Chandley had driven off. Here, under PART II. THE REALIST. the black arch and in the teeth of the biting wind, lay the representative of the "dangerous classes," outcast of John Regan, bricklayer, lived in society, almost beyond the pale of Hoyden street, just where it runs into human sympathy. Of what avail to the square. His house was a two-story brick, shared between his own family and that of a taciturn German, Schutzenheim by name, besides an anonymous tinsmith who was poked away in the On this Christmas eve him was the vigorous rhetoric or the glowing sentiment which the philanthropist was at that very moment uttering in his club. Did it allay the pangs of his hunger or warm into basement. healthful action the blood that was something was evidently going on in frosted and cold in its channels? In Regan's. his restive sleep the pale lips twitched convulsively, and the poor limbs, which tinctly identified by a half score of her were bare to frost and cold, shivered and shrunk from the breath of the wind. Mrs. Regan herself had been dis neighbors as the little woman who trudged through Hoyden street that afternoon with the bulkiest of hampers Alas for them whose lives an ever- on her arm. A junior Regan, too, had present death consumes! Alas for been detected carrying home a bulging them whose sad story is locked in a mass of something in a brown paper, blank despair, and who sink into which from the severe manner in which nameless graves with a life's com- he discouraged investigation was judged plaining still unspoken. In a hun- by some curious playmates of his a dred halls man celebrates the birth of fruit cake, a plum-pudding, or "goodlove, yet here his brother pines and ies" of some kind. Some youthful and dies without a joy, without a glimpse indiscreet Regans had disclosed the of human love or a knowledge of existence of a Christmas tree awaiting human sympathy. decoration, and from the confidential way in which Mrs. Regan had asked the German family down stairs and the family-from her own place "—across the way, to drop in that evening, it was certain that something festive was about to transpire. All is black and baleful in the wild sky, the bleak wind's every moan is a menace, the glimmering lights beyond the stream are fading in a shroud of darkness. The world that scouts the beggar's miseries seems to avoid his contact. When the shades of night fell, the What wonder that a life like his is Regans' little sitting-room was blazing measured by its woes? What won- with wax-candles and redolent with der that the deep black stream has in a combination of heart-melting and one night like this closed upon a teeth-sharpening odors. young but hopeless heart, and that Mrs. Regan, attired in a brown silk the slow current has borne to the oblivion of death what had been oblivion in the life? gown that had passed through several transitions of shape and trimming, was making odd dashes here and there to right imaginary disarrangements, and So John went hurrying home, full every now and then flying to the win- of glad expectancy and brimming over dow and peeping up and down the with all sorts of large-hearted impulses. street. Suddenly a rumor spread from From the wide thoroughfare, with its the backroom that the German family stream of humanity swaying and eddydown stairs were coming up, and it was ing and tumbling along past lighted speedily followed by a descent of young windows and garish stalls, he turned Regans upon the sitting-room. Then into a modest by-way. Hoyden street there was a modest knock at the door, was just in sight, zigzagging between and Mrs. Regan delighted and of course tall houses and blank walls, and John very much surprised, admitted Herr felt that not far off, in a little twoSchutzenheim, his wife, his fiddle, one story brick front, there were warm immature Schutzenheim and a violin- and anxious hearts awaiting him. case. There were a great many unintelligible compliments passed between the two families, and then Mrs. Regan, thought of his expectant offspring. who had been quite fidgety and constantly made insane darts at the window, could contain herself no longer and boldly proclaimed the cause of her restlessness. "It's thim 'ul be the aiger young sowls, be this," chuckled John, as he And with the thought he quickened his pace and went hurrying up the street so fast that the sharp wind went whistling by his ears as if its home were located in the other direction; hurrying so fast indeed that he came within an ace of knocking down a man who was shuffling along with his head upon his breast. his He stopped to look at the other. He was a cold, ragged, decrepit man. His hair fell in tangled masses upon forehead, and mingled with the growth upon his cheeks. He had deep sunken eyes with a