Sandy. Alice Caldwell Hegan Rice

Savourneen deelish, signan O!"

      His boyish voice rang out clear and true, softening on the refrain to an indescribable tenderness that steeped the old song in the very essence of mystery and love.

      "As I kiss'd off her tears, I was nigh broken-hearted!

       Savourneen deelish, signan O!"

       He could remember his mother singing him to sleep by it, and the bright red of her lips as they framed the words:

      "Wan was her cheek which hung on my shoulder;

       Chill was her hand, no marble was colder;

       I felt that again I should never behold her;

       Savourneen deelish, signan O!"

      As the song trembled to a close, a slight burst of applause came from the cabin deck. Sandy looked up, frowned, and bit his lip. He did not know why, but he was sorry he had sung.

      The next morning the America sailed into New York harbor, band playing and flags flying. She was bringing home a record and a jubilant crew. On the upper decks passengers were making merry over what is probably the most joyful parting in the world. In the steerage all was bustle and confusion and anticipation of the disembarking.

      Eagerly, wistfully watching it all, stood Sandy, as alert and distressed as a young hound restrained from the hunt. It is something to accept punishment gracefully, but to accept punishment when it can be avoided is nothing short of heroism. Sandy had to shut his eyes and grip the railing to keep from planning an escape. Spread before him in brave array across the water lay the promised land and, like Moses, he was not to reach it.

      "That's the greatest city in America," said the ship's surgeon as he came up to where he was standing. "What do you think of it?"

      "I never seen one stand on end afore!" exclaimed Sandy, amazed.

      "Would you like to go ashore long enough to look about?" asked the doctor, with a smile running around the fat folds of his cheeks.

      "And would I?" asked Sandy, his eyes flying open. "It's me word of honor I'd give you that I'd come back."

      "The word of a stowaway, eh?" asked the doctor, still smiling.

       In a moment Sandy's face was crimson. "Whatever I be, sir, I ain't a liar!"

      The doctor pursed up his lips in comical dismay: "Not so hot, my man; not so hot! So you still want to be a doctor?"

      Sandy cooled down sufficiently to say that it was the one ambition of his life.

      "I know the physician in charge of the City Hospital here in New York. He's a good fellow. He'd put you through give you work and put you in the way of going to the Medical School. You'd like that?"

      "But," cried Sandy, bewildered but hopeful, "I have to go back!"

      The doctor shook his head. "No, you don't. I've paid your passage."

      Sandy waited a moment until the full import of the words was taken in, then he grabbed the stout little doctor and almost lifted him off his feet.

      "Oh! But ain't you a brick!" he cried fervently, adding earnestly: "It ain't a present you're makin' me, though! I'll pay it back, so help me bob!"

      At the pier the crowd of immigrants pushed and crowded impatiently as they waited for the cabin passengers to go ashore. Among them was Sandy, bareheaded and in motley garb, laughing and shoving with the best of them, hanging over the railing, and keeping up a fire of merriment at the expense of the crowd below. In his hand was a letter of recommendation to the physician in charge at the City Hospital, and in his inside pocket a ten-dollar bill was buttoned over a heart that had not a care in the world. In the great stream of life Sandy was one of the bubbles that are apt to come to the top.

      "You better come down to Kentucky with me," urged Ricks Wilson, resuming an old argument. "I'm goin' to peddle my way back home, then git a payin' job at the racetrack."

      "Wasn't I tellin' ye that it was a doctor I'm goin' to be?" asked Sandy, impatiently. Already Ricks's friendship was proving irksome.

       On the gang-plank above him the passengers were leaving the ship. Some delay had arisen, and for a moment the procession halted. Suddenly Sandy caught his breath. There, just above him, stood "the damsel passing fair." Instead of the tam-o'-shanter she wore a big drooping hat of brown, which just matched the curls that were loosely tied at the back of her neck.

      Sandy stood motionless and humbly adored her. He was a born lover, lavishing his affection, without discrimination or calculation, upon whatever touched his heart. It surely was no harm just to stand aside and look. He liked the way she carried her head; he liked the way her eyes went up a little at the outer corners, and the round, soft curve of her chin. She was gazing steadfastly ahead of her down the gang-plank, and he ventured a step nearer and continued his observations. As he did so, he made a discovery. The soft white of her cheek was gradually becoming pinker and pinker; the color which began under her lace collar stole up and up until it reached her eyes, which still gazed determinedly before her.

      Sandy admired it as a traveler admires a sunrise, and with as little idea of having caused it.

      The line of passengers moved slowly forward, and his heart sank. Suddenly his eyes fell upon the little hand-bag which she carried. On one end, in small white letters, was: "Ruth Nelson, Kentucky, U.S.A." He watched her until she was lost to view, then he turned eagerly back into the crowd. Elbowing his way forward, he seized Ricks by the arm.

      "Hi, there!" he cried; "I've changed me mind. I'm goin' with you to Kentucky!"

      So this impetuous knight errant enlisted under the will-o'-the-wisp love, and started joyously forth upon his quest.

CHAPTER III

       Table of Contents

      THE CURSE OF WEALTH

      It is an oft-proved adage that for ten who can stand adversity there is but one who can stand prosperity. Sandy, alas! was no exception to any rule which went to prove the frailty of human nature. The sudden acquisition of ten dollars cast him into a whirlpool of temptation from which he made little effort to escape.

      "I ain't goin' on to-day," announced Ricks. "I'm goin' to lay in my goods for peddlin'. I reckon you kin come along of me."

      Sandy accepted a long and strong cigar, tilted his hat, and unconsciously caught Ricks's slouching gait as they went down the street. After all, it was rather pleasant to associate with sophistication.

      "We'll git on the outside of a little dinner," said Ricks; "and I'll mosey round in the stores awhile, then I'll take you to a show or two. It's a mighty good thing for you that you got me along."

      Sandy thought so too. He cheerfully stood treat for the rest of the day, and felt that it was small return for Ricks's condescension.

      "How much you got left?" asked Ricks, that night, as they stopped under a street light to take stock.

      Sandy held out a couple of dollars and a fifty-cent piece.

      "Enough to put on the eyes of two and a half dead men," he said as he curiously eyed the strange money.

      "One, two, two and a half," counted Ricks.

      "Shillings?" asked Sandy, amazed.

      Ricks nodded.

      "And have I blowed all that to-day?"

       "What of it?" asked Ricks. "I seen a bloke onct what lit his cigar with a bill like the one you had!"

      "But the doctor said it was two pounds," insisted Sandy, incredulously. He did not realize the expense of a personally conducted tour of the Bowery.

      "Well, it's went," said Ricks, resignedly. "You can't count on settin' up biz with what's