LIBRARY 
 
 University of California^ 
 
 IRVINE
 
 THE MIDGE 
 
 BY 
 
 H. C. BUNNER, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "AIRS FROM ARCADY AND ELSEWHERE. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER S SONS 
 1887
 
 fS 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1886, BY 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER S SONS
 
 TO 
 
 A. L. B.
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 IT was quiet in the Brasserie Pigault. It was a 
 snowy night, for one thing, the air full of a 
 damp, heavy fall of broad white flakes. And 
 then there had been a bad fire down in Grand 
 Street, and the frivolous and pleasure-seeking 
 portion of the quarter s population had gone 
 down to see the wounded people taken out of 
 the ruins. 
 
 So business was dull at the Brasserie Pigault. 
 Undeservedly dull, for the only stains on the 
 dim walls were the stains of time : the table-tops 
 shone like century-polished mahogany, the lusty, 
 friendly fire glowed through the red eyes of the 
 great stove, the sand on the floor was crystal- 
 bright, and bright were Madame Pigault s black 
 eyes, as she sat knitting behind the desk, and 
 looked toward the window, where a fantail of
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 gas-jets lit up alluringly the legend which, when 
 you once got inside, read : 
 
 .TJUADiq.l 
 
 C 
 
 ,33MIW 3MH 
 
 It was only a beer-saloon, of course ; but there 
 was a comfort and cleanliness about it that were 
 almost homelike. And, just for this dull hour, 
 the room was filled with the charm of that sacred 
 yet sociable quiet which the male animal of our 
 species loves to establish in whatever serves him 
 for club-room. 
 
 There were little noises, but they were of a 
 gentle sort. From time to time there was the 
 joggle of falling coal in the big stove; and then 
 Louis, the waiter, set it right with a subdued 
 rattling. Sometimes a gas-jet flared and wheezed 
 and whistled until madame s knitting-needles 
 clicked on the counter, and Louis flew across 
 the room just as the vicious spurt of flame made 
 up its mind to subside. More often than this, a 
 glass clinked against the shining brass faucet of the
 
 THE MIDGE. 3 
 
 keg, and there was a " whish ! " of beer, quickly 
 drowned in its own bubbling overflow. And 
 almost regularly every ten minutes, the crash of 
 shuffling dominos came from where Mr. Martin 
 and M. Ovide Marie, the curly-haired music- 
 teacher from Amity Street, were playing. 
 
 Just across the room from Mr. Martin and M. 
 Marie, at the table under the corresponding gas 
 light, sat the Doctor. His overcoat, with its 
 military-looking cape, was thrown back over his 
 shoulders, his elbows were planted on the table, 
 and his head was propped up between the closed 
 fists. A good American face it was, too, that 
 looked at you over those lean, sinewy, nervous 
 American knuckles. A hatchet-face, if you will, 
 but a pleasant face for all that strong and fine, 
 with the lines of good stock in it, with force in 
 the clear gray eye and humor in the curl of the 
 mouth. A gentle face babies pawed the air to 
 get at it as soon as they saw it and yet, looking 
 at it, you could quite understand that this was 
 the same Captain Peters who, in 1863, carried 
 despatches straight through Quantrell s lines to 
 that interesting arm of the U. S. forces which at 
 that time was fighting fire with fire, up and down 
 Missouri. 
 
 Nobody ever called him Captain nowadays, 
 though. Between Broadway and the North River, 
 from Washington Square nearly to Canal Street, 
 old residents hailed him as " Doctor," and with
 
 4 THE MIDGE. 
 
 the sensitive modesty of the genuine soldier, he 
 accepted the civilian title, and said nothing about 
 his captaincy or his record. Besides, it was Fate, 
 he thought, that he should be a doctor after some 
 fashion. All the Evert Peterses for five genera 
 tions back (and there the count stopped) had 
 been doctors. This last Evert Peters had had 
 no liking for a physician s life; but no choice 
 had been given him. When he was old enough 
 to go to medical college, to medical college he 
 went, and there he stayed until six weeks before 
 final examination, when his father died. Then 
 he gave his books and kit to his chum, went 
 back to Oneida, buried his father, took himself 
 to Troy, and set to work studying civil engineer 
 ing. Then the war broke out, and he found 
 what little he knew of medicine and civil-engin 
 eering coming handy in ways he never dreamed 
 of. When he came home from the war, he 
 sought out the quiet region where what is now 
 the French quarter of New York merges into 
 Greenwich Village, and there settled himself for 
 a week or two, to look about him. And then 
 Ovide Bocage, working in the planing-mill in 
 Prince street, got his hand into the machin 
 ery, and would have lost three fingers if it had 
 not been for the timely surgery of the young 
 man just home from the war. And so the 
 young man was gratefully called " the Doctor." 
 The " week or two " had become fourteen years,
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 5 
 
 the pale brown hair of the "young man" had 
 grown paler yet with streaks of gray, the great 
 city had grown up and left their quarter far down 
 town, but still the people thereabout called 
 Evert Peters " the Doctor," and he occupied a 
 well-established yet ill-defined place in the com 
 munity, something between the physician and 
 the priest, a sort of amateur ally and adjunct of 
 two professions, accepted by both and recog 
 nized by neither ; but very dearly loved by all 
 with whom he had to do. 
 
 He knew what was wanted, sitting cozily that 
 night in the Brasserie Pigault, when he heard 
 Piero open the door, put his head in, and 
 shout : 
 
 " Ohe, m sieu le docteur ! " 
 
 Piero had the singsong of the sea in his cheery 
 hail. He was a Franco-Italian, and the first 
 voyage he ever made was his voyage to this 
 country, in 1867, on the bark Mariana III. As 
 the rest of the Mariana s burden consisted of 
 Cette wines and Portuguese sailors, it must have 
 been Piero s personal virtue that saved her from 
 going down in an unregrettable shipwreck. 
 Since his arrival, Piero had never left the French 
 quarter ; but, with the aid of a pair of rings in 
 his ears and a roll in his walk, he contrived to 
 give a maritime flavor to his life ; and when he 
 entered a room, as far as he possibly could he 
 made you feel that he was just opening the door
 
 6 THE MIDGE. 
 
 of your cabin to smile on you with his storm- 
 beaten brown face and report all snug aloft. 
 
 " What s the matter, Piero ? " inquired the 
 Doctor, with a harmless scowl bringing his 
 bushy gray eyebrows closer together. 
 
 " Ooman goin die," Piero answered, grinning 
 with all his white teeth : " goin die bad, down 
 Ouston Strit." 
 
 " Why don t you go for Dr. Milhaud ? It s 
 his business, you marine chissy-cat," said the 
 Doctor, trying to be irritable. " How often have 
 I got to tell you that I won t interfere with a 
 regular physician unless it s a case of neces 
 sity ? " 
 
 " Yes," grinned Piero, catching at the last 
 word : " Necess tairee, vair necess tairee. She 
 goin die, ev-vair-ee time, shu ." 
 
 The Doctor rose from his table with a little 
 sigh of discomfort and a glance at his half- 
 drunk glass of beer, and then he resolutely but 
 toned his coat. 
 
 " Where s Dr. Milhaud ? Down at the fire ? " 
 
 " Yes, sair. Down to ze fi-er. Two men burn , 
 t ree kill , le petit Coquerel knock down by en 
 gine ; guess lose leg," Piero explained, with 
 great cheerfulness. " Doct Milhaud got em 
 boce, dem fell s ouat bin burn zey don t ouant 
 go to no hospital." 
 
 " More fools they," observed the Doctor, lead 
 ing the way to the door, touching his hat as he
 
 THE MIDGE. j 
 
 passed Mme. Pigault. Piero cast a longing, 
 suggestive eye at the bar, and followed him out 
 where the silent flakes sifted down on them out 
 of the moist blackness above. 
 
 " Who is it now, Piero ? " inquired the Doctor, 
 as he strode on, tall and straight, towering above 
 Piero, who rolled along as though he had the 
 wh.ole Spanish Main surging in his legs. 
 
 " Zat Poland lady, wiz ze HT gal. Her hos- 
 ban he die two mont ago." 
 
 " Why, Piero," the Doctor knit his brows 
 again, " that woman s in the last stages of con 
 sumption, sure enough. Milhaud told me about 
 her. You don t want me to go there ; you want 
 the priest." 
 
 " No, she don ouant no prist," and Piero 
 shook his head vigorously : " she sen fo you 
 
 " What s her religion ? " 
 
 " Ma foi, I guess she don got no God nor 
 nossin . I say to her : I get you prist She 
 say : You get me prist ; prist bring my hosban 
 back, eh ? I say : No ; if you got hosban , 
 ouat you ouant of prist ? if you no got you 
 hosban no mo , zen you ouant prist. Zat ouat 
 prist good fo talk good ouen you ain got ouat 
 you ouant." 
 
 The Doctor laughed softly. 
 
 " Zen M sieu Goubaud she bo d wiz M sieu* 
 Goubaud, he biggin talkin , an he say: You 
 r-cuse me, madame ; you die somevair else, I
 
 8 THE MIDGE. 
 
 don care ouaire you go ; you die he , in my 
 ouse, you got go heaven. Eef you no have 
 prist, you have prodestan ; if you no have pro- 
 destan , you have Doct Pittair. Zen she say: 
 I take Doct Pittair, an M sieu Goubaud, he 
 sen me fo you." 
 
 It was an old story for the Doctor. Many was 
 the poor outcast, afraid to face priest or clergy 
 man, who - had consented to open his sin-laden 
 heart to the good-natured stranger who was 
 nothing more than a sympathetic fellow-sinner. 
 This was a sort of duty for which the Doctor 
 considered himself utterly unfit; but which 
 chance forced upon him. He went through it 
 all with a grimly humorous hope that some 
 good, in some unseen direction, might come of 
 it all. For himself, he could find, as he said, no 
 sense in it. " Far as / can see," he remarked 
 once, " I m getting my system saturated with 
 the smell of cabbage, and helping a lot of cussed 
 scoundrels to die easy, when it would be a sight 
 healthier for their eternal souls to take hold and 
 wrastle with their iniquity, and die with some 
 sort of understanding of what their prospects 
 are. I m afraid some of those fellows that I ve 
 sent off so slick and pleasant wouldn t thank me 
 for it now." 
 
 In Houston Street, the dampness and heavi 
 ness, and the lifeless fall of the snowflakes, were 
 enough to depress the spirits of even the chil-
 
 THE MIDGE. 9 
 
 dren, who had long ceased to skylark about the 
 areas and basements and up and down the sharp- 
 pitched steps. Beer saloons and groceries kept 
 the street awake with patches of light ; but the 
 weight of the dull, damp weather was over 
 everything. 
 
 M. Goubaud was a dealer in feathers, and the 
 smell of his stock penetrated to the uttermost 
 corner of the rickety building in which he kept 
 shop and stored lodgers. But it was lost among 
 a dozen other smells in the close back room to 
 which Piero led the Doctor. Few sick-rooms 
 are sweet, but in this one there was an element 
 of unusual offensiveness in the musky cheap 
 perfume which rose from an open trunk in one 
 corner where some bits of gaudy silk and satin 
 showed bright and sharp amid the dirt and grime 
 around them. 
 
 "Theatrical, of course," said the Doctor to 
 himself. He sat down by the bed while Piero 
 introduced him : 
 
 " Doct Pittair ! " announced the sea-farer, his 
 head half-way in the door : " All same prist ! " 
 and he vanished. 
 
 Emaciated and death-stricken, it was beautiful 
 still, the face that lay pale against the soiled blue 
 ticking of the pillow. Young, too, the Doctor 
 noticed ; scant thirty. A lovely creature she 
 must have been, ten years before, when there was 
 color in those tea-rose cheeks, rosy fire in the
 
 I0 THE MIDGE. 
 
 pale, shapely lips, life in the tangled mass of dark 
 hair damp with death. Her great black eyes 
 opened as he looked at her, and in the first flash 
 it seemed as though he saw her as she must 
 have been. Then they closed again wearily; 
 they had taken no notice of his presence. 
 
 Madame Goubaud, sallow, lean and unsympa 
 thetic, bent her hard mechanic face over the sick 
 woman, and raspingly appealed to her to wake 
 up and say her last words to the good doctor. 
 
 The thin face moved on the pillow in a pettish 
 way, and the eyes remained obstinately closed. 
 
 " Maman ! " 
 
 This came from a child, a girl, a thin, small 
 reproduction of the dying woman ; a little dark- 
 haired, dark-eyed thing, who had slipped up in 
 front of the visitor, and stood, frowning anxiously 
 as she looked at the invalid. Her meagre, nervous 
 hands grasped a medicine-bottle and a spoon. 
 
 " Maman / " she said again with a vehement 
 severity of tone, while her pale lips trembled : 
 "Maman! parle done! ce n est pas gentil, c.a 
 tu le sais bien ! " She turned to the Doctor in 
 explanation and dropped into an English of her 
 own. The voice was childish ; but the manner, 
 the management of emphasis and inflection, were 
 absurdly mature. 
 
 " It is with a sick as with a crazy, monsieur. 
 You must treat them as the children. It is no use 
 to reason with them. Maman ! tu m ecoutes ? "
 
 THE MIDGE. l ! 
 
 The mother opened her great eyes again, and 
 stared at the Doctor, at first vacantly, then with 
 a fretful summoning of intelligence. 
 
 " C est M. Peters," said the child, encourag 
 ingly. Her English words she pronounced cor 
 rectly, with perhaps the least faintly perceptible 
 trace of a French accent. But the French seemed 
 to slip more easily to her tongue. 
 
 The mother was opening and closing her 
 feverish lips, as though to indicate that her mouth 
 was dry and choking. The Doctor noted in the 
 act that little touch of exaggeration and appeal 
 which marks the undisciplined invalid. The child 
 put a spoonful of water between her mother s lips 
 and carefully tilted it, standing patiently, with knit 
 brows and watchful eyes, until it was all drunk. 
 
 " You spik Franch ? " inquired the woman, 
 hoarsely. The Doctor bowed. His French had 
 never recovered from the accent he had painfully 
 learned at school ; but he had been long enough 
 in the French quarter to accustom his ear to a 
 language that he heard more frequently than his 
 own ; and he could generally follow what was 
 said to him, were it said in anything short of a 
 Basque patois. It was a rapid talker who could 
 force him to help himself out with an occasional 
 "pah si vite!" or " &eser-c est-que-qa." 
 