wild, complaining light in them. His face was pale and wrinkled. "I wish John would hurry," said Mrs. Regan. "I wish he were here." John Regan was hurrying. He had dropped into a bazaar to purchase a trifle or two for the children and stopped "Excuse me, sur," said John, grabonce or twice to chat with a passing bing the stranger to hold him up, friend. It would be hard to describe "excuse me, but—” John. Not that there was anything peculiarly handsome or noble, or ugly or mean about him. Not a bit of it. John was not in the least peculiar. You might meet a hundred men like him in a day's walk. But there was such a jovial, hearty look spread all over his round, rosy face, and such sly merry twinkles lurking in his eyes, that it puzzles one to find the right sort of expressions to use in describing him. You all know what a cheerful, merry, good-humored face Santa-Claus has, in books and toyshops. Well, if the old fellow were shaved, his likeness would pass muster for John Regan's. "Lord bless us, what a poor crathur it is," said John. "Say, me good man, where are ye goin?" "It doan't consarn you," the other returned in a querulous tone. "Ye'll help me nothing the more, I'll be bound." "Faith, ye have an uncivil tongue in yer head, me man. But don't ye see that it's not the loikes o' me that'll be | being a good-humored and story-telling plaguin' ye-" stranger, the zest of the evening's enThe frank, honest words melted the joyment was greatly enhanced by his stranger. presence. And such a jolly evening as that was. Jokes, stories, songs, the comparison of family statistics, the tale of every baby's peculiarities told by the mothers "I ax yer pardon," he said meekly. "God knows there's so many hard words for me that I can't tell whin I meet me frind. Where am I goin', ye ax. Wisha, I can't tell. Wherever there's a bite t' be had, for sorra a crumb has passed me lips this blessed day." John could well believe him. The and of "long ago, God be with thim white, pinched face told its tale. "Come with me, my good man," said he, "I'm goin' home now, and it'll be hard if I can't find a male for ye." all these enlivened the night. John was in a rapture of delight. With great good-will he joked, with great goodwill he told funny stories of "home" days," and with equal complacency he volunteered, late in the evening, to go through a regular old time reel. In the accomplishment of this feat Mr. And the two trudged on together. Schutzenheim proved an invaluable coThere was a large and select gather- adjutor, for the junior Schutzenheim ing awaiting John Regan when he having been despatched down stairs reached home. Independent of shoots on secret service returned with the of his own genealogical tree, with Mrs. paternal bow which had been forgotten, Regan herself there were Mr. and Mrs. and the fiddle was forthwith tuned and Schutzenheim sitting very demure in a shouldered. With the first note John corner, and Mr. O'Toole from across was on the floor, with the second his the way, and Mrs. O'Toole from the feet started off on their own hook, and same locality, and various O'Tooles of the third found him capering away in the feminine gender, and others osten- a manner that was quite exhilarating sibly of the common gender, mixed to witness. But he was not long alone. and mingled with the young Regans The infection spread. The carpet was and the sole scion of the house of toed and heeled as it never was before. Schutzenheim. Herr Schutzenheim laid to with a will Maybe there was not a sensation and dashed off strains of a most exwhen John Regan's blooming face aggerated and impromptu character. appeared, and perhaps that sensation Every one danced, every one capered, was not trebly intensified when his com- and John Regan more than every one, panion hobbled in! Had you only till at length the fiddler rolled off a beheld the astonished faces! But perfect tempest of fugues and cadenzas John did not give much time for aston- which worked them all into a furious ishment to circulate. He rose to exHe rose to ex-pitch of terpsichorean frenzy before plain and did so to every one's intense which human endurance failed. satisfaction and edification. The stranger, when he had eaten his fill, was furnished with a chair by the fire, and, It would be difficult to follow up the festivities of the evening-to tell how nicely the fruit cake was done or how odorous was the warm lemonade served | The fires long quenched in souls that up with it. Nor could the violent ex- feel the blight of misery send out their postulation of the juvenile feasters, warmth afresh in such petitions, the when bedtime was alluded to, be prop- eagerness of wasted hopes is in them, erly transcribed. It is sufficient to and the refrain of dead sympathies say that the metaphorical