It was close to midnight when Donald Rogers, with Bobbie asleep in his arms, reached the door of his apartment in One Hundred and Tenth Street. The little fellow had protested at first against this unexpected journey, but was too tired to give the matter much thought, and soon slipped away into the land of dreams, where he found himself gaily sailing his pony cart, which, strangely enough, seemed to resemble a sailboat, with the pony sitting beside him in a very dignified manner, acting as crew.

Donald himself spent a sleepless night. The cruel revelation of the treachery to which he had been subjected at the hands of his best friend, and, crowning this, the knowledge that his wife had been equally untrue, left him like a man shipwrecked on an island of desolation, with no one to whom he could turn for help or sympathy. He had trusted Edith implicitly—had given her the best there was in him all these years; and now it seemed that nothing but a cup of bitterness was to be his reward. The minutes dragged as though they were hours, and it seemed as though the dawn would never come. But at last the wretched night was over, and morning found him in the little kitchenette, trying painfully, with unaccustomed fingers, to prepare breakfast for Bobbie and himself.

Most of the day he spent with the child, wandering through the park, his thoughts never far removed from the tragic moments of the evening before. What would Edith do? was his incessant thought. He felt sure that she would come to him because of Bobbie, but he was by no means certain, realizing her innate vanity, that she would consent to give up the money which West had left her, in return for his forgiveness. On no other condition, however, would he treat with her. On this point he was fully determined.

The dusk of evening found Bobbie and himself dining solemnly together in a little restaurant at which he had been in the habit of getting his meals during the hot weather.

On their return to the apartment, Donald, avoiding Bobbie’s questions as far as he could, regarding his mother’s absence, sent the little fellow to his room, and sank into his accustomed seat by the desk, staring moodily into space. The sound of the buzzer in the kitchen, announcing that the janitor was ready to remove the garbage, brought him back with a sudden shock from his dreaming, and he began to realize his utter loneliness. He picked up a paper, and made an ineffectual attempt to read; but for some minutes was unable to concentrate his mind on the page before him. Presently there emerged from the maze of type the flaring headline:

DIVORCED AFTER TEN YEARS’ MARRIED
BLISS.
WIFE GETS CHILDREN—HUSBAND A
SUICIDE.

He threw down the paper with a curse, and strode impatiently up and down the room, glancing from time to time at his watch. A faint voice from the bedroom door caused him to pause.

“Papa,” it said.

He turned and saw Bobbie standing in the doorway. “Why don’t you go to bed, Bobbie?” he exclaimed, almost irritably, but his manner changed as he observed the pathetic, appealing little figure. The child had taken off his blouse, and wore only his little undershirt and his shoes.

“Won’t you take off my shoes, papa? I got them all tied in knots.” He glanced reproachfully down at the cause of his trouble.

With a great pain gripping at his heart at the helplessness of the child, Donald came quickly forward, and, seating himself, placed the boy on his knee.

“We’ll soon fix that, little man,” he said, as he began to remove the shoes.

“Papa—where is mamma?”

“She’s in the country, dear.”

“When is she coming?”

“I don’t know, Bobbie,” he responded, with a heavy sigh. In his interest in the child he had for the moment almost forgotten the absence of his wife.

“Is she coming to-night, papa?” the little fellow continued tremulously.

“No, Bobbie, not to-night.”

“Why isn’t she, papa?” And then, after a short interval of puzzled reflection: “She belongs here, doesn’t she?”

“She can’t come to-night, my child. And you must be a good little fellow, and not ask papa any more about it. Now, it’s time you went to sleep,” he concluded, as he finished his task.

“Papa, are you angry with mamma?”

The childish question hurt him to the quick. “Don’t bother your little head about it, my child. You wouldn’t understand. Remember that she is your mother, and you must love her always.”

“I do, papa. She got me my pony, and my boat, and lots of things. I wish she was here right now.”

“You must be patient, dear, and go to sleep quietly, like a good boy. To-morrow I will get a nice, kind lady to take care of you.”

“I don’t want a nice, kind lady. I want my mamma. She always hears me say my Now-I-lay-me.”

“Your what?” he asked, not understanding.

“My Now-I-lay-me-down-to-sleep. That’s my prayers. She always hears me say them when she comes to kiss me good-night.”

He looked away, with a sudden rush of pain. There were tears in his eyes now. “Of course. Bobbie—I—I understand,” he faltered.

“She said I must never, never skip, for the Lord would know, and be angry.”