 But he had a hard task this time. The woman s 
 story was brief, and her speech was slow, but so 
 improbable seemed what she had to say, so inco-
 
 12 THE MIDGE. 
 
 herent and confused was her manner of saying it, 
 that when, at the end, she drew from under the 
 pillow and thrust at him a loose handful of dirty, 
 creased and crumpled letters and papers, the 
 Doctor took them mechanically, while he stared 
 at the stranger with puzzled eyes, wondering 
 whether she was delirious or he was dazed. 
 
 Her name was Mrs. Eustace Talbot. Her 
 husband her dead husband has been a great 
 singer, though no one knew an artist in this ac 
 cursed country. She was going to die, she knew. 
 She was only thirty ; but that was thirty years 
 too much, and she was going to die. It was 
 better so ; there was a good God, after all, for he 
 sometimes let people die. When she was dead, 
 she wanted to have her child sent to England, to 
 her husband s people. Her uncle, Sir Richard 
 Talbot, would care for the little one. He was 
 a great man a very rich man if it was any 
 trouble to M. le docteur, he would be well paid 
 for it. He was a demon, Sir Richard ; but at 
 least he was not canaille ; he would take the child 
 out of this canaille atmosphere that had killed 
 her poor father and her poor mother. Sir Rich 
 ard had a palace ; he would take the child to his 
 palace ; she would learn to forget her miserable 
 father and mother ; it was best ; she could only 
 remember them as living among canaille and so 
 the papers would tell all to M. le docteur so 
 let her die in peace.
 
 THE MIDGE. ^ 
 
 This was told brokenly, excitement struggling 
 with weakness. It ended in a piteous and feeble 
 outcry over her sad case, over her unhappy life ; 
 and then she turned her back on Dr. Peters, with 
 a movement of the shoulders that seemed to dis 
 miss him and the world together. There was so 
 much of the spoiled child in it, so much of hys 
 terical affectation and exaggeration, that if the 
 Doctor had not seen the unmistakable signs of 
 death in the damp face, he would have taken it 
 for an extreme case of invalid malingering. 
 
 All the while the little girl stood by the bed 
 side, her large, dark, anxious eyes fixed on her 
 mother. Their look of distressed comprehension 
 was painfully mature ; but her upper lip quivered 
 in childish fashion, and her breast heaved with 
 big breaths that were almost sobs. She still held 
 the spoon, and at each breath it clicked softly 
 against the glass in her other hand. She said 
 not a word, and her gaze never once dropped 
 from the sick woman s face. 
 
 The Doctor left the bedside and sat down 
 under the one meagre gas-jet to glance over the 
 letters. He was not ready to believe this story 
 of rich and titled connections. But it was true, 
 seemingly. He slowly shuffled over the soiled 
 papers, lifting them up to the dim light, and 
 they bore out the tale. They were mainly short 
 notes from Sir Richard Talbot, of Pollard Hall, 
 Stonehill, Kent, to his brother in Paris. They
 
 !4 THE MIDGE. 
 
 were of an unfriendly tone, refusing or grudg 
 ingly allowing repeated demands for money. But 
 they left no doubt that there was a Sir Richard 
 Talbot, and that he had had a scapegrace brother 
 named Eustace, and that this Eustace was an 
 opera-singer. 
 
 He had scarcely run through them when he 
 heard a new sound from the bed, and Mme. Gou- 
 baud bent quickly to look in the changing face. 
 The Doctor crossed the room, but not before the 
 child had thrown herself forward on the bed in 
 a storm of tears and caressing cries and wild ap 
 peals to the spirit that was slipping away in dumb 
 unconsciousness. She knew it ; she had seen 
 it before, inexorable death. There was no hope 
 in her instinctive outcry; she saw, with wide 
 staring eyes, the light sink out of the face and 
 leave a hard, dull gray, a blank strangeness ; and 
 she knew what it meant. 
 
 She turned in quick, understanding obedience, 
 when the Doctor drew her to him and held her 
 face against his breast. For a moment it rested 
 there motionless, and then her sobs broke forth, 
 and her slim body shook and quivered in Dr. 
 Peters s arms. He pressed her closer, and she 
 clung to him and made no attempt to look be 
 hind her. 
 
 Madame Goubaud peered sharply into the still 
 face, crossed herself, pressed her toilworn thumb 
 down on the half-closed eyelids, and then, much
 
 THE MIDGE. jj 
 
 as she might have corded up a bundle of fea 
 thers, passed an old red print handkerchief under 
 the dead chin, and tied the ends in a knot on 
 top of the head. 
 
 Dr. Peters lifted up the girl in his arms. She 
 yielded herself to him, keeping her face away 
 from the bed until she could hide her eyes on 
 his shoulder. He carried her out of the room. 
 Alphonsine, the homely-faced, good-natured ap 
 prentice of the house of Goubaud, offered to 
 take la pauvre petite in her own bed that night. 
 They climbed the steep stairs to the little attic 
 room where Alphonsine shivered of winter 
 nights until, under the collection of rags that 
 served her for a coverlid, she generated the 
 animal warmth of healthful sleep. 
 
 It was a poor place for the child, bleak and 
 bare and wind-ridden, and the desperate poverty 
 of the tattered bed-clothes caught the Doctor s 
 eye ; but he thought of Mme. Goubaud s soul 
 less, hard face downstairs, and he left the little 
 one to the comfort and protection of Alphon- 
 sine s broad bosom.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE snow had ceased, the wind had risen, 
 and the thermometer had fallen, when the 
 Doctor set out for his home. It was late, too, 
 past twelve, but he went out of his way to the 
 little French undertaker s in Grand street. The 
 undertaker was not in bed ; he was " confec 
 tioning" an important commission, as he in 
 formed his visitor, and he crimped a piece of 
 discolored satin and smiled cheerfully as he 
 promised, with encouraging redundancy of as 
 surances, that he would go around in the morn 
 ing, and supply that hideously meagre attempt 
 at a funeral which just saves the pride of the 
 poor from the keen disgrace of the Potter s Field. 
 A pine coffin, a hearse, one hack, and a share of 
 a grave in some God-forsaken cemetery in New 
 Jersey you can have all these for twenty dol 
 lars. 
 
 And, that being settled, Dr. Peters went on to 
 Washington Square, on the dark south side of 
 which he found one late light glimmering in a 
 high window. The house in which it shone 
 stood a little back from the street, and looked 
 16
 
 THE MIDGE. iy 
 
 even darker and gloomier than those about it. 
 The one pale light did not give an idea of home ; 
 there was nothing of expectant welcome about 
 it; it rather suggested a weary and uncanny 
 wakefulness, and made the Doctor feel that he 
 ought to have been in bed hours before. 
 
 He let himself in with a great old-fashioned 
 brass key, and toiled up the silent stairs, passing 
 out of the region of perpetual cabbage only 
 when he reached the third story. 
 
 He opened the door of his own private domain 
 with some apprehension ; but he found a bit of 
 fire still in the grate a fire of anthracite, clink- 
 ery, gassy, and dull, yet capable of revivification, 
 and after a temporary eclipse under the blower, 
 it brightened up and gave forth warmth after its 
 kind. 
 
 The Doctor got into his slippers and his old 
 " house-coat," while the fire was rekindling, and, 
 late as it was, he lit his pipe and sat down with 
 his soles close to the grate, to look over the 
 papers in his pocket, for in addition to those he 
 had received from Mrs. Talbot, M. Goubaud had 
 seen fit to entrust to him a bundle of scrap- 
 books, letters and odd documents found in the 
 trunk with the theatrical raiment. 
 
 In the hour that he sat before the fire, he got 
 at no more than the bare outlines of a story that 
 in after years he was able to round out and fill 
 up ; but he had enough knowledge of the weak
 
 !8 THE MIDGE. 
 
 side of human nature to form in that brief 
 glance a judgment which better knowledge only 
 confirmed. 
 
 He found out that Eustace Reginald Hunt Hunt 
 Talbot was the son of Sir Hugh Talbot, vaguely 
 described in various clippings from French 
 papers as " un nobleman anglais." His mother 
 was a Frenchwoman, the daughter of a rich 
 banker, Cesar Galifet. He had an uncle Antoine 
 Galifet, a Gascon, supposed to be a man of vast 
 wealth. Uncle Antoine desired that his nephew 
 Eustace should be brought up in France, and it 
 appeared that the Talbot family was very willing 
 to oblige Uncle Antoine. There was reason, 
 indeed, to believe that they were glad to get rid 
 of Eustace, and that Eustace had given them 
 cause for such gladness. He was sent to France 
 at twelve years of age, put through pension and 
 college, and turned loose in Paris ten years after 
 he left England. Uncle Antoine had probably 
 had some little schemes of his own for shaping the 
 future of his nephew; but, whatever they may 
 have been, they came to naught From 1852 
 to 1862, Mr. Eustace Talbot, whom his French 
 friends, by some Gallic association of ideas, 
 called M. le vicomte de Talbot, was a man- 
 about-town in Paris. He had an allowance from 
 Uncle Antoine, just large enough to make him 
 wish that it was larger, and when he was very 
 deeply in debt he applied to his father in Eng-
 
 THE MIDGE. jg 
 
 land, who generally sent him half the money he 
 asked for, and just twice as much advice as he 
 had use for. There was nothing to show that 
 he had much to do wifh the " serious " society 
 of Paris ; he was a club man, a little of a rake, 
 a little of a gambler, a handsome, amiable, su 
 perficially clever, and fairly accomplished young 
 buck. He found his associates among the fast 
 young Frenchmen who were in the theatre-lob 
 bies when they were not in the theatre dressing- 
 rooms, and among that interesting class of aris 
 tocratic Englishmen who occasionally found it 
 convenient to pass a few months in Paris, wait 
 ing for something or other to " blow over." He 
 was a good shot, a fair fencer, and an amateur 
 singer a tenor of some repute. Various 
 " Chronicles of the Day " spoke of him as " le 
 Mario du Cercle Anglais." There were two 
 or three silvery, rouged daguerreotypes of him, 
 taken about this time, and they showed him as 
 with a black moustache and black whiskers a 
 sort of modified Newgate Collar much black, 
 curly hair, a swelling chest and a flashing eye, 
 and most marvelous waistcoats. He was doubt 
 less a handsome man, in a consciously Byronic 
 way. 
 
 Somewhere about 1857 Uncle Antoine died, 
 and his vast wealth turned out to be a modest 
 patrimony, to which he had added not one sou, 
 in the course of a long, frugal and industrious
 
 20 THE MIDGE. 
 
 life as a gentleman-farmer. Mr. Eustace Talbot, 
 who had grumbled at his allowance, grumbled 
 still more when he received his inheritance, and 
 showed his contempt for the pitiful sum by spend 
 ing it all in four or five years. In 1862 he found 
 himself stranded. His father was dead, and his 
 brother Richard was now the head of the house. 
 And Brother Richard, when applied to for ready 
 money, honored the draft with even more advice 
 and even less money than had seemed proper to 
 his excellent father. So it came to pass that Mr. 
 Eustace Talbot, being thirty-four, somewhat faded 
 as a buck and as a social success in the Paris 
 clubs, having many debts and no more credit, 
 and being possessed still of a reasonably pleasing 
 face and figure, and a nice little voix de salon, 
 well cultivated, went on the stage, and made 
 a successful first appearance at the Italiens, 
 singing a small part in Mario s company. 
 
 Hereabouts in the story the documentary 
 material became voluminous, while the solid 
 information to be derived therefrom grew dis 
 proportionately meagre. There were dozens of 
 newspaper paragraphs, polite criticisms and un 
 disguised puffs, so worded as to feed the vanity 
 of the man at and of whom they were written, 
 and to show to the cold and unprejudiced reader 
 that the poor devil had made a second-class, 
 second-rate success of the moment. 
 
 Then, in 1865, before the success, such as it
 
 THE MIDGE. 21 
 
 was, had quite faded away, Mr. Eustace Talbot 
 married Mile. Lodoiska Leczynska. There was 
 little to be learned about Mile. Leczynska. The 
 Doctor, who had seen Mrs. Talbot die an hour 
 before, could readily believe what the Petit Figaro 
 said of her in 1865 that she was seventeen years 
 of age, ravishingly beautiful, svelte and brune, and 
 that she belonged to an aristocratic family of 
 Poland. But that was all that the Doctor was 
 destined to know of her origin all, perhaps, that 
 she herself knew. Talbot had found her, a mere 
 child, in some little foreign colony quartered in 
 Bohemian Paris a respectable, decent, poverty- 
 stricken, artistic, pretentious little set of people 
 there was enough in the notices of the wedding 
 to show that much and he had married her out 
 of hand. It was a love-match, pure and simple, 
 and the love, at least, lasted : not in its first flush 
 of ideal beauty, perhaps; but it lasted. 
 
 Sir Richard, in England, stormed. He thought 
 his brother had disgraced the family name when 
 he took to the stage; but this marriage was some 
 thing not to be forgiven. His wounded pride 
 led him to button his pocket all the closer. 
 
 Then the hard times came to the Eustace Tal- 
 bots. For the first year they found life a merry 
 game enough. They were poor; but it was with 
 the picturesque, easy-going poverty of Bohemia. 
 Their hardships were picnicking hardships, and 
 they rather enjoyed roughing it. Talbot pro-
 
 22 THE MIDGE. 
 
 cured engagements to sing in the Provinces, and 
 he had an Englishman s faculty for getting credit, 
 and so they went merrily through the twelve 
 month. But at the end of it the baby was born 
 they christened her Lodoiska Agnes Hunt 
 Hunt Talbot, and she weighed seven pounds 
 when she went to the font and after that it was 
 poverty out and out, bare, hard, shabby, de 
 grading, worrying, toilsome, troubled, ugly pov 
 erty. The provinces had grown tired of M. le 
 vicomte de Talbot, with his swelling chest and 
 his voix de salon and his handsome dandy face, 
 with the crow s-feet around the corners of his 
 eyes. Paris laughed at him when he tried to get 
 back into grand opera; and when he got down 
 to singing in vaudeville at the " Folies Sylphides," 
 Paris absolutely refused to laugh at him, and 
 voted him a bore. 
 
 And so, at last, they had to go on the road in 
 frank vagabondage, and they wandered hither and 
 thither, all over Europe, going anywhere where 
 anybody would pay for the well-meant labors of 
 a gentlemanly amateur who had once sung with 
 Mario at the Salle Ventadour, and who would 
 now give you " la Pipe de Mon Oncle " or " Mari- 
 ette, Mariette, Ousque la crevette?" and other 
 pleasing ballads of the day, at five francs a ballad. 
 Spas, baths, gambling-places, seaside towns, they 
 tried them all, and their beggarly pilgrimage took 
 them north, south, east and west. And all the
 
 THE MIDGE. 2 $ 
 
 time the little voix de salon grew thinner and 
 reedier, the crow s-feet sank deeper, the marvelous 
 waistcoats grew shabbier and duller. 
 
