to conduct him to his new home, mrs. crewdson gave up the whole of the morning she was supposed to spend in sleep after her all-night vigil. the home was in a little town a short distance up the hudson. though the railway journey was not long, it was the longest he had ever taken, and, once the river came within view, it was not without its excitements. his spirits began to rise with a sense of new adventure. there were things to look at, bridges, steamers, a man-o'-war at anchor, lumber yards, coal sheds, an open-air exhibit of mortuary monuments, and high overhead the clear cold blue of a january sky. on the other side of the river the wooded heights made a bold brown bastion, flecked here and there with snow.

as he had not asked where they were going, or the composition of the family with whom the guardian of state wards was placing him, his protectress permitted him to make his own discoveries. new faces, new contacts, new necessities, would help him to forget the old.

they got out at the station of harfrey. mrs. crewdson carried the suitcase containing the wardrobe rescued when they had searched the rooms which he and his mother had occupied last. in front of the station they got on a ramshackle street car, which zigzagged up the face of the bank, rising steeply

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from the river, so reaching the little town. they turned sharply at the top of the ridge to run through the one long street. it was a mean-looking street of drab wooden dwellings and drab wooden shops, occupied mostly by people dependent on the grand seigneurs of the neighboring big "places." an ugly schoolhouse, an ugly engine house, two or three ugly churches, further defied that beauty of which god had been so generous.

having got out at a corner at which the car stopped, they walked to a small wooden house with a mansard roof, standing back from the street. it was a putty-colored house, with window and door frames in flecked, anæmic yellow. perched on the edge of the ridge, it had three stories at the back and but two in front. what had once been an orchard had dwindled now to three or four apple trees, the rest of the ground being utilized as a chicken run. as the day was sunny, a few plymouth rocks were scratching and pecking in the yard.

having turned in here, they found themselves expected, the front door opening before they reached the cement slab in front of it. the greetings were all for mrs. crewdson, who was plainly an old friend. the boy went in only because mrs. crewdson went in, and in the same way proceeded to a cheery, shabby sitting room. here there were books and magazines about, while a canary in a cage began to sing as soon as he heard voices. to a homeless little boy the haven was so sweet that he forgot to take off his cap.

the first few minutes were consumed in questions as to this one and that one, relatives apparently, to

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gether with data given and received as to certain recognized maladies. mrs. crewdson was getting better of her headaches, but mrs. tollivant still suffered from her varicose veins. only when these preliminaries were out of the way and mrs. crewdson had thrown off her outer wraps, was the introduction accomplished.

"so i've brought you the boy! tom, dear, this is mrs. tollivant who's going to take care of you. your cap, tom! i imagine," she continued, with an apologetic smile, "you'll find manners very rudimentary."

obliged to take an early train back to new york, mrs. crewdson talked with veiled, confidential frankness. a boy of seven could not be supposed to seize the drift of her cautious phraseology, even if he heard some of it.

"so you know the main features of the case.... i told them it wouldn't be fair to you to let you assume so much responsibility without your knowing the whole.... with children of your own to think of, you couldn't expose them to a harmful influence unless you were put in a position to take every precaution against.... not that we've seen anything ourselves.... but, of course, after such a bringing up there can't but be traces.... and such good material there.... i'm sure you'll find it so.... personally, i haven't seen a human being in a long time to whom my heart has gone.... only there it is.... an inheritance which can't but be...."

he didn't feel betrayed. he had nothing to resent. mrs. crewdson had proved herself his friend, and he trusted her. without knowing all the words she used,

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he caught easily enough the nature of the sentiments they stood for. these he accepted meekly. he was a bad boy. his mother and he had been engaged in wicked practices. dimly, in unallayed mental discomfort, he had been convinced of this himself; and now it was clear to everyone. if they hadn't known what to do with him it was because a bad boy couldn't fit rightly into a world where everyone else was good. a young evildoer, he had no rôle left but that of humility.

he was the more keenly aware of this after mrs. crewdson had bidden him farewell, and he was face to face with his new foster mother. a wiry little woman, quick in action and sharp in tongue, she would be kind to him, with a nervous, nagging kindness. he got this impression, as he got an odor or a taste, without having to define or analyze. later in life, when he had come to observe something of the stamp which professions leave on personalities, he was not surprised that she should have worn herself out in school-teaching before marrying andrew tollivant, a book-keeper. as he sat now, just as mrs. crewdson had left him, his overcoat still on his back, his cap in his hand, his feet dangling because the chair was too high for him, she treated him as if he were a class.