“Let me hear you, dear.”

“Do you know prayers?” The child looked at his father in wonder. “I didn’t know men knew prayers.”

“Yes, Bobbie. Sometimes they do. Go ahead.”

The child folded his hands, and stood at his father’s knee. “If I don’t remember it all, you must tell me,” he continued.

“Very well, dear; I will.” The tears were coming fast now.

“‘Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to—to—’” The quavering little voice halted.

“‘Keep,’” his father supplied.

“‘Keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take. Amen.’” He looked at his father expectantly. “You didn’t say, ‘Amen,’ papa. Mamma always says it.”

“‘Amen,’” repeated Donald gravely, as he kissed the boy’s tousled head.

“Do you think, papa, if I pray the Lord to send mamma back, she will come?”

“I think she might, dear. When you go to bed, you must wish that she will just as hard as you can.”

“And then to-morrow she will be here?” cried the child eagerly.

“I—I hope so, dear. Are you ready now?” He rose and led the little fellow toward the bedroom door.

“Yes, papa. I’m not afraid now. Good-night.” He put up his face to be kissed.

“Good-night, dear.” The father kissed him almost reverently, and, after the door was closed, stood for a long time gazing at it—his face twitching. Then he threw himself into a chair, rested his arms upon the desk, and buried his face in his hands, in a paroxysm of sobbing. It was the first time in many years that Donald Rogers had cried.

It was some ten minutes later that he was roused by the ringing of the door-bell. He rose, crossed to the door, and opened it, to admit Mrs. Pope and Alice.

Mrs. Pope advanced into the room with her accustomed air of ruffled dignity. “Donald—what does all this foolishness mean?” she inquired.

“I don’t understand you,” he answered shortly. “What do you want here?”

“Can you have the audacity to ask me that? I am here to protect my daughter’s rights.”

“Did she send you?” he asked quietly.

“I do not need anyone to send me when my child’s happiness is at stake. What does this outrageous conduct mean?”

“Mother! For goodness sake, be a little more polite,” interjected Alice.

“Alice, be quiet!” Her mother regarded her with stern disapproval. “This is no time for mincing matters.” She turned angrily to her son-in-law. “Do you intend to answer my question?”

Donald regarded her with a dislike he took no pains to hide. “I owe no explanation of my conduct to you,” he said.

“Sir, do you think a mother has no rights?”

Again Alice interrupted. “Mother—wait—please.” She stepped between them. “Edith is suffering very much, Donald.”

“So am I,” he remarked grimly.

“Then why don’t you stop it?” Mrs. Pope was not to be put off. “What do you mean by dashing out of the house like a madman, kidnaping your child, and disgracing us all before a stranger? It’s outrageous!”

“Disgracing you! What about my disgrace?” Donald turned from her and addressed himself to Alice. “Alice,” he asked, “does your mother know why I left New London? Do you?”

“Yes—I—know what Emerson said.”

Again Mrs. Pope interrupted. “I know that you accuse my daughter of carrying on a love-affair with Mr. West,” she cried. “I don’t believe it—but what of it? What if she did? You did precious little for her, goodness knows. Now that she has a little happiness, you want to take it away from her, just because you didn’t give it to her. You ought to be ashamed of yourself!”

“I’ll settle this matter with my wife—not with you.” Donald’s voice showed his irritation at her interference.

“Poor child! My poor child! Why will you not listen to reason?”

“I don’t care to discuss the matter any further. Our ideas are too different on some subjects.” He went over toward the desk, turning his back upon the others.

Mrs. Pope, however, refused to be turned aside. “I should hope they were,” she asserted doggedly. “I didn’t come here to discuss the matter, either. I came to ask you to come back to New London with Bobbie at once.”

“What you ask is impossible,” said Donald, without turning. “I shall never go back there again.”

“What! After taking the house for the summer? What will everyone think?”

“It makes no difference to me what they think. It is what I think that concerns me now.”

“You always did think of no one but yourself. Do you expect my daughter to spend the summer there alone? Can’t you see that it is out of the question?” Mrs. Pope was shaking with rage.

“No,” cried Donald, turning on her angrily. “I do not expect her to spend the summer there alone. I expect her to return here to me.”

“To return here!” exclaimed Mrs. Pope, aghast. “To spend the summer in this place! Are you mad?”

“No—I am not. Sometimes I think money has made you so.”