 The seven-pound baby was growing up and 
 going through the education of Bohemia. The 
 wife was sickly, helpless, loving, faithful, Aid for 
 ever complaining. Talbot carried his shabby 
 gentility with a swagger, gambled a little, drank 
 a little, sometimes made his wife more or less 
 jealous, and never forgot or said he never for 
 got that he was an artist, an English gentleman, 
 and one whom the world had used most vilely. 
 
 They were a happy family, too. They were 
 all satisfied with themselves, and rich in com 
 placent self-conceit, and they hung together 
 loyally. True, Mr. Eustace Talbot s vanity oc 
 casionally marred the harmony; but only to 
 bring about a completer unison, for his wife 
 extracted a certain proud satisfaction from any 
 testimony to the charms of the husband whom 
 she had learned to worship as a demigod when 
 she was a school-girl and he was a dashing 
 young buck of thirty-seven. He must have had 
 crow s-feet then ; he certainly had them now ; 
 but she had never seen them. 
 
 It did not require much imagination to picture 
 the life they led slipshod, needy, happy-go- 
 lucky ; pretentious at its very slovenliest ; full 
 of disappointments, humiliations and embarrass 
 ments. And through it all, in cheap lodging-
 
 24 THE MIDGE. 
 
 houses and cheaper hotels, vulgarized by the 
 enforced familiarities of poverty, much tried, 
 often disillusioned, love sat down and rose up 
 with them, and sweetened their bitter bread. 
 
 America was the end of it. Europe was ex 
 hausted after ten or eleven years of assiduous 
 debt-sowing, and they turned to the land of 
 gold and barbarians, where artists and gentlemen 
 must certainly be at a premium. Sir Richard 
 was called upon for help positively for the last 
 time and he doled out fifty pounds for the privi 
 lege of having three thousand miles between 
 himself and his brother. 
 
 They were not long in finding out that America 
 is no place for an artist. After many rebuffs, 
 the thin voix de salon piped its last given a 
 chance out of pure charity in a wretched Bow 
 ery theatre, where the gallery -boys " guyed " it 
 with cruel applause. And in the very first of 
 the winter a young clerk at Bellevue Hospital 
 grinned as he wrote down in his report to the 
 Bureau of Vital Statistics the elaborate name of 
 Eustace Reginald Hunt Hunt Talbot, dead of 
 typhoid fever. 
 
 The rest Dr. Peters knew, of his own personal 
 knowledge except that he never knew, nor 
 cared to know by what hideous shifts and de 
 vices the few dollars left out of Sir Richard s 
 fifty pounds had carried mother and child over 
 the three months since the father had fallen sick.
 
 THE MIDGE. 2 $ 
 
 The Doctor s fire was out. He kicked it, and 
 brought down a shower of white ashes and grey 
 cinders. He rose, and, gathering up the papers 
 with a long-drawn whistle that ended in a sigh, 
 he put them in his desk ; and as he did so he 
 said aloud he had the .old bachelor s habit of 
 brief soliloquy " Queer world, by jingo pow 
 erful queer world ! " 
 
 Then, as had been his habit every night for 
 thirteen years, he stalked into the work-room 
 that lay behind his " living-room," and looked at 
 the accumulation of wrought metal that repre 
 sented his work since 1865, when he set out to 
 invent the ideal cannon. He laid a caressing 
 hand upon the latest of his models, and looked 
 at it for a moment, knitting his brows, as though 
 he thought that perhaps the secret of success 
 might be revealed to him in that glance. It was 
 not, and he turned away, with a grim half-smile, 
 and crossed the living-room again to the little 
 hall-bedroom where his bachelor couch, virginal 
 white, awaited him.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE Doctor awoke the next morning with a 
 special sense of duty to be performed. His 
 days were monotonous enough to make this feel 
 ing somewhat of a pleasant surprise. The day, 
 indeed, generally brought its duty of charity or 
 benevolence ; but it mostly took the form of a 
 casual call upon his sympathy, the precise nature 
 of which he could not foresee. And, as a rule, 
 he had to minister only to accidental and tem 
 porary needs. As he himself put it, it was some 
 body everlastingly breaking legs at odd times. 
 
 But this time he felt that he had a case on his 
 hands. He had had no chance to accept or refuse 
 the trust Mrs. Talbot had sought to impose upon 
 him. Death had settled that matter. To shirk 
 the obligation now would be, he thought, to take 
 an unfair advantage of the dead woman. Lodo- 
 iska Agnes Hunt Hunt Talbot was to be handed 
 over to her uncle in England, and he was to do 
 it. He made no more question of that than he 
 would have made fifteen years before had the 
 work been allotted to him by order of his 
 superior officer. 
 26
 
 THE MIDGE. 2 J 
 
 The first thing to be done was to get an appro 
 priation from the French Benevolent Society, for 
 the burying of the mother and for the mainte 
 nance of the child until such time as Sir Richard 
 Talbot should take charge of her. Old Luise, 
 who " did for" him, brought the Doctor s break 
 fast a scanty and uninviting meal of fried eggs 
 and baker s bread at half-past seven; and at 
 eight he was at the rooms of the Benevolent 
 Society, and the chirrupy, bald-headed little 
 Secretary was inquiring what he could do for his 
 " good fran Pittairss." 
 
 His good friend Peters had been on similar 
 errands many a time before, and went about the 
 business with good-humored patience. The 
 Secretary lifted his shoulders and raised his eye 
 brows and threw up his hands with little gestures 
 of deprecation, and cast a faint shade of polite 
 doubt on each separate statement, while the 
 Doctor told his story and made his requests. It 
 looked very discouraging; but it meant nothing; 
 it was all a matter of form. And after a proper 
 time the Secretary expressed himself satisfied 
 that, in spite of her name (for the father had 
 always sung as " Eustace Talbot "), the orphan 
 waif was a genuine child of France, and, as such, 
 entitled to relief at the hands of the Society. 
 That it was the Society s duty to bury the mother 
 he was not so clear. He wanted to compromise 
 the matter.
 
 2 8 THE MIDGE. 
 
 " Doctor Pittairss," he said, with a humorous 
 grimace of hopeless persuasion : " You ar-r-r 
 reech we av moch to do manny sings to at- 
 ten to w y you don t help us eh ? You give 
 alf, eh?" 
 
 " Not much," the Doctor placidly replied : 
 " this is none of my funeral, Peloubet." 
 
 " All a- ight," chirruped the little Secretary : 
 "se more you Ammery-can millionaires you ave 
 monnee, se more you ar-r-r stingy, an se more 
 you talk slangue. Vair well." His tone changed, 
 and he laid a friendly hand on the Doctor s 
 shoulder : " Eet is all a- ight, my fran . I sink 
 sair will be no trobble. We bary se mosser, I 
 sink. I let you know, anny ow. Catholique, 
 eh?" 
 
 " No," said the Doctor, speaking promptly out 
 of his profound ignorance : " Protestant." 
 
 The Secretary s face fell. This statement 
 seemed to open the question of nationality once 
 more that is, he tried to look as though he 
 thought it did. But this was again only a matter 
 of form. The Secretary knew Dr. Peters well, 
 and he had handled Dr. Peters s money, and the 
 success of the application had been a foregone 
 conclusion. He wore a doubtful frown as he 
 saw the Doctor to the door ; but within an hour 
 he had put the Benevolent machinery in motion, 
 and it was settled that the expenses of Mrs. Tal- 
 bot s funeral were to be met by the Society, and
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 2 9 
 
 that the child s board was to be paid at Mme. 
 Goubaud s for three weeks at least, by which 
 time Sir Richard might be heard from. Dr. 
 Peters was to attend to that part of the business, 
 they had agreed. It was the Doctor s own 
 proposition. He felt that there was no necessity 
 for further exposure of the skeletons in the Tal- 
 bot s family closet. 
 
 The cold clearing up of the night before had 
 given way to a day of broken weather pale 
 sunshine and sharp snow-flurries. The dry little 
 crystals tickled the Doctor s face as he strode 
 across Washington Square to find the Reverend 
 Theodore Beatty Pratt, who was the clergyman 
 in charge of the Mission Chapel of the Church 
 of St. Gregorius. 
 
 He did not feel quite easy in his mind about 
 getting Pratt to perform the funeral service, al 
 though it seemed to be, on the whole, the best 
 thing to do. He had a tender conscience, and it 
 hurt him to think that perhaps, in spite of her 
 petulant cynicism, the dead woman had been a 
 Catholic at heart, and that she might have re 
 sented the idea of being laid to rest with alien 
 rites. But then he did not wish to go to Father 
 Dube. Dube was worth a dozen of Pratt; but 
 Dube had his peculiarities. He was a hard- 
 worked, conscientious priest, much wearied in 
 spirit, and in his two hundred pounds of flesh, 
 by the endless needs of his ever-straggling flock,
 
 20 THE MIDGE. 
 
 and he drew the line of indulgence at impenitent 
 death. It was enough, he thought, for people to 
 neglect religion and morality and soap-and-water 
 all their lives ; when they came to die, the least 
 they could do was to die in the church, and give 
 their poor old pastor a chance to do something for 
 their immortal souls at the one time when they 
 couldn t possibly undo it themselves. 
 
 This was Father Dube s idea, although he 
 never formulated it exactly in this way. And 
 so Dr. Peters felt a little delicacy about calling 
 upon him to say mass for the stranger who had 
 gone out of the world in a distinctly irreligious 
 frame of mind. And Pratt would do just as 
 well. It would never occur to Pratt to inquire 
 whether or no the departed sister over whom 
 he was to read the service had really been a 
 good Church-of-England woman. He lived in 
 a state of mild surprise at the fact that there 
 actually were people in this world who did not 
 belong to the Church of England. If Dr. Peters 
 asked him to read the service for the burial of 
 the dead, he would read it, as a matter of course. 
 He talked to the Doctor, whenever they met, 
 about abstruse points of ecclesiastical law and 
 custom, and he did his duty in the parish, and 
 went away, afterward, when he was called to 
 other fields of labor, without once dreaming 
 that Peters had never understood the first word 
 of his deliverances.
 
 THE MIDGE. 3 r 
 
 Dr. Peters s religious views had the haziness of 
 extreme catholicity. In his childhood, when 
 his parents were pillars of the Episcopal church 
 in their little village in Oneida county, he had 
 been brought up to look upon a Romanist as 
 something nearly as bad as a Jew, in a different 
 way, and not very far removed in guilt from the 
 heathen. Later life, and much experience of 
 sore-tried humanity, had taught him a lesson 
 of wider charity. He had grown to think better 
 of all creeds and less of any particular one. 
 Now, he was Father Dube s friend, and the friend 
 of the Reverend Theodore Beatty Pratt, and the 
 friend of Brother Strong, of the Bethel. And 
 he liked the Roman Catholic priest best of the 
 three. 
 
 The Reverend Mr. Pratt, seated in his study 
 at a very big desk, stroked his thin brown whis 
 kers and rubbed his prominent nose, as he dubi 
 ously assented to Dr. Peters s proposition that 
 the woman should be buried that day. He had 
 never quite reconciled himself, he said, to the 
 almost indecent haste so frequently practiced in 
 the inhumation of the dead among the poorer 
 classes. He would not go so far as to call it 
 irreligious ; but it certainly was repugnant to 
 proper feeling. 
 
 " Well, you see, Mr. Pratt," said the Doctor, 
 taking him patiently, as he had taken the Secre 
 tary of the Benevolent Society, " it can t very
 
 32 THE MIDGE. 
 
 well be helped. We can t ask those Goubaud 
 people to keep the body of a strange woman 
 there. They are poor, you know, and they ve 
 had a great deal of trouble with the family al 
 ready. And then they re Catholics." 
 
 " Ah, yes," said Mr. Pratt. 
 
 " And there s the child. It ll be better for her 
 to get it all over at once, don t you think so ? 
 Remember Biedermann s little girl, who stole 
 down in the night and sat by her father s coffin, 
 and went out of her head ? She has n t been 
 right since." 
 
 The Reverend Mr. Pratt vaguely remembered 
 the occurrence. The Biedermann s were of 
 Father Dube s flock. 
 
 " There s no doubt about it," he observed : 
 " those unfortunate people " (he meant the Cath 
 olics) " go to the other extreme, and postpone 
 the last offices in a very unwise way." 
 
 " It s hard on the children," the Doctor went 
 on ; " and then, you know, it isn t as if we meant 
 to show any disrespect. You know how it is 
 among the poor, Mr. Pratt." 
 
 " Indeed I do ; indeed I do," said Mr. Pratt, 
 promptly. He smiled complacently. 
 
 "Well, I ll be there at four o clock, Dr. 
 Peters. I m sure people ought to be very 
 grateful to you taking all this trouble about 
 things. It s my duty, of course it s the field 
 in which I expect and hope to be of service.
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 33 
 
 But I m sure it shows a very humane spirit in 
 you, Dr. Peters, it does indeed." 
 
 ***** 
 
 The little undertaker had to receive his final 
 directions, and then the Doctor took his noon 
 day sandwich and glass of beer at the Brasserie 
 Pigault, and went home to write a laborious 
 letter to Sir Richard Talbot. This task took 
 much time, for Dr. Peters had the true American 
 sensitiveness about risking a possible snub. He 
 would have chatted with the first tramp he met 
 on a country road ; but he did not like to intro 
 duce himself to an English baronet, even to do 
 the baronet a favor. Moreover, he had to make 
 it very clear to this aristocratic stranger that 
 he, Peters, was a disinterested agent in the 
 business. 
 
 " Can t tell anything about Englishmen," he 
 reflected ; " he might want to tip me arf-a- 
 crown, or something." 
 
 It was nearly four o clock when he went to 
 the house of Goubaud. All preparations had 
 been made, and his first inquiry was for the child. 
 She was by her mother s coffin, Alphonsine told 
 him with sympathy both effusive and honest 
 the poor little one, it was heart-rending, she did 
 not cry, she was not a child at all and she 
 would eat nothing. But it was cruel ! she would 
 eat nothing at all not even candy. Alphonsine 
 had purchased her seven cents worth of candy ; 
 3
 
 34 
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 but she would not eat it. Perhaps she would 
 eat if M. le docteur spoke to her. 
 
