Page:The Strand Magazine (Volume 2).djvu/13

12 Ralphie's eyes, fixed with an intent look upon vacancy, grew ever more and more brilliant. Nellie, who had had no beautiful strange dream to make her forget everything else, began to feel cold and hungry. She listlessly drooped her little round head against a stone pillar, and wondered if Ralphie would really wait there till ten o'clock.

Big Ben struck the hour of nine, and St. Martin's chimed in a moment later.

Nellie was fast asleep. Ralphie sat in a waking dream with wide, unblinking eyes.

The hour passed, and Big Ben and St. Martin's proclaimed that it was ten o'clock.

The doors opened. Ralphie roused Nellie. They slipped in, and stole quickly up one of the stone flights of stairs.

Without a glance of recognition, Ralphie hurried past all his favourite pictures—the Madonnas and baby Christs; the man pierced with cruel arrows; the angel heads emerging from clouds; the lady with the wheel, her face upturned to heaven, and her beautiful dress of ruby and yellow, grey and green; the boy with the bushy hair and flying blue cloak running arm in arm with an angel, and with a fish dangling from one hand;—all these he almost ran past, never pausing until he reached the sleeping lady.

That sweet, weary, calm face of St. Helena, resting on her hand, had taken a great hold on Ralphie's heart. As he and Nellie stopped before the picture now, he clasped his hands together, and fixed his glittering blue eyes on St. Helena's face.

St. Helena was fast asleep.

"Won't you wake up, lady?" Ralphie began to whisper wistfully, "Won't you—?" The little limbs trembled and failed, a strange giddy feeling came into the poor little head, everything grew black, and Ralphie slid to the ground in a swoon.

Nellie screamed in terror, and threw herself down beside him. It filled her with an awful dread to see him lying so motionless and white. Frantically she pulled him by the hand, but he did not stir. She implored him to open his eyes, but he kept them closed. Nellie sobbed in an agony of fear and desolation.

St. Helena slept on. Neither Ralphie's wistful appeal nor Nellie's wild sobs had pierced through her dreams.

But help was coming.

Olivia Ross had been out an hour ago on an errand of mercy. She was now walking slowly back to her lonely home, pondering over the sad scene she had just quitted, marvelling at the strange dealings of God with men.

Something in the pathetic story she had just listened to had reminded her of the fate of her young brother Ralph. Ten years ago Ralph, a dreamy, unpractical, talented boy, had turned his back on his home and on his wrathful, disappointed father to live by the Art his father despised and to make himself a name in the world as a painter. Since then there had been no word or sign from him. The wide world had engulphed him.

Olivia Ross was a sweet and tender-hearted woman. About her compassionate lips and on her serene brow there were traces of outlived sorrow. She had had much grief since Ralph, the brother she had loved so well, had gone away. The proud old father had died, not forgiving his son even at the last, and then Olivia, unable to live in the sorrow-haunted home,