"Take the kid now," he whispered. "Nobody'll notice. I'll see they don't cry arter ye."
Liz thanked him mutely by a look, and rushing to the house where the child still lay, seemingly inanimate, on the floor among the soiled clothes, she caught it up eagerly, and hurried away to her own poor garret in a tumble-down tenement at the farthest end of the alley. The infant had been stunned by its fall, but under her tender care, and rocked in the warmth of her caressing arms, it soon recovered, though when its blue eyes opened they were full of a bewildered pain, such as may be seen in the eyes of a shot bird.
"My pet! my poor little darling!" she murmured over and over again, kissing its wee white face and soft hands; I wish I was your mother--Lord knows I do! As it is, you're all I've got to care for. And you do love me, baby, don't you? just a little, little bit!" And as she renewed her fondling embraces, the tiny, sad-visaged creature uttered a low, crooning sound of baby satisfaction in response to her endearments--a sound more sweet to her ears than the most exquisite music, and which brought a smile to her mouth and a pathos to her dark eyes, rendering her face for the moment almost beautiful. Holding the child closely to her breast, she looked cautiously out of her narrow window, and perceived that the connubial fight was over. From the shouts of laughter and plaudits that reached her ears, Joe Mawks had evidently won the day; his wife had disappeared from the field. She saw the little crowd dispersing, most of those who composed it entered the gin-shop, and very soon the alley was comparatively quiet and deserted. By-and-bye she heard her name called in a low voice: "Liz!
Liz!"
She looked down and saw the old man who had promised her his protection in case Mother Mawks should persecute her. "Is that you, Jim? Come upstairs; it's better than talking out there." He obeyed, and stood before her in the wretched room, looking curiously both at her and the baby. A wiry, wolfish-faced being was Jim Duds, as he was familiarly called, though his own name was the aristocratic and singularly inappropriate one of James Douglas. He was more like an animal than a human creature, with his straggling gray hair, bushy beard, and sharp teeth protruding like fangs from beneath his upper lip. His profession was that of an area thief, and he considered it a sufficiently respectable calling.
"Mother Mawks has got it this time," he said, with a grin which was more like a snarl. "Joe's blood was up, and he pounded her nigh into a jelly. She'll leave ye quiet now; so long as ye pay the hire reg'lar ye'll have Joe on yer side. If so be as there's a bad day, ye'd better not come home at all."
"I know," said Liz; "but she's always had the money for the child, and surely it wasn't much to ask her to let me keep it warm on such a cold night as this."
Jim Duds looked meditative. "Wot makes yer care for that babby so much?" he asked. " 'T ain't yourn."
Liz sighed.
"No," she said, sadly. "That's true. But it seems something to hold on to, like. See what my life has been!" She stopped, and a wave of colour flushed her pallid features. "From a little girl, nothing but the streets--the long, cruel streets! and I just a bit of dirt on the pavement--no more; flung here, flung there, and at last swept into the gutter. All dark--all useless!" She laughed a little. "Fancy, Jim!
I've never seen the country!"
"Nor I," said Jim, biting a piece of straw reflectively. "It must be powerful fine, with naught but green trees an' posies a- blowin' an' a growin' everywheres. There ain't many kitching areas there, though, I'm told."
Liz went on, scarcely heeding him: "The baby seems to me like what the country must be--all harmless and sweet and quiet; when I hold it so, my heart gets peaceful somehow--I don't know why."
Again Jim looked speculative. He waved his bitten straw expressively.
"Ye've had 'sperience, Liz. Hain't ye met no man like wot ye could care fur?"
Liz trembled, and her eyes grew wild..
"Men!" she cried, with bitterest scorn--"no men have come my way, only brutes!"
Jim stared, but was silent; he had no fit answer ready. Presently Liz spoke again, more softly:
"Jim, do you know I went into a great church to-day?"
"Worse luck!" said Jim, sententiously. "Church ain't no use nohow as far as I can see."
"There was a figure there, Jim," went on Liz, earnestly, "of a Woman holding up a Baby, and people knelt down before it. What do you s'pose it was?"
"Can't say!" replied the puzzled Jim. "Are ye sure 't was a church?
Most like 't was a mooseum."
"No, no!" said Liz. " 'T was a church for certain; there were folks praying in it."
"Ah, well," growled Jim, gruffly, "much good it may do 'em! I'm not of the prayin' sort. A woman an' a babby, did ye say? Don't ye get such cranky notions into yer head, Liz! Women an' babbies are common enough --too common, by a long chalk; an' as for prayin' to 'em--" Jim's utter contempt and incredulity were too great for further expression, and he turned away, wishing her a curt "Good-night!"