 " Let her be," he said ; " she ll eat when nature 
 tells her to. She ll come to it in time she s 
 young. There s candy yet in the world for her. 
 But I ll go up and see if I ain t clumsy enough 
 to make her cry. That s much more necessary." 
 
 When he entered the room up stairs the child 
 was sitting by the coffin, as Alphonsine had said ; 
 but she rose instantly, and came to meet him 
 before he could cross the threshold, stretching 
 out her small hand in silence, giving him one 
 glance as she did so, and then lowering her tear 
 less dark eyes. It was an absolutely unchildlike 
 greeting, and it conveyed a subtle hint that she 
 did not wish him to come nearer to her dead. 
 
 He sat down on a chair by the door and drew 
 her to him. She passively yielded as he put his 
 arm about her ; but when he made a motion to 
 lift her to his knee, she stopped him with a quick 
 instinctive little gesture. There was something 
 of gentle, innocent rebuke in her attitude, as 
 though he had made light of her grief. 
 
 "My dear," he began, softly and somewhat 
 nervously, "we must take your mother away 
 from you before very long." 
 
 "When?" she asked, without looking at him. 
 
 "The clergyman will be here at four o clock." 
 
 "So soon?" she cried, with a little shiver, and 
 a quick look of appeal and question.
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 35 
 
 "Yes, my dear. It s the best way. Yes, I 
 know it s hard; but it would be harder if we were 
 to put it off. And now you ll be a brave girl, 
 won t you, and " 
 
 She would not let him finish, but broke in with 
 her oddly mature self-restraint: 
 
 " Yes. Better. I see. They do not want her 
 here. It is well." 
 
 " Tisn t that, my child. Madame Goubaud 
 does not mean to be unkind " 
 
 " I know. She knows not better. I compre 
 hend, monsieur." 
 
 The Doctor felt curiously embarrassed. He 
 wished she would act like a child. A vague idea 
 passed through his mind, that he would like to 
 know whether she had ever played with a doll. 
 
 "How old are you?" he asked, in perplexity. 
 
 "I have twelve years," she answered, curtly. 
 Then, after a pause, with a sudden petulance, " I 
 am no more a child." 
 
 The Doctor smiled. She was a child, after 
 all. 
 
 "Well, now," he said, "I m forty, and I m a 
 good deal of a child yet." 
 
 She gave him another quick, timid look, as 
 if apprehensive of some levity or insincerity. 
 
 " Yes, my dear," he went on, holding her more 
 firmly within his arm she did not resist: "I m a 
 good deal older than you, and I ve got gray 
 hairs look at em but I should feel sorry, I
 
 36 THE MIDGE. 
 
 should, if I got too old to remember what it was 
 to be a child. Gray hairs don t make a man old. 
 I know how I felt when I was just your age, and 
 I know just how you feel now. I lost my own 
 mother when I was two years older than you are, 
 and I remember all about it, as if it was yester 
 day. I d like to tell you how it was." 
 
 He paused a moment. 
 
 "Shall I tell you about it?" 
 
 She kept her face averted and her eyes cast 
 down; but she nodded assent. 
 
 " She d been sick a long time ; but when she 
 died, it was very sudden, and I wasn t there. 
 I ve often wished since then I d been thereto kiss 
 her good-bye, or help take care of her, or do 
 something to show that I loved her. But I 
 didn t know anything about it until they told me. 
 And then I felt I can t tell you how I felt. But 
 it seemed to me as if I was the lonesomest boy 
 on earth. And I didn t dare to cry, either: I d 
 have felt a lot better if I could have cried; but I 
 didn t dare to. My father was a severe, stern 
 sort of man, and he didn t believe in people s cry 
 ing, or laughing, either. If I d have cried, he d 
 have sent me to bed. And I couldn t stand that 
 lying in bed and thinking how lonesome I was. 
 Besides, I was fourteen years old, and I thought 
 I was too big a boy to cry." 
 
 He stole a glance at the pale face. He saw 
 that the child was listening to him.
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 37 
 
 "Well, I went out in the yard, just to getaway 
 from the people. Folks in my time were a sort 
 of hard I don t think they quite understood us 
 young ones they didn t seem to care much 
 about us. So I went out into the yard. And 
 there was an old nigger, named Japhet, who used 
 to chop wood for my father. Uncle Japhe, we 
 called him. He was out there in the woodshed. 
 And when he saw me, what do you think that 
 old nigger did? Why, he didn t say one word 
 he just caught hold of me and hauled me right 
 up to him, with his arm around my head, and my 
 face up against his ragged old coat, and he 
 held me there, and I just cried cried like a baby, 
 with that old nigger holding on to me. It 
 couldn t bring mother back, but " 
 
 She was melting. Her head was still bent 
 down; but he could feel her breath come short 
 and quick; and with one hand she plucked at 
 his coat-sleeve, pinching the cloth between her 
 fingers, letting it slip and picking it up again as 
 if she found relief in the mechanical action. 
 
 " It didn t seem so lonesome then, when I had 
 Uncle Japhe, for all he was only an old nigger. 
 There s lots of help in this world, if we ll only 
 just let ourselves be helped. Don t you think 
 so?" 
 
 He slipped his arm around her neck, and with 
 a sudden sob that was almost a cry, she pressed 
 her face against his breast. But just then the door
 
 38 THE MIDGE. 
 
 opened, and she struggled free, and stood up, 
 her eyes moist and her teeth together, to face the 
 Reverend Theodore Beatty Pratt. 
 
 The Reverend Mr. Pratt stood in the door 
 way, looking disapprovingly on two small candles 
 that flickered at the head of the coffin. He had 
 confided his overcoat to M. Goubaud, who stood 
 behind him. He had moreover impressed M. 
 Goubaud into the service of the Church; and 
 had made the unwilling Frenchman assist him in 
 putting on his surplice. M. Goubaud s face ex 
 pressed disgust, subdued by politeness. He did 
 not like the appearance of a Protestant clergyman 
 in his Catholic house; and he was inclined to 
 look on the Church of England ritual with crit 
 ical contempt. 
 
 Mr. Pratt waited a moment to make up his 
 mind that it would be unadvisable to demand the 
 suppression of the candles, and then advanced 
 with amiable dignity and laid his hand on the 
 girl s head. 
 
 " You are very young, my child," he said, sol 
 emnly, " to bear such a heavy weight of affliction." 
 
 There was no answer. 
 
 " We cannot tell, any of us, why these trials 
 are sent," he further observed, and then, becoming 
 conscious of the little one s complete unrespon- 
 siveness, he concluded, blandly: 
 
 " I will talk with you at some future time, my 
 child. Dr. Peters ?"
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 39 
 
 Dr. Peters answered with a look of assent 
 Everything was ready. The little undertaker and 
 his assistant were posted near the door, and the 
 household of Goubaud, domestic and operative, 
 had filed in and ranged along the walls of the 
 small room; the workmen hiding their hands 
 behind their backs, the palms outward. Alphon- 
 sine rolled her round red arms in her apron, and 
 looked tearfully across at the little orphan, who 
 still stood by the Doctor s side, erect and silent. 
 She did not lean against him ; but as the service 
 went on, she let his arm draw closer about her, 
 and when the ashes fell from the clergyman s 
 hand upon the coffin top, she caught her friend s 
 fingers in an impulsive clutch. 
 
 Even poor Pratt s thin voice could not spoil 
 the beauty of the words he spoke. As his high 
 tones rang out through the silent house, in rhyth 
 mic rise and fall, the little man seemed to take 
 on something of the dignity of the greater spirits 
 whose speech he echoed. Peters sat and listened, 
 and forgot the cold little room, the dull, poverty- 
 stricken faces around him, the ghastly pine coffin 
 on its staring trestles : memory slipping back to 
 the country church on summer Sundays, where the 
 wind shook the leaves about the open casements, 
 the birds twittered outside, all through service 
 and sermon, while the old pastor s sonorous 
 cadences fell on the unheeding ears of a yellow- 
 haired boy, sitting in the front pew, his restless
 
 4Q THE MIDGE. 
 
 legs swinging half a foot above the floor, his 
 whole boy s soul yearning to be out in the fields 
 and the fresh air, angrily resenting the necessity 
 of wasting a morning of sunshine and clear sky. 
 He looked down at the subdued young face at 
 his side, and pitied the child who had so soon 
 learned the lesson of self-restraint and patience. 
 After her hand had grasped his, she let it lie 
 there through the brief service; but she did not 
 cry, and her eyes never once left the coffin. 
 When the last word was said, she went unresist 
 ingly with Alphonsine, and put on her worn little 
 hat and jacket. 
 
 There was one shabby carriage behind the 
 shabby hearse. Mme. Goubaud, in her Sunday 
 clothes, got in first, and took the child on the 
 seat with her. Then the Reverend Mr. Pratt 
 climbed in, and M. Goubaud followed. Business 
 was dull, and the chance of riding in state as 
 chief mourners at a funeral even a Protestant 
 funeral was not to be missed. This had been 
 Mme. Goubaud s opinion, and when Mme. Gou 
 baud thought that anything justified an interrup 
 tion of business, her husband never questioned the 
 propriety of her decision. Her face bore a look 
 of stern importance as she sat on the back seat 
 of the carriage and gazed fixedly before her, 
 ignoring a staring world. 
 
 Dr. Peters stood irresolutely on the sidewalk. 
 Mr. Pratt looked as if he expected his fellow
 
 THE MIDGE. 4! 
 
 church-member to be one of the party; but there 
 was no place for the Doctor, unless he took the 
 child on his lap, and he hesitated. The driver 
 settled it by starting up his horses, and the Doc 
 tor turned away, but not too soon to see the girl 
 look up with pained, surprised eyes, that mutely 
 accused him of deserting her. 
 
 " I ought to have gone," he said to himself. 
 But it was too late, the carriage was rattling 
 down the street after the jolting hearse, and he 
 could only stare at it until it grew gray behind 
 a veil of whirling snowflakes. 
 
 " I ought to have gone," he thought, and the 
 remembrance of that piteous look went with him 
 all the rest of the day.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 HE found it hard to get rid of that look. He 
 was not sentimental ; he had always had 
 that understanding with himself, that he was not 
 sentimental. And there are those who would 
 call his code of morals lax. But there were 
 some matters in which he had an uneasy, child 
 like sensitiveness of conscience. To be sus 
 pected, even, of the most trivial carelessness in 
 the payment of his debts ; to be thought unkind 
 or discourteous to children and women, these 
 things wounded him sorely. Not that he very 
 greatly troubled himself about the world s opin 
 ion of him, but that any suggestion of remissness 
 in these particulars filled him with self-accusing 
 doubts. It was a part of his old-bachelor fussi- 
 ness, perhaps. 
 
 Therefore he was troubled to think that he 
 had left the child to the charitable offices of the 
 Goubaud family and the Reverend Mr. Pratt, at 
 the most trying ordeal of the day. They all 
 meant well, those three people, but they were a 
 good deal like the folks who had made his boy 
 hood gloomy. They did not understand chil- 
 42
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 43 
 
 dren. Being a child himself, the Doctor felt this 
 strongly. He thought of the long, cold ride to 
 the New Jersey cemetery; the unrelieved ugli 
 ness of the hurried interment, the probable re 
 marks of the Reverend Mr. Pratt on the way 
 home, and he felt that he could have smoothed 
 the rough path of the little girl with the long 
 name, if he had taken her on his knee in the 
 carriage. Well, it could not be helped now; 
 but, all the same, he was uncomfortable. He 
 went home and tried to work, but he made a 
 poor hand at it. 
 
 The light was bad, for one thing, and he was 
 not in the mood for work upon the cannon. He 
 reflected, with some perturbation of spirit, that 
 he had of late been conscious of a certain lack of 
 interest in the cannon. The perfection of that 
 invention had been his hobby for thirteen years. 
 He had worked over it, thought over it, pot 
 tered and played with it. It had stimulated his 
 ambition and amused him in his idleness. To 
 be sure, it had never come to anything, and it 
 gave no signs of coming to anything. It had 
 changed its form over and over again, but some 
 how it was always a little behind the latest dis 
 coveries in gun building. The Doctor tried to 
 keep up with the march of progress, but he was 
 always he frankly admitted to himself far 
 back in the tail of the procession. Once he had 
 got a small appropriation from the government ;
 
 44 
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 and he had built his gun and taken it to Fort 
 Hamilton for trial, and there it had burst. It 
 had not injured any one, because, as the inventor 
 grimly remarked, no one had had faith enough 
 in it to stand near it when it went off. There 
 was a flaw in the casting ; it was not his fault ; 
 but the appropriation was exhausted, and the gun 
 was untried ; and before he could apply for 
 another appropriation, the march of progress 
 made it necessary to re-invent the gun after the 
 latest fashion. 
 
 He had gone at it cheerfully enough, and 
 modeled and remodeled, and it was only recently 
 that he had begun to feel as if his patient tinker 
 ing was but a sham sort of work. 
 
 " Great Scott ! " he thought, in dismal amuse 
 ment, " am I getting too old to make-believe any 
 longer ? " 
 
 It really looked as though he had reached a 
 second time that sad period when we realize that 
 our toys are toys, and not, what was it that we 
 thought them ? 
 
 The Doctor s domain was extensive. Five 
 years after his return from the war he had taken 
 the two upper floors of the old house, on a fif 
 teen years lease. He had tried to get a lease 
 for a longer term, but even the conservative old 
 German who was his landlord knew that rents 
 would go up as the years went on ; and fifteen 
 years was the longest period for which he would
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 45 
 
 agree to let Dr. Peters have the rooms at the 
 modest rate that they then commanded. 
 
 He had wanted a home, this lonely bachelor 
 stranded after the great war. Bachelors some 
 times want homes ; they even long for them with 
 a conscious, understanding, intelligent desire that 
 their married friends never credit them with. 
 " You don t know what it is to have a home," 
 says Smith, who married at twenty-five, to Jones, 
 who is unmarried at forty. But Jones does know 
 what it would be to have a home, for does he 
 not know what it is not to have a home ? Ay, 
 far more than complacent Smith, who made his 
 nest from mere blind instinct, long before he 
 could have become conscious of his own need 
 of a nest far more than happy, comfortable, sat 
 isfied Smith, does this lone bird of celibacy of a 
 Jones know of the superiority of a consecrated 
 abiding-place to his cold casual twig. 
 