Mrs. Pope paid no attention to his words. She was too busy trying to grasp the full purport of what she had just heard. “What can you be thinking of?” she cried. “Spend the summer here—in this tenement—with thirty thousand dollars a year?”

Donald regarded her coldly. “My wife will not have thirty thousand dollars a year if she returns here,” he said. “She will have what I am able to give her, and no more.”

“Then what on earth will she do with her money?”

“I intend that she shall give it to charity.”

“Charity! Doesn’t charity begin at home? If you are mad enough to deprive her of it, she must give it to Alice and to me.”

“Never—with my consent. That would be the same as if she had it herself.”

“Half a million dollars! To charity! I shall use every effort to prevent her from making such a fool of herself. I insist that she give the money to Alice and me.”

“Count me out, mother,” exclaimed Alice, with a short laugh. “Emerson wouldn’t let me touch a cent of it. He told me so.”

“Does Mr. Hall know about this?” asked Donald suddenly.

“Of course he does. How could he help it? Do you suppose I could keep it from him, after what you did last night? Edith in hysterics—you and Bobbie gone—mother carrying on like a chicken with its head off. What could you expect?”

“And he refuses to let you have any share in this money?”

“I don’t believe he’d marry me, if I had. Emerson’s mighty independent. He says he has enough for both of us, and what he hasn’t we’ll do without.”

“God bless him!” said Donald earnestly. “He’s a man!”

“He’s a fool,” Mrs. Pope exclaimed angrily; “as big a one as you are.”

Her words, her manner since entering the room, had slowly been causing Donald to lose his temper.

“No!” he blazed out, facing her. “You are the one who is a fool. What have you been drumming into your daughters’ heads for years? Money! Money! Nothing but money! You would put up your children at auction, and sell them to the highest bidder, just for money. You come here and blame me for all this trouble, and you haven’t sense enough to see that it is all your fault, and yours alone. Ever since Edith and I were married you have talked to her of nothing but my poverty, my shortcomings, my failures. You have preached discontent to her until she was ready to fall in love with the first man who came along with a little more money than I had. You are the cause of all this trouble—you, and nobody else. Don’t come here and talk to me about my conduct. Try to be a little more careful of your own.”

Mrs. Pope took out her handkerchief and applied it gently to her eyes. “And is this the thanks I get, after all these years?” she said tearfully. Then she turned to Alice: “Are you against your poor sister, too?”

“No, I’m not. I want to see Edith happy, and I don’t think she ever will be as long as she keeps a cent of this money. I know I advised her to keep it in the first place. I thought she could do lots of good with it. So she could, if Emerson hadn’t put his foot in it. As it is, I don’t see anything for her to do but give it up.”

“You’ve changed a good deal, it seems to me,” remarked her mother stiffly.

“I have. I’ve talked it over with Emerson.”

“Emerson! Pooh!” Mrs. Pope gave an indignant snort.

“Never you mind about Emerson,” said Alice with spirit. “He and I are going to find happiness in Chicago, in our own way. I know you don’t like him, so perhaps it’s just as well we are going to live a thousand miles off.”

Mrs. Pope began to weep audibly. “Of all the thankless tasks,” she groaned, “a mother’s is the worst. Here I’ve spent twenty-five years in raising you girls, living for you, waiting on you, slaving for you; and, now, you turn on me like this. It’s a shame—that’s what it is—a shame! When my poor, dear J. B. was alive—”

“Never mind about that now, mother. We didn’t come up here to have a family row. Let’s see if we can’t fix up this trouble between Donald and Edith.” She turned to her brother-in-law with a look of deep concern. “Mother insisted upon this interview, Donald. I told her it would do no good.”

“Not if Donald insists upon making beggars of us all,” Mrs. Pope interrupted tearfully.

Alice took no notice of her interruption. “You got Edith’s note?” she continued.

“Yes.”

“Are you going to her?”

“No. She must come to me. You can tell her so. But I insist upon seeing her alone.” He glanced significantly at Mrs. Pope.

“I shall not inflict my company upon you any longer, Mr. Rogers,” exclaimed the latter indignantly. “Good-night!” She swept toward the door. Alice followed her.

“Good-night, Donald,” Alice said, as she left the room. “I hope you and Edith will come to some sort of an agreement. Remember Bobbie.”

Left alone, Donald went slowly over to the chair in which he had been sitting, and, stooping, gathered up Bobbie’s little shoes and stockings, and placed them gently within the bedroom. Then he began to pace endlessly up and down the floor.