"now, little boy, before we go any farther, you and i had better understand each other."

with this brisk call to his attention, she sat down in front of him, frightening him to begin with.

"you know that this is now to be your home, and i intend to do my duty by you to the best of my ability. mr. tollivant will do the same. if you take the chil

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dren in the right way i'm sure you'll find them friendly. they were very nice to the last little boy the board of guardians sent to us."

staring in fascinated awe at the starry brightness of her eyes, and the wrinkles of worry around them, he waited in silence for more.

"but one or two things i hope you'll remember on your side. perhaps you haven't heard that the board has found it hard to get anyone to take you. you're old enough to know that where there are children in a family people are shy of a boy who's had just your history. but i've run the risk. it's a great risk, i admit, and may be dangerous to my own. do you understand what i mean?"

"no, ma'am," he said, blankly.

"then i'll tell you. there are two things children must learn as soon as they're able to learn anything. one is to be honest; the other is to tell the truth. you know what telling the truth is, don't you?"

he did know, but paralyzed by her earnestness, he denied the fact. "no, ma'am."

"so there you are! and i don't suppose you've been taught anything about honesty."

"no, ma'am."

"then you must begin to learn."

he began to learn that minute. still treating him as a class, she delivered a little lecture, such as a child of tender years could understand, on the two basic virtues of which he had pleaded ignorance. he listened as in a trance, his eyes fixed on her vacantly. though seizing a disconnected word or two, fear kept

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him from getting the gist of it all, as he generally did.

"it's your influence on the children that i want you to beware of. arthur is older than you, but he's only ten; and a boy with your experience could easily teach him a good deal of harm. cilly is eight, and bertie only five. you'll be careful with them, won't you? do you know that if we lead others astray god will call us to account for it?"

"no, ma'am."

"well, he will; and i want you to remember it, and be afraid. unless you're afraid of god you'll never grow into the good boy i hope we're going to make of you."

the homily finished, he was instructed in the ways of the upper floor, where, in the sloping space under the eaves, he was to have his room. after this he came back to the sitting room, not knowing what else to do. he was in a daze. it was as if he had dropped on another planet where nothing was familiar. whether to stand up or sit down he didn't know. he didn't know what to think, or what to think about. cut loose from his bearings, he floated in mental space.

as standing seemed to commit him to least that was wrong, he stood. standing implied looking out of the window, and looking out of the window showed him, about half past twelve, a well-built boy, rosy with the cold, noisy from exuberance of spirit, swinging in at the gate and brandishing a hockey stick. from her preparation of the dinner his mother ran to meet

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him at the door. she spoke in a loud whisper that easily reached the sitting room.

"now be careful, arthur. he's come. he's in there."

arthur responded with noisy indifference. "who? the crook?"

"sh-h-h, dear! you mustn't call him that. we must help him to forget it, and to grow into being like ourselves."

arthur grunted noncommittally. presently he strolled into the sitting room, whistling a tune. with hands in his pockets, his bearing was that of an overlord. he made a circuit of the room, eying the new guest, as the new guest eyed him back.