 There is always something comically, dismally 
 pathetic about the bachelor s attempt to construct 
 a home. I was once at the performance of an 
 opera attempted by a weak little theatrical troupe 
 that was in bad luck. The tenor had failed them 
 at the last moment, so a good-looking supernu 
 merary stood up in the tenor s clothes while the 
 poor hard-working, middle-aged soprano sang 
 both parts of their duets. That is what the 
 bachelor tries to do to sing both parts of a 
 duet.
 
 46 THE MIDGE. 
 
 It is always a failure; and so the Doctor found 
 it. He had his bed-room, his sitting-room and 
 his work-room, and upstairs was his kitchen and 
 his servants room. They were all good rooms, 
 each after its kind. They were furnished as he 
 liked ; they were warm enough in winter and 
 cool enough in summer. Each one had four 
 walls, a floor and a ceiling. And yet they were 
 not a home ; and he had not been a day in them 
 before he knew this. 
 
 For a little while he tried to discover and sup 
 ply the elusive deficiency; but after a time he 
 realized that the upholsterer could not do it for 
 him ; that it was not a matter of easy chairs, of 
 pictures on the walls ; that the light and warmth 
 that were lacking were not born of lamps and 
 fires. It was a twig, after all ; not a nest ; and 
 he made up his mind to it. 
 
 He had furnished his kitchen with elaborate 
 care, reproducing, as far as memory would serve 
 him, the generous equipment of the old Dutch 
 household in which he had passed his boyhood. 
 He had had a fancy to install there the blackest 
 and oldest Virginia negress that he could find ; 
 but he never carried out the scheme. The shriv 
 eled German woman whom he had engaged to 
 " do for " him temporarily continued to do for 
 him ; and now, after eight years, it seemed prob 
 able that she would continue to do for him as 
 long as he could sustain life on her cooking.
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 47 
 
 He threw down his tools and wandered list 
 lessly about the rooms. In the sitting-room he 
 noticed how faded was the green reps covering the 
 furniture, and how worn was the old-fashioned 
 Brussels carpet. He glanced through the open 
 door of the bed-room. It looked like what it 
 was a place to sleep in. No one would ever 
 have thought of stretching out on that painfully 
 clean and prim little bed to while away an after 
 noon with pipe and book. He stared out of the 
 window at Washington Square, and saw the bare 
 trees waiting sullenly in the gray twilight for the 
 next snow-squall to buffet them about and rack 
 and rattle their poor dry twigs. 
 
 All these things he observed without fairly 
 realizing their ugliness ; but with a vague sense 
 of lonely discomfort, which he did not quite 
 understand. It had been growing on him of 
 late. 
 
 " Perhaps it s Luise s cooking," he thought : 
 " I ought to be inured to it ; but maybe it s like 
 arsenic or morphine sort of cumulative poison. 
 I guess I m getting dyspeptic." 
 
 He went up stairs to take a look at the kitchen 
 and see if he could conjure up again his old 
 dream of a " nigger cook " of his own. Perhaps 
 that might be the salvation of his bachelor life, 
 after all. 
 
 It was a good kitchen, there was no doubt 
 about that. Luise had never brought out its
 
 48 THE MIDGE. 
 
 possibilities. There was a huge range, that 
 would have cooked a dinner for a regiment. 
 Hanging up on the wall was the Dutch oven that 
 he had had made eight years ago, on the model 
 of the one in his mother s house, sketched from 
 memory. Luise had never used the Dutch oven. 
 There were ample cupboards, stocked with yellow 
 crockery, bowls and pitchers and shallow dishes, 
 more than Luise could ever use. And she 
 grumbled at having to keep them clean. The 
 back hall-bedroom had been fitted up for a pan 
 try. It was quite as large as his mother s pantry; 
 and he had fondly dreamed of filling it with jars 
 of jam and preserves and pickles, and of ranging 
 pallid disks of pie on the long shelves. The jars 
 were there, along with the pie-plates yes, there 
 was even a great stick of sealing-wax to seal the 
 preserves up with, in the old-fashioned way but 
 jars and plates were empty. 
 
 The whole place really seemed to cry aloud 
 for a good plain cook. He pondered, as he de 
 scended the stairs, over the problem. Could he 
 get the cook, and would she, once got, realize 
 his fond dreams ? And coming down to a 
 necessary preliminary had he the moral courage 
 to get rid of Luise ? 
 
 He was sensible of a guilty feeling of shame 
 and fear when Luise brought him his dinner that 
 night. He looked at her shamefacedly as he 
 tried to make up his mind whether any other
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 49 
 
 woman could be quite as ugly as she was, or 
 whether nature held somewhere among her mon 
 strosities and mistakes a pendant to that par 
 boiled face. 
 
 He tried to think charitably of Luise; but 
 there was no room for doubt about the dinner. 
 It was simply bad. Many people like German 
 cooking ; but nobody could like Luise s German 
 cooking. She had a way of announcing the 
 names of the dishes, as she set them down with 
 a vicious slam, and she had told him that the 
 viand of the evening was a " Wiener Schnitzel." 
 He credited her with forethought in this, for if 
 she had not done so, he would not have been 
 able to guess the fact that what was before him 
 had once been a veal cutlet. 
 
 He smoked two pipes after his dinner, and 
 then he went around to the Brasserie Pigault. 
 For fourteen years he had gone to the Brasserie 
 Pigault. When he first set up his bachelor 
 establishment, he had resolved to stay at home 
 of nights, and for a month or two the Brasserie 
 had missed him, and he had sat in his green reps 
 easy-chair, that was not, and never could have 
 been meant to be easy, before his meagre little 
 hard-coal fire. But it was not staying at home, 
 after all ; it was only staying in the house ; and 
 by and by he went back to the Brasserie Pigault, 
 which was a home indeed, after its sort, to him 
 and to many another lonely bachelor. 
 4
 
 50 THE MIDGE. 
 
 If you put it that a man habitually spends his 
 evenings in a beer-shop, it does not sound well. 
 It not only suggests orgies and deep potations, 
 but it is low. One thinks of Robert Burns, of 
 the police-reports, of neglected wives waiting at 
 home, of brawls and drunkenness and of a cheap 
 grade of tobacco. 
 
 This is largely due to the influence of a num 
 ber of estimable gentlemen who wander about 
 this broad land, patronizing second-class hotels 
 and denouncing in scathing terms the Demon 
 Drink. They sternly refuse to admit any dis 
 tinction between one place where liquor is sold 
 and another place where liquor is sold. Yet I 
 think the most vehement of these public-spirited 
 men would be inclined to acknowledge that there 
 is a bright side to the beer question if he could 
 be induced to pass a few evenings, non-profes- 
 sionally, in such a place as the Brasserie Pigault. 
 
 True, he could not see there the red-eyed con 
 tention that furnishes him with so much useful 
 oratorical material. No upraised bludgeon, no 
 gleaming stiletto would gladden his eyes. No 
 degraded specimen of humanity would point a 
 prohibitionist s moral by going to sleep on the 
 floor. No ribaldry would agreeably shock his 
 expectant ears. 
 
 He would see Mme. Pigault, neat and comely, 
 knitting behind her desk. He would see Mr. 
 Martin and M. Ovide Marie at their everlasting
 
 THE MIDGE. 5 j 
 
 game of dominos. He would see little Potain, 
 whose wife died two years ago, after forty-seven 
 years of married life, and who would be more 
 lonely than he is, if it were not for Mme. Pigault s 
 hospitality, drinking his one glass of vermouth 
 gamme, and reading all the papers without mis 
 sing a column. He would see poor old Parker 
 Prout, the artist, who has been painting all day 
 long for the Nassau Street auction shops they 
 will not hang Prout s pictures, even at the National 
 Academy and who has come to the Brasserie 
 Pigault to buy one glass of beer for himself, and 
 to wait and hope that somebody will come in 
 who will buy another for him. He would see 
 good-natured Jack Wilder, the bright young 
 reporter of the Morning Record, dropping in to 
 perform that act of chanty, and to square accounts 
 by mildly chaffing old Prout about the art which 
 he still loves, after forty years of servitude to the 
 auctioneer and the maker of chromo-lithographs. 
 He would see Dr. Peters taking his regular ra 
 tions two glasses of lager, the first of each keg 
 and studying the Courrier to keep up his 
 French. 
 
 And on this particular night there was a rare 
 guest to be seen under Mme. Pigault s roof, for 
 Father Dube came in, big, ponderous and genial, 
 rubbing his fat red hands, and smiling a sociable 
 benediction upon the place and all within it. 
 
 Mme. Pigault, alert and flattered, rose to wel-
 
 g 2 THE MIDGE. 
 
 come him, and he unbuttoned his heavy overcoat, 
 with its great cape, and leaned on the desk to 
 chat with her for a moment. How was the baby 
 and little Eulalie? And business was always 
 good ? That was to be expected. People knew 
 where they were comfortable, and everybody was 
 comfortable chez Mme. Pigaidt. And now he saw 
 his good friend the Doctor sitting there. The 
 Doctor looked as if he would like a little game 
 of dominos. He would go and challenge his 
 good friend the Doctor. And yes, why not ? 
 He would take a glass of that excellent Chablis 
 of Mme. Pigault s, that he had tasted when he had 
 last visited Mme. Pigault. Was it so long ago 
 as Easter? Ah, but the time goes! And an old 
 man is slow. He cannot see his friends as often 
 as he could wish. And Mme. Pigault, being 
 prosperous and blessed by heaven, has no need 
 of him. Ah, the Doctor is waiting. And Mme. 
 Pigault will not forget the Chablis ? 
 
 And so this simple-minded old priest, who 
 knew no better than to sit down in his parishion 
 er s brasserie and take a glass of wine and play a 
 game of dominos with a heretic, lumbered over 
 to the Doctor s table, and struggled out of his 
 overcoat, with Louis s help, and sat down oppo 
 site his good friend Peters. And Louis bustled 
 eagerly about, and opened a new bottle of the 
 Chablis, and brought the box with the best domi 
 nos, that Mme. Pigault took from her desk ; and
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 53 
 
 cleaned a slate; and Mme. Pigault looked on 
 proudly as her favorite customer and her spiritual 
 guide shuffled and drew. 
 
 Father Dube had come to this country at the 
 age of twelve; and it was his boast that his Eng 
 lish was as good as his French, for if the English 
 was a trifle stiff, the French was not quite aca 
 demic. 
 
 "I hear," he said, "that you have been poach 
 ing on my preserves, and stealing a whole French 
 family from my fold." 
 
 There was just a trace of the foreigner in the 
 precision and emphasis with which he brought 
 out the figure of speech, in conversational quota 
 tion marks. It was a joke of long standing be 
 tween these two that the priest on one side and 
 the Doctor and the Reverend Mr. Pratt on the 
 other, were engaged in an active warfare of 
 proselytism. 
 
 "No, sir," the Doctor answered, smiling, "I 
 deny the imputation. The family you refer to has 
 long been a pillar of the Church of England." 
 
 "It is for that reason, then," Father Dube sug 
 gested, slyly, " that the French Benevolent Society 
 has taken charge of the case. I saw Peloubet 
 this afternoon." 
 
 The Doctor flushed a little. 
 
 " The mother was born in France, as near as I 
 can find out; and the child certainly was. But 
 they re Protestants, all the same."
 
 54 
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 The priest s broad hand was stretched across 
 the table, overturning and exposing half-a-dozen 
 of the dominos he had been laboriously standing 
 on end, and he gently patted the Doctor s sleeve. 
 
 " My good friend, that is all right. I know. 
 I know. It is your set, is it not?" 
 
 The Doctor smiled and flushed a little redder, 
 conscious of his own sensitiveness. 
 
 "Double-six. Oh, you want me to keep the 
 slate?" Father Dube had pushed it across to 
 him. " I say, Dube, I m glad you spoke of it. 
 I want to ask you something." 
 
 "Fifteen. What is it?" 
 
 " It s about the child." The Doctor was silent 
 for a minute, knitting his brows as he played on 
 mechanically. " I don t know that I ve done par 
 ticularly well in letting the Society leave her 
 where she is. You know that Goubaud family 
 better than I do." 
 
 " They are decent people." 
 
 "Oh, I know that. But, you see, here s the 
 way it is. This child s a girl thin little thing, 
 about twelve years old or so, and high-strung 
 the most high-strung, old-fashioned, queer little 
 witch I ever saw. And old woman Goubaud 
 well, she isn t exactly what you d call high-strung 
 herself." 
 
 " If I know what you mean by high-strung 
 no." 
 
 " Nervous sensitive delicate all that kind
 
 THE MIDGE. 55 
 
 of thing. These people, these Talbots, seem 
 to have been pretty poor ; but they were rather a 
 swell lot at the start, and I don t think this mite 
 has been accustomed to any sort of rough, un 
 sympathetic treatment. I shouldn t like to leave 
 her there if I thought the old woman was going 
 to make it hard for her." 
 
 " I shall have to draw." The priest shrugged 
 his shoulders, and took a pinch of snuff, offering 
 the box to the Doctor, who bowed, and waved it 
 away. The proffer had been made and declined 
 many hundred times in the course of their inti 
 macy. "The destruction of the poor is their 
 poverty," the Father went on : " poverty is hard, 
 and they have grown hard in their poverty. 
 They do not mean it, but what will you have ? 
 They are poor. Why do you not send the child 
 to your mission ? Your friend, Mr. Pratt " 
 
 " The mission s no place for a child like that. 
 There s too much promiscuous Mary Ann and 
 Sairey Jane there. Those tough little cats would 
 worry the life out of her. I had half a notion of 
 getting Madame Pigault here to take care of her 
 up stairs. Threes, is it ? Now I ve got to draw. 
 What, with stray kids and bad cards at domi- 
 nos, there s no rest for a quiet, respectable citi 
 zen. What do you think of bringing her here ? 
 It s a nice place up stairs, and I don t believe 
 Madame Pigault will instill ideas of intemperance 
 into her youthful mind."
 
 5 6 THE MIDGE. 
 
 " It would be well," assented the priest, after 
 another pinch of snuff, and an interval of reflec 
 tion. " But, perhaps you would do better to wait 
 and see how the child gets along. It is only for 
 a few weeks, I understand ; and perhaps she will 
 not be unhappy there. You must not forget that 
 it will be much for Goubaud to have the money 
 the Society will pay for her board. He is an 
 honest, hard-working man, that Goubaud, and 
 he scarcely makes enough in the year to pay his 
 rent and live." 
 
