Pat had not seen his old friends for many days, for Nannie was a good deal out with the basket now her mother was confined to the house, and, somehow, her manner toward him the last time he was there made him feel shy, as if he was not wanted there any more. Still the pail was filled as usual, and stood beside the door, with many a nice and pretty thing for the baby. Mrs. Bates wondered why she never heard him come up the stairs now, and if he had got tired of playing with Winnie, and if his own home had grown more pleasant. She didn't know how often he had put his ear to the key-hole to see if he could hear one of baby's gleesome laughs, or the sound of Nannie's voice reading aloud, or talking to her mother. Nannie caught him this time, though, as she returned from her labors, and the boy's face grew redder still, as if he had been detected in some mean act, but her good-natured smile reassured him, and he found his tongue.

"It's listening for Winnie I am," said he, "and I've not seen her swate face the week."

"But, Pat, why haven't you been here this long time?" asked Nannie, opening the door and leading him in as if he were a child.

Pat felt that she would think him very foolish if he told her the reason of his absence, so he kept silent, but he was happier than he had been for many a day, as he sat in his old seat with Winnie snuggled close to his breast. Winnie reciprocated the delight, but her demonstrations were very violent; she slapped Pat's face with her rosy palms, and pulled his hair, and bit his fingers with her aching teeth, forgetting the while the painful gums that had made her so wearisome all the day.

Nannie was uncommonly cheerful, for all was right now, and Mr. Bond was well enough to visit them on the morrow, and Pat was back again, and they were to remain in the pleasant attic for another quarter at least, and mother had some work that promised a good profit, so there was no pressing want upon them just now. Mr. Bond had sent some shirts to be made against the summer. He did not like the common way of bestowing charity. He always required an equivalent for what he handed out. He would not have Nannie grow up with the feeling that she was a beggar, so he found something to be done, and paid good round prices for the work. Mrs. Bates stitched so busily, thinking he needed the garments all the while. She didn't quite understand Mr. Bond, though! It didn't matter to him if there were piles on piles of pure white linen in his great trunks. What if somebody did get the good of them after his death! he did not care to take his worldly treasure with him, but was quite willing to leave a goodly portion for the benefit of others; besides, many a worthy man owed his prim Sunday suit to those same heaped-up chests, and it would have done you good to see the broad ruffles bedecking the sons of Erin as they escorted their sweethearts to vespers. They would cross themselves, and murmur a prayer for the "masther," heretic though he was, and they knew they would get him out of Purgatory, if masses and penances would avail. As for Nannie and her mother, it was dangerous to say a word against their benefactor in their presence. Nobody had ever dared the thing excepting Mrs. Flin, and she would not encounter such a belaboring of tongues again for all the bachelors in the world. Pat, too, was his most enthusiastic admirer, for he had encouraged his going to spend his evenings in the neat attic rather than crawl to his own miserable abode to be contaminated with the fumes of rum and tobacco, and the scurrilous example of his abandoned parents.

It was a wonder to the good man that there could be a spark of virtue in the boy's character, and that he had been so far preserved from the taint of his vile home as to care for the purity of his gentle neighbor's. He did not remember how beautiful the contrast must be to Pat as he came from his mother's den of infamy, where rags and dirt prevailed, to the neat and cleanly dwelling, and the pure, bright, happy faces of Mrs. Bates and her two children.

It wasn't his fault that the woman who had dared to take upon herself the sacred name of mother, had spurned the terrible responsibility consequent upon that assumption, and cast her children from her bosom out into the wicked world, with never a care, nor a blessing, nor a prayer; it wasn't his fault that his infant soul had been even more pitiably neglected than the uncared-for body; it wasn't his fault that the little hands were taught to fight and steal rather than lift themselves up toward a gracious father to invoke His love and blessing, or that the words of blasphemy were frequent on the lips that were made for prayer and praise. He could think of a time when his childish knees had bent before the good God, of whom a kind friend had told him, and his own mother—who should have been prostrate beside him in penitence for her sins both against him and her Maker—shouted her ribald songs even in his unwilling ears. No wonder Mr. Bond thought it strange that Pat had any yearning left for the good and the exalted. But his heart did heave mightily beneath the mass of corruption that his own parents had heaped above it, and he felt it gradually loosening, so that the Sun of righteousness gleamed upon it, though dimly. It was something to have even that faint light to show him the loathsomeness of his condition, and it helped him wonderfully in his efforts to cast the burden wholly from him. It was no mystery to him that "Christian" felt such a relief when it was quite gone, and that he hastened onward toward the end of his journey with a light and free step. It was not for nothing that the poor boy helped Nannie Bates in the hour of her need, the blessing was coming, life was just beginning for him.