a window turned lengthwise, broad, low, small-paned, disclosing wonders without end: a scene of infinite changes. There was shipping below, restless craft upon the water; and beyond, dwarfed in the distance, was a confusion of streets, of flat, puffing roofs, stretching from the shining river to the far, misty hills, which lay beside the sea, invisible and mysterious.
But top floor rear was remote from the river and the roofs. From the window – and from the love in the room – the boy looked out upon an alien world, heard the distant murmur, monotonously proceeding, night and day: uncomprehending, but unperturbed…
In the evening the boy sat with his mother at the window. Together they watched the shadows gather – the hills and the city and the river dissolve: the whole broad world turn to points of light, twinkling, flashing, darting, in the black, voiceless gulf. Nor would she fail to watch the night come, whether in gentle weather or whipping rain: but there would sit, the boy in her arms, held close to her breast, her hand straying restlessly over his small body, intimately caressing it.
The falling shadows; the river, flowing unfeelingly; the lights, wandering without rest, aimless, forever astray in the dark: these were a spell upon her.
"They go to the sea!" she whispered, once.
"The ships, mother?"
She put his head in the hollow of her shoulder, where her cheek might touch his hair: all the time staring out at the lights on the river.
"All the ships, all the lights on the river," she said, hoarsely, "go out there."
"Why?"
"The river takes them."
He was made uneasy: being conscious of the deeper meaning – acutely aware of some strange dread stirring in her heart.
"Maybe," he protested, "they're glad to go away."
She shook her head. "One night," she said, leaning towards the window, seeming now to forget the boy, "I seen the sea. All the lights on the river go different ways – when they get out there. It is a dark and lonesome place – big and dark and lonesome."
"Then," said he, quickly, "you would not like to be there."
"No," she answered. "I do not like the sky," she continued; "it is so big and empty. I do not like the sea; it is so big and dark. And black winds are always blowing there; and the lights go different ways. The lights," she muttered, "go different ways! I am afraid of the dark. And, oh!" she moaned, suddenly crushing him to her breast, rocking him, in an agony of tenderness, "I am afraid of something else. Oh, I am afraid!"
"Of what?" he gasped.
"To be alone!" she sobbed.
He released himself from her arms – sat back on her knee: quivering from head to foot, his hands clenched, his lips writhing. "Don't, mother!" he cried. "Don't cry. We will not go to the sea. We will not!"
"We must," she whispered.
"Oh, why?"
She kissed him: her hand slipped under his knees; and she drew him close again – and there held him until he lay quiet in her arms.
"We are like the lights on the river," she said. "The river will take us to a place where the lights go different ways."
"We will not go!"
"The river will take us."
The boy was puzzled: he lifted his head, to watch the lights drift past, far below; and he was much troubled by this mystery. She tried to gather his legs in her lap – to hold him as she used to do, when he was a child at her breast; but he was now grown too large for that, and she suffered, again, the familiar pain: a perception of alienation – of inevitable loss.
"When?" he asked.
She let his legs fall. "Soon," she sighed. "When you are older; it won't be long, now. When you are a little wiser; it will be very soon."
"When I am wiser," he pondered, "we must go. What makes me wiser?"
"The wise."
"Are you wise?"
"God help me!" she answered.
He nestled his head on her shoulder – dismissing