 " I ll go round there in the morning, and see," 
 said the Doctor, trying to dismiss the subject 
 from his mind : " Ten ! and that s domino, I 
 believe. My cards weren t so unlucky, after all." 
 
 A strong wind from the northeast brought the 
 faint sound of St. George s bells down to Wash 
 ington Square, as the Doctor turned out of South 
 Fifth avenue. It was as though Stuyvesant 
 Square, snugly locked up for the night, sent a 
 midnight message of reproach to the broader 
 and more democratic ground whose hard walks 
 knew no rest from echoing footsteps, in light or 
 dark. Here the branches swayed and creaked 
 in the night breeze, the gas-lamps flickered and 
 winked ; from time to time a tramp, or, from the 
 foul streets below and to the eastward, some 
 thing worse, in woman s shape, hurried across 
 the bleak space, along the winding asphalt, walk-
 
 THE MIDGE. 57 
 
 ing over the Potter s Field of the past, on their 
 way to Potter s Fields to be. 
 
 He had staid at the brasserie longer than was 
 his wont, having this night a dull dread of the 
 lonely hour before bed-time, to be spent in his 
 green reps chair ; of the dim anthracite fire, of the 
 encompassing silence. 
 
 He heard his great key click in the lock of the 
 outer door, and the sound was peculiarly de 
 pressing. He cut short a sigh, set his teeth, and 
 smiled a grim smile as he toiled up the long 
 stairs through the dead darkness. At the top 
 of his own flight a cold, faint half-light filtered 
 down from the skylight of the little old-fash 
 ioned dome that rose above the stairway, built 
 through the story above. By this dull grayness 
 he was able to see two bundles, a small one, and 
 one comparatively larger, lying in front of his 
 door. As he approached, the larger bundle 
 stood up. The Doctor started in surprise. 
 
 " C est moi," said the figure, which scarcely 
 reached above the handle of the door. 
 
 " What ? " demanded the Doctor. 
 
 " C est moi," the figure repeated, in a tone of 
 perfectly satisfying explanation ; and as she tried 
 to struggle out of the folds of an enormous 
 water-proof cloak, the Doctor realized that it 
 was Lodoiska Agnes Hunt Hunt Talbot. 
 
 " C est moi," she said.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 TXT" HAT is the matter?" asked the Doc- 
 V V tor, falling back on the stock question 
 which is the Anglo-Saxon s refuge in all cases 
 of bewilderment, mystery or surprise. 
 
 " There is nothing is the matter," returned the 
 girl, with composure. 
 
 "What do you want?" 
 
 " I want to enter." 
 
 She pointed to the door, her white finger just 
 emerging from the folds of the waterproof. The 
 Doctor unlocked his portal ; she gathered up her 
 small bundle and walked in. He followed her, 
 leaving the door open. Within, the gas burned 
 low, and as he stood with his hands in his pockets, 
 stooping to look into her pale, small face, her 
 meagre proportions seemed to him more meagre 
 still. She looked up at him with an anxious ques 
 tion in her eyes, and he stared blankly at her. 
 
 " Well," he said, at last, " I don t want to seem 
 inhospitable in any way, but if you ll kindly ex 
 plain" 
 
 " I cannot stay with those Goubaud," she said, 
 with sudden agitation. 
 58
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 59 
 
 "Have they been treating you ill?" The 
 Doctor s gray eyes began to light up. 
 
 " No not that. They do not mean to be bad. 
 But they are different. They are not how you 
 say it ? they are not like we others. La Goubaud, 
 she say to me this morning : Go out. Play 
 with the children. You get not your mother 
 back, whether or no you are sulky. Sois sage. 
 Play with the children. " Her voice broke with 
 an angry sob. " Me ! Play with the children ! " 
 There was a woman s scorn in her tone. " Play 
 my mother come back, perhaps ? Make pretense 
 she was not dead ? She treats me in infant. I 
 cannot bear it, monsieur. You comprehend ? I 
 cannot bear it." 
 
 The Doctor stood gazing at her in puzzled 
 hopelessness. 
 
 " I run away to you. I pack up my things in 
 this bag. The bag belong to la Goubaud. I 
 take it back to-morrow. Alphonsine, she is 
 bete, but she is good ; she lend me her water 
 proof see ? so I run away to you." 
 
 She had got clear of the great garment by this 
 time, and she shook it to the floor, and stood 
 out, thinner and smaller than ever. 
 
 " But, my dear child," the Doctor began : "you 
 can t stay here, you know " 
 
 " Yes ! let me stay here. You will not send 
 me away ? " She clasped her hands, together, 
 nervously, as she stood in front of him, her
 
 6o THE MIDGE. 
 
 anxious, eager eyes searching his face, her mouth 
 witching painfully. " You will let me stay, mon 
 sieur. It is a so short time! And I shall die 
 there " with a little shudder : " I tell you, / die 
 there. You let me stay. I make myself useful. 
 I know much, monsieur ; I cook, I keep the place 
 clean, I sew your clothes. I do all that for my 
 parents, when they have been alive. I take care 
 of you when you are sick. I am good nurse 
 very good nurse. You are sick sometimes, eh ? " 
 
 She made the inquiry with painful eagerness. 
 He smiled as he slowly shook his head ; and her 
 face fell. 
 
 " I am sorry," she said, simply ; and then she 
 beamed with sudden hope. 
 
 " I cook for you. You do not know how good 
 I cook. Alphonsine, she tell me you live all 
 alone ; maybe you want a cook. Very well. I 
 be your cook. Yes, I am small, I know; but 
 you see I know how to cook I promise you. 
 I make you omelette aux confitures, same I used 
 to make for my father. You ever eat omelette 
 aux confitures ?" 
 
 The Doctor pulled himself together. 
 
 "Look here," he said ; " I want to have a talk 
 with you." 
 
 " No ! " she cried, imperatively, seized with a 
 quick mistrust, " I do not want that you have a 
 talk with me. You mean to tell me to go back 
 to la Goubaud, eh ? "
 
 THE MIDGE. fa 
 
 " No, I don t." 
 
 " You let me stay here with you ? " she be 
 gan again, coaxingly, with wide, brightening 
 eyes. " Just a little time to try ? If I am not 
 good, you send me back." 
 
 The Doctor gave vent to a husky exclamation 
 that sounded like profanity. 
 
 " Come here," he said, holding out his hands. 
 
 " No," she insisted : " you tell me what you 
 do!" 
 
 He turned and shut the door, and the child 
 promptly walked up to him and placed two cold 
 hands in his. He led her to the arm-chair, and 
 sat down and made her stand in front of him, 
 while he inspected her with curious interest. 
 Her eyes were old; but her face, in spite of its 
 thinness and pallor, had a certain almost babyish 
 prettiness about it, sensitive and delicate. There 
 was enough of the mother s look in it to give 
 promise of greater beauty. And through all her 
 grief and anxiety, he could see traces of an ex 
 pression of sweet, winsome, childish wilfulness, 
 which suggested the innocent and instinctive 
 coquetry of a kitten. Her hair, thick, dark, 
 soft and wavy the mother s hair hung heavily 
 around her face and down her back, and against 
 it he saw her sallow, thin neck, with its tense 
 cords. A scanty ruffle of cheap lace hung 
 loosely about her throat ; and he noticed her nar 
 row chest, made yet narrower by the pleats of
 
 62 THE MIDGE. 
 
 her shabby black frock. He looked hard at her, 
 and she looked hard at him, and he saw that 
 she was unmistakably in earnest. 
 
 " You shan t go back to Goubaud s, I promise 
 you that," he said at last : " and you shan t go 
 anywhere where you don t want to go. But as 
 for staying here well, I don t think that can be 
 managed. I m a young bachelor, you see, and 
 I m afraid it wouldn t be proper." 
 
 She knit her brows. 
 
 " I did not think of that. But then, you are 
 not young. You are not old, old but you are 
 not young." Then, with a sudden illumination : 
 " But if I am your cook, it is proper, A cook 
 that is convenable, monsieur." 
 
 " But I have a cook. At least," he corrected 
 himself, " she s a kind of a cook." 
 
 " She cooks bad ? Very bad ? " 
 
 " I guess that s about the size of it." 
 
 " Well ! " she solved the problem with a defini 
 tive shrug of her shoulders, " send her away. 
 Take me. You do not believe I can cook ? I 
 cook you a supper now!" 
 
 " I haven t the slightest doubt of your powers 
 as a cook," laughed the Doctor: "but if I dis 
 charge Luise, what am I going to do when you 
 leave me? You ll have to go to your uncle in a 
 few weeks." 
 
 She settled that question with the same promp 
 titude and ease.
 
 THE MIDGE. 63 
 
 " I don t go to my uncle, then. I don t care. 
 It is all the same. I stay here with you." 
 
 " But your uncle will have something to say 
 about that." 
 
 " He don t care, either, I guess. If he take 
 me, I cost him money. He don t like that people 
 cost him money. He let me stay here if you 
 say so." 
 
 " Well," said the Doctor, " we ll see about it. 
 I don t doubt that I shall be satisfied with your 
 cooking; but perhaps you won t like the place 
 yourself." 
 
 She shook her head wisely. 
 
 " That is all right. I like it. Then I stay?" 
 
 " You ve got to stay for to-night, sure. I 
 shouldn t know what to do with you, at this 
 hour. And now I don t know where to put 
 you." 
 
 " I go in the cook s room." 
 
 The Doctor laughed aloud. 
 
 " I guess not. There s no bed there, and it s 
 colder than seventeen north poles stood on end. 
 You d freeze to death there ; and you re cold 
 enough already. Here, sit down here and warm 
 yourself while I see where to stow you." 
 
 He got up and slipped the child into his 
 place. Then he stirred the fire into life, and put 
 her feet on the fender, first taking off her shoes, 
 which were worn to such an extent that they 
 were both picturesque and pathetic.
 
 64 THE MIDGE. 
 
 "Now you stay there and warm yourself, and 
 I ll see about quarters. Great Scott!" he said, 
 as he held up the shoes, "if you re going to be 
 my cook you ve got to get a new pair of those 
 things, for the credit of the establishment." 
 
 If he had not been bending down when he re 
 moved her shoes, he would have seen that she 
 colored painfully. He saw the color deepening 
 now, and he wished he had not spoken. "Well," 
 he went on, rather awkwardly, " I don t suppose 
 you could have known that I made it a point to 
 be particular about my cook s shoes just a sort 
 of a way I have. Now, let s see. I guess I can 
 make you comfortable for the night, somehow or 
 other. This is your traveling-bag?" he asked, 
 lifting the blue ticking sack that she had brought 
 with her. "Well, when I was down South, the 
 boys called me Potato-bag Peters, one time, be 
 cause I had to tote my traps around in an old 
 potato-sack. Just as good, you know, as a fancy 
 satchel, and holds a lot more. Have you got 
 your what-you-may-call- em in here?" 
 
 "My?" 
 
 "Your ah your night things, whatever they 
 are," he explained, hastily and uncomfortably. 
 
 The red on the child s face mounted to the 
 roots of her hair. 
 
 "N n " she began, and then finished reso 
 lutely "Yes!" 
 
 He felt himself rebuked, and he grew nearly as
 
 THE MIDGE. 65 
 
 red as the forlorn, poverty-stricken waif in his 
 easy chair. It was ridiculous for a veteran of 
 the Doctor s age to flush up like a school-girl; 
 but he did it now and then, and was always 
 ashamed of it. 
 
 He moved about in silence for a minute or two, 
 looking for extra bed-clothes to put on the big 
 horse-hair sofa in the corner the one relic of the 
 Oneida homestead which he possessed. From 
 the depths of a dark closet his guest heard him, 
 after a while, calling down the vengeance of 
 heaven upon the head of Luise; but in the end 
 he found the mislaid drapery, and emerged with 
 his burden. The child leaped to her feet, and, 
 after one rueful glance at the two pink toes that 
 peeped from her black stockings, pattered across 
 the floor to him, and took the bed-clothes in 
 charge as he dropped them on the floor. 
 
 " It is for me" she said, with feminine superi 
 ority: "you do not know how." 
 
 He had to stand aside, even his assistance 
 scorned, as she rapidly and neatly made up a bed 
 on the sofa. Her easy adaptation of the means 
 to the end gave the impression of a thorough 
 acquaintance with the exigencies of poverty in 
 the matter of " shake-downs." 
 
 It was all done before the Doctor could have 
 
 got one sheet stretched evenly, and then she gave 
 
 the completed work the two little pats and the 
 
 smoothing stroke with which the true woman 
 
 5
 
 66 THE MIDGE. 
 
 always polishes off her bed-making. She turned 
 to the Doctor, and he nodded approbation. 
 
 " Now, young woman," he inquired, beginning 
 to feel a certain familiarity with his new acquaint 
 ance, "do you suppose you could eat some 
 crackers and cheese before you turn in?" 
 
 Again a hint of painful color crept into her 
 wan face; but this time she looked him in the 
 eye, and said that she could eat some crackers 
 and cheese. 
 
 She did eat some crackers and cheese a great 
 many crackers and a great deal of cheese, in a 
 way that showed that she was hungry. The 
 Doctor went up-stairs in the dark, and found 
 some milk in the ice-box Luise had never been 
 able to see any good reason why milk should be 
 fresh, when freshness involved going out in the 
 early morning and getting a new supply and 
 he brought it down, and his guest made quite a 
 fair supper, sitting perched up in the big green 
 reps chair, with her feet to the fire, the bare toes 
 that protruded from the black stockings occasion 
 ally drawing themselves up in modest conscious 
 ness of their unconventional nudity. 
 
 But in the middle of it all she broke down, and 
 choked on a drink of milk, and burst into a pas 
 sion of tears, crying : " O ma mere, ma mere O 
 ma pauvre petite mere ! " The Doctor went to 
 her side, and she threw her arms about him, but 
 instantly pushed him away, and fumbled for her
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 6 7 
 
 pocket, and found a poor little ball of a handker 
 chief, with which she mopped up her tears. Her 
 breast heaved still, and her breath was tremulous ; 
 but she tried to take up her talk where she had left 
 it. She had been telling him about her abilities as 
 a cook, and she endeavored to go on and en 
 lighten him about a certain Francois in a hotel 
 at Biarritz, who had taught her to make a mar 
 velous tisane for the sick. She had lost the 
 thread of her narrative, however, and the Doctor 
 felt it incumbent upon him to keep up his end 
 of the conversation. 
 
