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CHARITY'S SECRET. 205 “The meeting was held at Beickler’s Hall last night, and the Germans subscribed liberally, as I told you they would, Lou. They will disburse it tomorrow, each family receiving a sum proportioned to the number of children.”

I wondered in silence how many appearances the Malones would put in, and whether Jemmy Grew would not find it most profitable to enter as a corpse. The bloom was wearing off of my peach for some reason.

Two days like the last passed, of which I re- tain but mixed, unsatisfactory recollections.

I was bitterly disappointed. I saw Dr. Brettler watch me anxiously each evening, but I said nothing; the annoyances were too slight to complain of. But, surely, these were not the ideal poor of novels, or even religious newspapers.

The last day of my work, however, deserves mention. It was intensely cold. My first duty in the morning was to find work for the boys who thronged the steps. I had the theory that work was better than alms for any man. So, with Ann’s help, I provided the tasks and promised liberal pay. Two of the ubiquitous Malones were set to clean the cellar—an hour’s job, probably.

“You had bettér remove anything that can be carried away,” I said to Ann. Probably they heard me.

My supplies were nearly exhausted. There was one bright-eyed little Dutch girl who had given me very efficient aid in finding out such as needed more money than the committee allowed them. Among others, a couple over seventy years old, to whom the sum we had raised for them was quite sufficient to keep in comfort their few remaining days.

“Peter is out picking rags to-day, and Mary has moved into Smith’s basement. It’s green with damp,” said my ally, that morning.

“I know, ma’am,” interpreting my look; “the rent of their room was paid for a year. But they’ve got it back, and put it and the rest in an old stocking. It’s for their berryin’, I guess; and Mary says, ‘It’s so comfortable to have a bit laid by.’”

My Quaker friend, Mrs. Reid, came in, and helped me for an hour or two. “I think,” she said, after awhile, “I will go around and see ‘Aurora and Flora.’” " Her heart had gone out curiously to them with the first garment of her little dead boy’s that she had put on them.

She came back in a few moments with her pleasant face flushed angrily. ‘There were in the coffee-bags again,” she cried. ‘There were two visitors from some Arch street society there, measuring the children all round for clothes.

They wondered what thee had done with thy very liberal supply.’ Mrs. Clincy was drunk. My baby’s clothes bought the liquor, no doubt,” her lips trembling.

I had no word of reply. As the supply waxed low, “beggars became choosers” in reality, and rode Ann’s patience to the last extremity. Scarcely an article had been, given to one of my countrymen, (for I have Irish blood in my veins, and consequently but little forbearance for them,) not an article, I say, about which they did not return with complaints. They never brought the garments with them, however.

“Thrue for you, Mrs. Cleary,” in a loud aside, where I could hear; ‘it wos a cowld night, harrd on the poor. The childher’s feet was froze intirely this mornin’.”

“Why, Mrs, Kelly, I gave you two beds, and full sets of comforters and blankets yesterday.”

“Was it bids, ma’am? Troth, I didn’t think as a leddy like yerself ’ud be callin’ them bits of things bids! An’ thim blankets hes about as much hate in as a linen rag. The childher's not used to sich. The feather bids as I bad burned were saxty pounds to the tick——”

“No matter—that’s enough.”

“Wich my mother gev me on my weddin’-day, God rest her sowl. ‘Mary,’ sez she——”

“Are you heré again, Mrs. Malone?”

“Saxty pounds to the tick—six beds burned! What does the Americans know of sich? onless a leddy like yerself,” with the usual sycophantic whine. ‘‘Indade, ma’am, an’ why shud I not be hare? It’s ony onct I’ve thrubbled: you be- fore.” Mrs. Malone’s yellow face had become as much a fixture in the parlor as the Psyche in the corner.

“What is it you need?”

“Faix,” with a courtesy, and a wave downward of her hands over her skinny figure, “hare I am; see for yerself, ma’am. There’s nine of the childher, beside himself, naked and starving, as ye may say.”

“Himself? I thought your husband died in the Libby prison?”

“Didn’t ye hare?” without a moment’s discomposure. “He come home last night, glory be to God! But he’s in the docthor’s hands at the present moment. It’s ony another weight for me poor hands to carry.”

“But the clothes I gave you?”

“Is it clothes? Ah! an’ now I remimber, ye give John a coat an’ meself an owld skirt. They weren’t much of fits, as ye’ll see for yerself; and that’s all, as the Good Man hears me.” It was very weak, no doubt; but, in spite of the knowledge that I was being swindled, so to