"hello?" the overlord said at last, with a faint note of interrogation.

still whistling and still with his hands in his pockets, he strolled out again.

tom whitelaw's nerves had become so many runlets for shame. he was the crook! he knew the word as one which crooks themselves use contemptuously. if he should hear it again.... but happily mrs. tollivant had put her veto on its use.

the gate clicked again. coming up the pathway, he saw a girl of about his own age, with a boy much younger who swung himself on crutches. all his movements were twisted and grotesque. his head was sunk into his shoulders as if he had no neck. his feet and legs wore metal braces. his face had the uncannily aged look produced by suffering. without actually helping him, the little girl kept by his side maternally. she was a dainty little girl, very

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fair, with shiny yellow hair hanging down her back, like a fairy princess in a picture book. the boy looking out of the window fell in love with her at sight. he was sure that in her he would find a friend.

on entering she called out in a whiny voice, very musical to tom whitelaw's ear:

"ma! bertie's been a naughty boy. he wouldn't sing 'pretty birdling' for miss smallbones. i told him you'd punish him, and you will, won't you, ma?"

as there was no response to this, the young ones came to the door of the sitting room and looked in. they stared at the stranger, and the stranger stared at them, with the unabashed frankness of young animals. having stared their fill, the son and daughter of the house went off to ask about dinner.

to tom that dinner was another new experience. for the first time in his life he sat down to what is known as a family meal. attempts had sometimes been made by well-meaning women in the tenements to rope him to their tables, but his mother had never permitted him to yield to them. now he sat down with those of his own age, to be served like them, and on some sort of footing of equality. the honor was so great that he could hardly swallow. second helpings were beyond him.

the afternoon was blank again. "you'll begin to go to school on monday," mrs. tollivant had explained; but in the meantime he had the hours to himself. they were long. he was lonely. having been given permission to go into the yard, he stood studying the plymouth rocks. presently he was

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conscious of a light step behind him. before he had time to turn around he also heard a voice. it was a whiny voice, yet sharp and peremptory.

"you stop looking at our hens."

the fairy princess had not come up to him; she had paused some two or three yards away. her expression was so haughty that it hurt him. it hurt him more from her than from anybody else because of his admiration. he looked at her beseechingly, not for permission to go on studying the plymouth rocks, but for some shade of relenting. he got none. the sharp little face was as glittering and cold as one of the icicles hanging from the roof behind her. heavy at heart, he turned to go into the house by the back door.

he had climbed most of the hill when the clear, whiny voice arrested him.

"who's a crook?"

at this stab in the back he leaped round, fury in his dark blue eyes. but the fairy princess was used to fury in dark blue eyes, and knew how best to defy it. the tip of the tongue she thrust out at him added insolence to insult. he turned again, and, wounded in all his being, went on into the house.

near the back door there was a sun parlor, and in it he saw bertie, squatting in a small-wheeled chair built for his convenience. bertie called to him invitingly.

"i've got a book."

"i've got a book, too," he returned, in bertie's own spirit.

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"you show me your book, and i'll show you mine."

the proposal being fair, he went in search of his history of mankind. in a few minutes he was seated on the floor beside bertie's chair, exchanging literary criticisms. he liked bertie. he had a premonition that bertie was going to like him. after the disdain of the fairy princess, and the superciliousness of the overlord, this was comforting. moreover, he could return bertie's friendliness by doing things for him which no one else had time to do. he could push his wheeled chair; he could run his errands; he could fetch and carry; he would like doing it.

"i've got infantile paralysis."

"i've got a rubber ball."

"i've got a train."

"i've got a funny little man what dances."

coming into the house, cilly found them the best of friends, in the best of spirits. without entering the sun-parlor, she spoke through the doorway, coldly.

"bertie, i don't think momma would like you to act like that. i'll go and ask her."

mrs. tollivant hurried from the kitchen, scouring a saucepan as she looked in on them. seeing nothing amiss, she went away again. then as if distrusting her own vision, she came back. she came back more than once, anxiously, suspiciously. bertie was enjoying himself with this boy picked out of the gutter. that the boy had been picked out of the gutter was not what troubled her, but that bertie should enjoy himself in the lad's society. wise enough not to put

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notions into bertie's head, she stopped her ward later in the day, when she had the chance to speak to him alone.

"i saw you playing with bertie. well, that's all right. only you'll remember your promise, won't you? you won't teach him anything harmful?"

"no, ma'am," the boy answered, humbly, as one who has a large selection of harmful things to impart.