 So he told her about some amateur cooking 
 he had done in war-times he was not in the 
 habit of talking of war-times ; but he was short 
 of a subject and he dilated on his enjoyment 
 of a certain sandwich or stratified structure of 
 crackers, pork, molasses and smoked beef, until 
 her feminine horror at the unholy fare filled her 
 young mind to the exclusion of deeper emotions. 
 
 Then he suggested that It was time to go to 
 bed, and he made a move to carry her bag into 
 his room. But she would not hear of the ar 
 rangement. Her protest was vehement, decided, 
 and in the end it was successful. She would 
 sleep on the sofa, and the Doctor should sleep in 
 his own bed. And when the argument closed, 
 the Doctor felt himself dismissed from the room. 
 She did not express herself in words; but there 
 was in her manner a distinct feminine intimation
 
 68 THE MIDGE. 
 
 that his further lingering would be in bad taste. 
 Conquered and embarrassed, he retreated. 
 
 But a couple of hours later he got up, slipped 
 into his old red-flannel dressing-gown, and stole 
 into the sitting-room to see if his charge was 
 asleep. He only went near enough to the couch 
 to hear her regular, soft breathing, and then he 
 tip-toed back, turning hurriedly into his own 
 room, as though he felt that his presence profaned 
 the innocent maiden slumber that was a strange 
 new thing under his roof. 
 
 # # * # # 
 
 He woke the next morning with a glad, fool 
 ishly, expectant feeling which he could not have 
 explained to himself. He remembered, though, 
 a similar sensation when the winter dawn looked 
 into his narrow attic room, in the days of his 
 boyhood, and reminded him that singing-school 
 was to be held that night, and that he should 
 probably see Alida Jansen home. 
 
 Ten minutes later, as he was taking his morn 
 ing dip in the bath-room at the rear of the hall, 
 he heard a sound of violent contention coming 
 from the regions above. He paused knee-deep 
 in the water and listened. One voice was unques 
 tionably that of Lodoiska Agnes Hunt Hunt 
 Talbot. The other was what the voice of Luise 
 might be, raised to the n th of dissonance by 
 extreme rage. He had stepped softly past the 
 closed door of his sitting-room, as he went to
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 6 9 
 
 his bath, for fear of waking the sleeping child ; 
 but it seemed that the child was not sleeping. 
 He huddled on some clothes and hurried up 
 stairs, appearing in the kitchen in his shirt-sleeves, 
 to act as mediator in a combat that was growing 
 fiercer each moment. 
 
 The small usurper was in position of vantage, 
 her back to the range, her feet wide apart, planted 
 firmly on the hearthstone, her left hand grasping 
 a frying-pan, while her right gesticulated freely. 
 She was talking with a fiery volubility and a 
 command of language such language as it was 
 that for the moment had silenced old Luise. 
 
 " Imbecile of a German bete ! idiot ! va ! If I 
 knew to use your language for the beasts, I 
 would tell you what you are. Go, I tell you ! 
 Nobody want you here. You are dis-s-s-charged ! 
 You have no ears then, you insane, that you 
 stand there and mock yourself of me ? Go, then ! 
 get yourself out, or I forget myself j te dirai des 
 injures, you hear me ! You are no more cook 
 I am cook " here she caught sight of the 
 Doctor. " Tell her she is no more cook. She 
 will not go. Tell her she shall go. Tell her in 
 her ac-cur-sed tongue ! " 
 
 " Ah ! " gasped the Doctor, himself appalled 
 by this vigor of utterance, and too much taken 
 aback to remember that maudite gains strength 
 when translated by " accursed." 
 
 " Am I not your cook, eh ? You engage me
 
 7Q THE MIDGE. 
 
 last night, eh ! Then tell her that she shall go. 
 Imbecile " this triumphantly to Luise " tu vas 
 voir." 
 
 The light of a great and beautiful possibility 
 broke upon the Doctor s mind. Here was his 
 chance, his heaven-sent chance, of getting rid of 
 Luise forever. It would be flying in the face of 
 Providence to neglect it. He chastened a broad 
 grin to a pleasantly humorous smile, and said 
 placidly : 
 
 " Yes, that s so. Sorry for this little misun 
 derstanding ; but it s a fact, Luise. This young 
 lady I mean, this is my new cook. I ought to 
 have told you before that I was thinking of 
 changing; but she arrived, rather unexpectedly, 
 and" 
 
 " Dot chi-yilt? " Luise shrieked. 
 
 " That young woman, yes. Of course, I ought 
 to have given you a month s warning; but I 
 guess we can make it even with a month s cash 
 how ll that do ? Sorry to lose you, Luise ; but 
 the fact is, I ve come to the conclusion that I 
 like younger cooking see? Suppose you call 
 on me to-night, and I ll settle accounts with 
 you ? We ll make it all satisfactory, somehow, 
 Luise," he finished, feeling his heart begin to fail 
 him. 
 
 The successful combatant in front of the fire 
 gave her frying-pan an airy twirl of victory, and 
 set it down on the stove with a slam. " N-i, ni,"
 
 THE MIDGE. 7! 
 
 she said : " c est fini ! " and she folded her hands 
 on her apron, waiting for her rival to depart. 
 
 Luise stood one stricken moment speechless, 
 and then she turned and cluttered to the door. 
 As she grasped the post and swung herself out, 
 she turned to level a threatening ringer at the 
 Doctor. 
 
 " I kess you goin crazy ! " she hissed, and 
 she disappeared. 
 
 Lodoiska Agnes Hunt Hunt Talbot gazed at 
 the Doctor, the flush of indignation fading from 
 her cheeks. She bobbed her small head signifi 
 cantly and closed one eye in the wink of fellow 
 ship. 
 
 " Good," she said : " no more Luise !" 
 
 " But how about my breakfast ? " demanded 
 the Doctor. 
 
 " Your breakfast," she replied, looking at the 
 clock : " it will be ready in fifteen minutes if 
 you go down stairs," she added, severely. " You 
 go down stairs, you put on your coat, you read 
 your journal you brush your hair, perhaps " 
 with a quick glance at the top of his head "and 
 I come with the breakfast before you are ready." 
 
 He departed submissively and finished his 
 dressing. The fifteen minutes had spread out to 
 twenty, and he was just taking down his pipe to 
 stay his stomach with nicotine, when he heard a 
 fumbling at the door-knob. He put the pipe 
 away guiltily, and opened to his new cook, who
 
 2 THE MIDGE. 
 
 was nearly hidden behind the loaded breakfast- 
 tray. 
 
 She permitted him to set it on the floor, and 
 then she made him stand aside while she set the 
 table. When the board was spread, he gravely 
 invited her to a seat, and, after a moment s hesi 
 tation, in which she glanced with hungry eyes at 
 the work of her hands, she graciously accepted, 
 and, climbing into a chair opposite her host, she 
 named over the edibles, not as Luise had of old ; 
 but with the gusto of an artist. 
 
 She had not boasted vainly. There was an 
 omelette, golden, light and tender ; there were a 
 few bits of crisp bacon ; there was a bunch of 
 radishes coyly tucked in a napkin folded to 
 simulate a rose ; there was a little pile of anchovy 
 toast, and there was a pot of coffee, clear and 
 strong, such as the Doctor had not tasted in 
 many a morning. 
 
 " I kept you waiting a little," she said, apolo 
 getically : "and it is not all as I would like; but 
 it is not my fault. That Luise, she is how you 
 say ? untidy. She puts the things allwheres 
 and nowheres." 
 
 The Doctor assured her that he was perfectly 
 satisfied, and he proved it by his attention to the 
 repast. But as he ate, it slowly dawned on his 
 man s mind that the delicacies before him were 
 not usually among the provisions of the unin- 
 ventive Luise.
 
 .THE MIDGE. 73 
 
 " Where did you get these these extras ? " he 
 inquired, indicating them with a comprehensive 
 sweep of his hand. 
 
 " I got up and went out and got them before 
 you were awake," she answered, proudly : " I 
 got them at Breitenbach, the grocery around the 
 corner." 
 
 " But I haven t an account there ! " he said, in 
 dismay. 
 
 " No, I know. But I did not know what was 
 your place, and they knew you there. They 
 would not believe me that I came from you, and 
 they would send a German boy with me back, 
 but when he came here, he has seen that it was 
 all right, and he has left the things. You can 
 pay, can you not ? he will give credit." 
 
 The Doctor suppressed his comments on this 
 revelation. "And, that?" he further inquired, 
 pointing to the butter-dish. It was ingeniously 
 swaddled in a napkin, and from one corner of 
 the napkin peeped a large carnation-pink. She 
 blushed a little, and smiled knowingly. "Oh, 
 that," she said ; " I got that from the boy. He 
 had it in his button-hole ; so I was very nice with 
 him, and I asked him for it, and he has given it 
 to me. One flower, even," she explained; "it is 
 so good on the table. It gives the appetite."
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 T THINK," said the Doctor, an hour later, 
 
 1 when he had read his paper and meditated 
 over his pipe, while his new aid washed the 
 breakfast-things, and made his bed and dusted 
 the rooms, " I rather think that I ll do the mar 
 keting while you re in charge of the establish 
 ment. You can tell me what you want, and I ll 
 get it. It s more in my line, anyway, and it 
 strikes me that that I m a little more up to the 
 exigencies of the situation." 
 
 This last phrase evidently exerted on his 
 hearer s mind the influence of the mysterious 
 and incomprehensible. She gave it deliberate 
 consideration, and finally felt herself safe in assent 
 ing. Perhaps, she admitted, it would be better. 
 
 They proceeded to lay out a dinner, which 
 impressed the Doctor as being of dangerously 
 large proportions. It began with bouillon, went 
 on with fried smelts, rose to the height of a cut 
 let, and passed to coffee and cheese, through an 
 omelette soiiffle. The plan also involved the in 
 troduction of various vegetables. 
 
 It was arranged that the Doctor was not to be 
 74
 
 THE MIDGE. 75 
 
 home to luncheon, whereat the new cook was 
 pleased. She acknowledged that if there was 
 one weak spot in her culinary education, it was 
 in the matter of luncheon. She kindly explained 
 that the French system of late breakfasting ren 
 dered luncheon unnecessary, and she seemed 
 disposed to dwell on the superiority of that plan 
 until she found her American friend hopelessly 
 unresponsive. 
 
 His list having been made out, the Doctor 
 took M. Goubaud s sack and Alphonsine s water 
 proof, and set out. He stopped at Breitenbach s 
 to settle his bill and dash the hopes of Breiten- 
 bach, who would have been more than glad to 
 write Dr. Peters s name on his books. He saw 
 Mme. Goubaud, who grumbled sourly at the 
 flight of her boarder, even after the Doctor had 
 paid the price of three weeks board for Miss 
 Talbot, out of his own pocket. He also found 
 means of surreptitiously returning her cloak to 
 Alphonsine, with a little cash compensation for 
 her kindness to the child. And, when all this 
 was done, he went off to see his friend at the 
 rooms of the Benevolent Society. 
 
 The little secretary took a gloomy view of the 
 young lady s contumacy. He did not see how 
 the Society could countenance such independent 
 action on the part of one of its wards. It was 
 irregular and improper, and he thoroughly disap 
 proved of it.
 
 76 THE MIDGE. 
 
 " We ve got to do something with her, all the 
 same, Peloubet," said the Doctor. " She can t 
 stay with me, and she won t stay at Goubaud s, 
 and she oughtn t to." 
 
 " W y can she not stay wiz you ? " inquired 
 Peloubet, in extravagant protest : " you ave a 
 grand apar-r-rtment you ar-r-r so reech you 
 don know w at to do wiz your monnee w y 
 can she not stay wiz you ? " 
 
 " Great Scott, Peloubet I can t have a child 
 in my place, there especially a child of that 
 peculiar sex." 
 
 " Bah ! It is but two t ree wicks. She is your 
 niece; she is come to *mek you a visit. You 
 ar-r-r old enough to be an uncle, eh?" 
 
 " I m old enough to be most anything, I sup 
 pose," returned the Doctor, with a rather grim 
 smile ; " but I m not the uncle of the whole 
 Benevolent Society. There s no two ways about 
 it. I got you into this scrape, and I ll take what 
 ever trouble there is to be taken ; but I ve got to 
 find some decent woman to look after the child, 
 and it must be done with the sanction of the 
 Society. It s all the same to you to whom you 
 pay her board. It must be done, and it ll have 
 to be done right off. If that infant settles her 
 self down in my quarters much more firmly, I 
 shan t be able to get her out with an ox-chain." 
 
 " Bot she mos go w ere we send her," said the 
 Secretary.
 
 THE MIDGE. jj 
 
 " But she won t, if she don t feel like it." 
 
 " You mos mek her go." 
 
 "Well, I don t know that I should want to 
 make her go, if she stayed any longer," said the 
 Doctor, half to himself. Then he got up to depart. 
 
 " All right, Peloubet, I ll hunt around and find 
 a place for her, and then I ll report to you, and 
 if it s satisfactory, we ll transfer the young woman 
 after dinner. I expect she ll break her heart if 
 she isn t allowed to cook that dinner." He had 
 told the Secretary of the child s fancy that she 
 could be the cook in his bachelor establishment. 
 
 Dr. Peters spent the rest of the daylight in 
 g twofold search looking for a temporary home 
 for his charge, and also for a cook for himself. 
 Mme. Pigault finally helped him out of both of 
 his difficultfes. Her sister, in Harlem, would 
 take the child to board her sister was a milli 
 ner, and the place would be better for the little 
 one than here where there were so many men 
 forever coming and going nice, respectable 
 men they were ; but, enfin, men. And she knew 
 of a cook, did Mme. Pigault, a certain Elise, a 
 French Alsatian, who was all that there was of 
 most perfect in the way of a cook. 
 
 These things being off his mind, the Doctor 
 went home. Lodoiska Agnes looked down on 
 him from the top of the kitchen stairway, and 
 told him that dinner would be ready at six, and 
 that she had caught a mouse in the trap, and had
 
 78 THE MIDGE. 
 
 let him go again. It was only five, so he took 
 off his coat and went to filing away in his work 
 room, where a little light still lingered. It was 
 the large back-room, looking out on two vacant 
 lots, that stretched through to Third Street. In 
 the summer time there was no pleasanter room 
 in all that quarter ; for the yards were green and 
 bright, and a beautiful tree stood in one of them, 
 spreading and flourishing as fairly as if it had 
 been miles out in the country, and serving as 
 something of a screen between the house and 
 the noise and ugliness of the newly-built ele 
 vated railroad. But the room itself was bare 
 and unfurnished, save for the work-bench and 
 racks that held the odds and ends of models and 
 castings. And the outlook to-day was not over 
 cheerful, for the tree was stripped of its leaves, 
 and the trains went crashing by, their lighted 
 windows glaring in the twilight. 
 
