Apples, Ripe and Rosy, Sir. Mary Catherine Crowley

child.

      Tom was silent; he did know, had really known from the first, though now his fault stood before him in its unsightliness; all the pretexts by which he had attempted to palliate it fell from it like a veil, and showed the hateful thing it was. He could not bring himself to acknowledge it, however. Sullenly he set down the apples and peanuts, murmuring, "I never did it before, anyhow!"

      "No, nor never will again, I'm sure, avick! This'll be a lifelong lesson to ye," returned the old woman, with agitation, as she put the dimes back into his hand. "Go right home with them now, an' tell yer father all about it."

      "My father!" faltered Tom, doubtful of the consequences of such a confession.

      "Well, yer mother, then. She'll be gentle with ye, never fear, if ye are really sorry."

      "Indeed I am, Missis Barry," declared Tom, quite breaking down at last.

      "I'm certain ye are, asthore!" continued the good creature, heartily. "An', whisper, when ye get home go to yer own little room, an' there on yer bended knees ask God to forgive ye. Make up yer mind to shun bad company for the future; an' never, from this hour, will we speak another word about this—either ye to me or I to ye—save an' except ye may come an' say: 'I've done as ye bid me, Missis Barry. It's all hunkey dory!'"

      The old woman smiled with grim humor as she found herself quoting the boy's favorite slang expression.

      Tom laughed in spite of himself, so droll did it sound from her lips; but at the same time he drew his jacket sleeve across his eyes, which had grown strangely dim, and said:

      "I will, Missis Barry. You may trust me: I will."

      And Tom did. From that day he and the honest old apple-woman were better friends than ever. Meanwhile her trade improved so much that before long she was able to set up a more pretentious establishment—a genuine stand, with an awning to replace the faithful umbrella, which was forthwith honorably retired from service. Here she carried on a thriving business for several years, Tom, though now a student at St. Jerome's College, often bought apples and peanuts of her.

      "You see that old woman?" said he to a comrade one day. "Don't look much like an angel, does she?"

      His friend, glancing at the queer figure and plain, ordinary features, was amused at the comparison.

      "And yet," continued Tom, earnestly, "she proved a second Guardian

       Angel to me once, and I'll bless her all my life for it."

"BETTER THAN RICHES."

       Table of Contents

      I.

      "Cash! Cash! here!" cried an attendant at the stationery counter of one of New York's great shopping emporiums. At the summons a delicate-looking little girl came wearily up, and held out a small wicker basket for the goods and the money. "Be quick now: the lady's in a hurry."

      Notwithstanding the injunction, the child started off with no special attempt at haste. The same words were dinned into her ears a hundred times a day. She did not see why ladies should be in a hurry. The ladies of her world seemed to have nothing to do but to wear pretty clothes, and to shop, which meant principally the buying of more pretty clothes. It was all very well to make an extra effort to oblige one occasionally; but if she did it every time she was exhorted to, surely her tired feet would give out before the end of the day.

      "Cash is so poky!" complained the salesgirl to her companion behind the counter.

      "Hie you, Cash! Hustle I say!" called the floor-walker peremptorily, as he passed.

      Thus warned, the child skurried away, and reappeared after a very brief interval. As she rushed up with the parcel, an awkward accident occurred. The lady heedlessly stepped backward. Cash dodged; but, alas! before she could stop herself, she had dashed into a pyramid of note-paper that stood upon the end of the counter, and sent the boxes scattering over the floor in dire confusion.

      "Oh!—oh, my!" exclaimed the salesgirl, distressed, as she contemplated the wreck of the architectural display.

      The disturbance at once brought the floor-walker to the spot. "Stupid!" he muttered, taking poor Cash by the shoulder. "Why don't you look where you're going? If you can't mind what you're about, we have no use for you here; remember that!"

      "Please do not blame the child," interposed the lady who had unwittingly caused the trouble. "It was my fault: I carelessly got in her way. I am very sorry."

      "Don't mention it, Mrs. M——. It is not of the slightest consequence," said the floor-walker, with a bland smile and a bow. (Mrs. M—— was a desirable customer, and he would have said the same thing if she had happened to tip the show-case over.) "We have to keep our employees up to the mark, you know," he added in a low tone, by way of apology for his brusqueness. "The best of them become careless. But Cash has found a friend this time, so we'll let it pass."

      Cash, who was busily picking up the boxes, made a little grimace to herself at his change of manner. The lady politely inclined her head by way of acknowledgment, and the floor-walker left abruptly, having suddenly discovered that something required his immediate attention in another part of the store.

      When he had disappeared, the little girl looked up and faltered gratefully: "Thank you, ma'am!"

      Mrs. M—— now for the first time took notice of the individual to whom she had just rendered a service. She glanced down upon a freckled face of the complexion described as pasty, a pair of greyish-blue eyes, and a tangle of reddish curls just long enough to admit of being tied back with the bit of crumpled ribbon which kept them tidy. Cash was not of prepossessing appearance; yet perhaps because, the grateful glance touched a chord common to humanity in the heart of the stranger, or because one naturally warms to any creature whom one has befriended, or perhaps simply from the sweet womanliness which finds all childhood attractive—whatever the motive, upon the impulse of the moment the lady did a very graceful thing. Taking a rose from the bunch of jacqueminots she wore, she fastened it to the breast of the child's black apron, and was gone before the latter could recover from her astonishment.

      It was only a little incident, but it changed the whole aspect of Cash's day. The beautiful flower glowed against the dark uniform, like a bit of joy vouchsafed to a sombre life.

      "How lovely!" exclaimed the salesgirl. "Aren't you lucky, Cash! Don't you want to exchange with me? I'll give you a delicious orange I brought with my lunch for that posie."

      Cash shook her head. As soon as she could, she stole away to the room where the girls kept their cloaks and hats. Here, after a furtive look around to see that ho one was by who might snatch, it away, she unpinned the rose and slipped it into a small card-board box, having first carefully wrapped the stem in a piece of well moistened paper. Then she tucked the box into the pocket of her jacket, and ran downstairs to the store again.

      For the next two or three hours it happened that Cash was kept running to and fro almost without intermission; but she did not mind it now. The kindly word spoken in her behalf by the truly gracious lady, the simple gift of a flower, had given her new spirit. Her heart, like a little bird, kept singing a cheery song to itself; while, as she journeyed hither and thither, her feet seemed to keep time to its gladness.

      "Why, Cash, you're getting smart! What has waked you up?" said the salesgirl, when, well on in the afternoon, the child sat down by the counter for a few seconds. Then, without waiting for a reply, she continued: "Now, aren't you sorry you did not exchange with me? See, you've lost your rose!"

      "Oh, 'taint losted," answered the girl.

      "You did not give it to any one after I made the first bid?" (The inquiry was in a sharper tone.)

      "No: I'm keeping it for Ellie."

      "Oh, sure enough! Poor Ellie! how is she? Cash, you're a good little thing to remember her so