marriage- that struggle into life again. bells were surpassed in merriness, and the Christmas precept of good-will received a just and ample interpretation. Surely the old man's prayer rose beyond the fetid places that consumed his life, and was heard that night among the voices of the choirs. Perhaps, too, the white-robed spirits on their errands of mercy and love may have glanced at the objects of the old man's prayer and looked more fondly on them for its sake. When the bells of Christmas tolled their joyful pean into the midnight and certain distinguished roysterers in a gilded palace were applauding Mr. Claude Chandley's philanthropic utterances, an old man went through a dark However that be, I know that John street, and bowing down his shaggy Regan and his family slept that Christhead as he shambled along, he prayed mas night the sleep of those whose -prayed long and earnestly-for the slumbers angels guard. Who will say large heart that had felt how cheerless that the sympathy extended to the was his lot and opened to him sympathy outcast of the streets was lost and and succor; prayed that the good God reaped no rich return? Remember might hold this man of generous nature, what is written: "A cup of cold with his family and interests, in the water in my name shall have its hollow of his hand, and aid them from reward." above. It was only an old beggar who prayed-a tramp of the streets-alien and friendless in the heart of the great city. But may not that heart's petition have risen with the early prayers of the Christmas morn to the throne of the Eternal? The Great Writings tell us of the joy among the angels on one sinner's repentance. And may not the blessing of a care-weighted heart be grateful to the Father as the voices of those who stray not from Him? EPILOGUE. This is no story. It has not the semblance of a plot. It is completely bald of incident. Its men and women are not heroes and heroines, but ordinary, commonplace, humdrum people. There is not a day of your lives but you see and talk to and jostle against their like. What is this then? Not a sketch or a biography or a diary-leaf. None of these. It is simply a comparison-a few hours snatched from the Yes, these cries from lives that are routine of two men's lives and put beblasted, these prayers of love from side each other. Mr. Claude Chandley lips that care and sin have blanched, did as he used to do and passed his this sweetness that comes from gall, Christmas eve as he deemed becoming. surely there is more in them than John Regan, judging according to his appears to our short-seeing minds. lights and customs, passed the same occasion somewhat differently. Doubt- is in the mouths of all lovers of the less each thought his own way the better. race. The author in his cosy chamber and Not a hundred people have ever the bricklayer in his humble tenement heard of John Regan. He is a daily may have looked upon the same thing toiler, a good husband, a kind father, a through different mediums. But to decent man. All like him, and among us, who stand for the nonce above all an old beggar who now and then the plane of life to view it the more fairly, which appears to have acted the nobler part? hobbles to his door and never leaves it empty-handed. He will live on and die as he has lived-and people will call Alas, that the world knows not the spot him "an honest man." That is all, where its gems are buried, but gropes, But is it not enough? Who will say? mole-like, in darkness, taking worthless The proverb ranks an honest man clods for precious ores. How often very high. And may not his lot be endoes the allotment of its honors shame vied rather than the world-known phiits judgment! How often do its bays lanthropist's? Let others determine. encircle brows that are unworthy of But this should the lives of these men them! teach: Let thine alms be thy heart's gift Over Mr. Claude Chandley's dream, and thine end be good, for good's sake as it appeared upon the pictured pages and not for outward show. Ye who apof a book, a hundred thousand eyes have plaud the deeds of others and sit in judgbeen cast; and how many tongues have ment on your fellows' virtues, ye who spoken the praises of the man whose look upon the highways of life for ready pen has uttered the promptings Claude Chandleys, without exploring its of his warm heart? The world calls alleys and by-ways for John Regans, him philanthropist. Humanity looks be sure, gentlemen, that you give your upon him with admiration. His name meed where it is due. Strange! that whene'er the hour arrives, Which we have longed for day and night, To act the purpose of our lives, Fades all the glory and the light, Fails to the sense of power and might; And there are omens in the air, But never victor in the fight |