 He had lit the gas, and was still filing away 
 and whistling to himself, when his cook came in. 
 She had been setting the table in the sitting- 
 room, and she paid him a brief visit to tell him 
 that it was time to get ready for his dinner. 
 
 She inquired into the nature of his labors, 
 perching herself on the largest casting that 
 stood against the wall. He told her what he 
 was doing; and she instantly got off the casting, 
 and expressed her disapprobation. 
 
 Why did he wish to make a cannon, to kill
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 79 
 
 people ? It was cruel ; it was not gcntil. She 
 would not do like that. She did not like it. 
 
 Dr. Peters explained that cannons were useful 
 in time of war, when one s country was attacked ; 
 but she was not satisfied. Yes, she knew all 
 about that. The Prussians, who, she incidently 
 remarked, were hogs, had attacked France. She 
 did not remember it; it was many years ago, 
 and she was very little then ; but she had been 
 told about it, and she had seen the mischief they 
 had done. But, herself, she thought that the 
 French were as bad as the Prussians. They had 
 cannons, too, and they had used them, although 
 they must have known that it would set fire to 
 their houses and knock down the trees and ruin 
 everything. She did not like cannons at all. 
 She had seen them fired, not to kill people, of 
 course; but just to pass the time. The smoke 
 and the flame were very pretty ; but the noise 
 was not good. If they could have the smoke 
 and the flame without the noise well ! But for 
 killing people it had not the common sense. 
 Why could not he make something else ? 
 
 What should he make ? the Doctor asked her. 
 He was ready to invent anything she desired ; 
 he didn t care particularly about cannons. What 
 should it be ? She pondered awhile, and then 
 suggested " something to eat." 
 
 This recalling her to her duties, she took her 
 self off upstairs; and the Doctor made his
 
 80 THE MIDGE. 
 
 simple toilet in preparation for dinner. He 
 saw, when he entered the sitting-room, that 
 places were set for two, from which he concluded 
 that his new domestic was either enough of a 
 democrat, or enough of an aristocrat, to see no 
 impropriety in dining with her employer. 
 
 She came down, presently, bearing the soup- 
 tureen, which she placed in front of the head of 
 the house. She swung herself into her chair 
 opposite him, and began a voluble discourse on 
 the demerits of the departed Luise, as shown in 
 the deplorable condition of the kitchen and 
 pantry. The Doctor ladled out the bouillon, 
 gave the culinary artist her plate, and then 
 stared hard at his own, as he rilled it. He took 
 a spoonful and elevated it for closer examination. 
 It was of a fine straw-color, and the pattern on 
 the bottom of the plate shone through in un- 
 dimmed blueness. To the taste the broth sug 
 gested faintly the flavor of beef-tea ; but it gave 
 no hint of sustenance. 
 
 The monologue on the sins of Luise went on 
 across the table ; but it was less fluent, and there 
 were awkward, conscious breaks in it. The face 
 bent over the hot, thin decoction changed from 
 red to white and back to red again. The Doctor 
 said nothing ; being painfully at a loss. Finally 
 the small face was raised, and she addressed him 
 with a brave assumption of ease, while a tear 
 glistened in each eye.
 
 THE MIDGE. 8 1 
 
 " This bouillon is not good, I don t think. 
 You find it thin, do you not ? " 
 
 "Well," hazarded the Doctor, "it s a little 
 that way, seems to me." 
 
 " Never mind. We will not eat it. I will take it 
 away. The next time I will make it more strong." 
 
 She slipped to the ground, and, taking the 
 plate from him, gathered up her own and the 
 soup-tureen, and hurried from the room with 
 them, clearly desirous of getting them out of 
 sight as soon as possible. When she returned 
 she brought the smelts. There was a percepti 
 ble decrease of confidence in her manner; but 
 she became herself again when it proved that 
 the smelts were good beyond cavil. They were 
 well fried ; they lay in a clean napkin, and there 
 was a sprig of parsley so ingeniously tucked 
 into each gaping mouth that it looked like a 
 tiny green nosegay, of which, and himself to 
 boot, the smelt was making general tender. 
 
 The smelts having established their claim to 
 respect, it was with unconcealed pride that the 
 cook marched upstairs to get the veal cutlet. 
 The maintenance of her social as well as her 
 domestic functions caused long waits between 
 the courses, but although it was ten minutes be 
 fore her reappearance, both she and the Doctor 
 felt that the success of the smelts justified her 
 in expecting the indulgence to be accorded to an 
 artist.
 
 82 THE MIDGE. 
 
 The cutlet was brown and pleasing to the eye. 
 A paper rose grew from the island of bone in 
 the middle. Lodoiska Agnes called her host s 
 attention to it, and described the process of 
 making paper roses. Then the Doctor, his eyes 
 politely fixed on the person speaking to him, 
 cut into the cutlet. There was a courteous smile 
 of divided interest on his face, but it vanished as 
 an agonized contortion swept over the child s 
 features, and a cry of pain and horror came from 
 her quivering lips. He glanced down where she 
 was looking, at his knife and fork. He thought 
 that he must have been guilty of some hideous 
 slip, and he half-expected to see a severed finger 
 lying in the platter. But even as he looked, the 
 girl, with a bitter cry of shame and grief, spread 
 out her little hands, trying to hide the dish from 
 his sight. " No, no ! " she wailed : " you shall 
 not see it ! I will not that you shall see it ! " 
 
 He could not help himself; a smile came on 
 his face. The incision had disclosed the inner 
 depths of the cutlet. The bread-crumb crust 
 was browned ; but below was only the hideous, 
 livid, raw pink of uncooked meat. 
 
 There was nothing but child left in her now. 
 In her utter humiliation and despair, she let him 
 take her up in his arms and kiss and console and 
 caress her after a fatherly fashion. She hid her 
 face on his shoulder, hanging to him by the 
 lapels of his coat, and she sobbed and moaned,
 
 THE MIDGE. 83 
 
 and brokenly bewailed her failure, and then cried 
 aloud for her father and her mother. 
 
 He let her have it out, and when the spasmodic 
 violence of her distress had abated, he made her 
 sit up on his knee and listen to his assurances 
 that it was all right; that they could make a very 
 good dinner without the cutlet ; that he didn t 
 mind it in the least, if she didn t. He pressed his 
 lips to her hot cheek, where the salt tears 
 trickled down even while a faint, dim gleam of 
 hope once more began to dawn in her eyes. He 
 smoothed her hair, and she dried her tears with 
 his faded silk handkerchief, and after a bit they 
 organized a joint expedition to the kitchen, where 
 the cutlet was stowed away under the sink, and 
 where they made coffee, with which and the 
 crackers and cheese, they descended to the sitting- 
 room. The omelette souffle was postponed to 
 another occasion; and they got on very well 
 without it, and were surprised to find how far 
 crackers and cheese could go as a substitute for 
 a dinner. 
 
 When it was all finished, and the table was 
 cleared off, she came readily to sit on his lap as 
 he smoked his pipe. Here she fell into a brown 
 study, and, after a couple of minutes of silence 
 she suddenly turned to him, put her arms about 
 his neck, and kissed him. It was an offering so 
 deliberate, frank and sweetly declarative of affec 
 tion that the Doctor blushed. She was chary
 
 8 4 
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 of her kisses, he afterward found out; but when 
 she gave them, she meant them. 
 
 But she was quite willing now to be kissed, 
 and she accepted and even invited petting with 
 the most childlike simplicity. Like the Widow 
 Malone, she seemed to feel that submission to an 
 initial aggression involved and demanded full 
 surrender. Her mature reserve had banished 
 with the downfall of her dignity; and she put her 
 head in the hollow of his shoulder and nestled 
 up to him as though she were six instead of 
 twelve. 
 
 All the time she chattered, telling him, in a 
 rambling, desultory way, the story of her life. 
 And a queer story of genteel tramphood it was, 
 full of details of curious shifts of poverty, accounts 
 of strange lodgings and stranger companion 
 ships, tales of friendly cooks and waiters and odd 
 vagabonds of the father s profession, and tales 
 of unfriendly landlords and hard-hearted pur 
 veyors of provisions. 
 
 Incoherent as was her recital and she stopped 
 often to cry quietly over her lost father and 
 mother it was deeply interesting to the Doctor. 
 It gave him pictures of a life of which he knew 
 little, and it made comprehensible to him the odd 
 mental and moral development of this little being 
 who could not fairly be classed either with chil 
 dren or with women. 
 
 The clock struck nine his usual hour for
 
 THE MIDGE. 85 
 
 going to Pigault s; but he thought he would 
 wait awhile to-night, until it should be time for 
 the child to go to bed. Ten o clock came, and 
 the little one was still lying in his arms, with 
 her head on his shoulder, and they were talking 
 like old friends. For the time being, her remi 
 niscences had come to an end, and she was 
 catechizing him. She wanted to know where he 
 had been, and what he had done, and he tried to 
 tell her, with all the awkwardness of a man 
 who has made it a rule in life not to talk about 
 himself. He told her of the old homestead in 
 the north of the state, of his stern, precise, 
 formal father, Doctor Peters, the great man of 
 their little town ; of his mother, what little he 
 remembered of her; of his simple, uneventful, 
 meagre boyhood ; of his brief career as a student 
 of medicine, and then he came to the War. 
 
 Volunteer though he had been, he was a 
 thorough-going old soldier in certain things ; and 
 it was not easy for him to begin to talk about the 
 War. But when he did begin, he forgot himself, 
 and now he told story after story, to which the 
 child on his lap listened in fascinated absorption. 
 They were only such stories of the camp and field 
 as any veteran of the great war could tell; but 
 they had that charm which lies in every soldier s 
 story, and his hearer forgot her dislike of cannons 
 and her feminine objections to the waste of 
 human life in listening to him.
 
 86 THE MIDGE. 
 
 He stopped suddenly, ashamed of his enthusi 
 astic freedom of speech. It was past eleven 
 o clock. He told Lodoiska Agnes that she ought 
 to be in bed. She looked somewhat surprised; 
 but made no remonstrance. 
 
 Sliding down from his knee, she stood a mo 
 ment in meditation, and then asked : 
 
 "What is it that you want for breakfast?" 
 
 Before she had finished the question, the tears 
 of shame came into her eyes. He gathered her 
 up again, and told her that he would like nothing 
 better than another breakfast just such as she had 
 given him that morning. He had not had such 
 a breakfast in many years, he declared, with the 
 convincing fervor of truth, and he did not see 
 how it could be improved upon. 
 
 "I cannot cook for you," she murmured, 
 sadly; "I do not cook so good as I have thought 
 I could cook." 
 
 "Well," he said, " I ll tell you what it is. I ve 
 been thinking about this cooking business, and I 
 think I see what we ve got to do. You re going 
 away after a while, you know " she slipped a 
 finger into his button-hole, and he stroked the 
 small hand as it hung there " and I shall have 
 to get a cook who ll stay here. See ? Now you 
 know all about cooking though of course you 
 aren t just ready to take hold of a bachelor 
 establishment and do all the work yourself 
 twasn t to be expected of you. So I thought
 
 THE MIDGE. 8/ 
 
 I d engage a cook just a plain, common cook, 
 and you could kind of hang around and break 
 her in oversee her and and boss her. You d 
 be the housekeeper, as it were head of the 
 establishment, and all that. I think it s rather 
 more in your line. And then you could take 
 your meals with me, quiet and comfortable. 
 What do you think of the scheme?" 
 
 " Oh, yes," she cried, her eyes dilating, " that 
 would be good." 
 
 " Yes," he went on, " I ve engaged the cook, 
 and she s coming to-morrow, and you can take 
 right hold and " 
 
 He stopped short. What was he doing ? This 
 was a pretty way to prepare her for her transfer 
 to the milliner s in Harlem. He had been voicing 
 a wild fancy, and he had not realized how far he 
 was going. She saw his embarrassment 
 
 "Why do you stop? Go on." 
 
 " Well," he began, feebly, " I was just think 
 ing" 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " Well you mightn t like the place." 
 
 " Oh, yes," she said with decision : " I will like 
 it. I would like to stay with you. I like you 
 better than any one except except " 
 
 He drew her closer to him, in token of un 
 derstanding; but he did not attempt to ac 
 count to himself for a certain internal wincing 
 that he felt at the clause of limitation. The
 
 88 THE MIDGE. 
 
 human animal is naturally and healthily a jeal 
 ous animal. 
 
 " It is then omelette and anchovy toast ? " she 
 concluded, considering the question settled. " And 
 you like the radish always, eh ? " 
 
 He felt pitifully weak as he assented, promising 
 himself that to-morrow he would tell her that she 
 must go away. 
 
 " Good-night," he said, as he rose. She 
 frankly lifted up her mouth to be kissed, and as 
 he bent over her he wished in his soul that he 
 had done his duty and had it over. He felt 
 almost like a traitor as he touched her lips, 
 thinking of what he was hiding from her. 
 
 When he was in his own room, he sat down 
 on the edge of his bed and pondered. What 
 was going to happen to-morrow, when he told 
 her that she must leave him ? She evidently had 
 no idea of anything of the sort. Even the going 
 to Europe was to her something remote, not 
 worthy of present consideration. His conscience 
 troubled him. He had done wrong in letting 
 her tie herself up to him and to this temporary 
 home. What would she think of him when he 
 sent her up to the milliner s shop in Harlem ? 
 And what would she think of the milliner s 
 shop? He had once seen Mme. Pigault s sister 
 a busy, fussy, common-place little French 
 woman ; not at all like good Mme. Pigault She 
 was only a modified, improved and prosperous
 
 THE MIDGE. 89 
 
 Mme. Goubaud. He felt instinctively that the 
 child would not like her. 
 
 Well, it was of no use, his sitting there and 
 thinking it over. The thing must be done to 
 morrow, and another time he would be more 
 careful. But, he reflected, in mingled relief and 
 regret, he was not likely another time to encounter 
 another Lodoiska Agnes Hunt Hunt Talbot. 
 
 He rose, and was about to begin undressing, 
 when he noticed that his dressing-gown was 
 missing. It always hung at the foot of the bed ; 
 but he remembered that he had left it in the bath 
 room that morning when he went up to arbitrate 
 the quarrel between his two cooks, and that he 
 had subsequently seen it in the sitting-room, 
 where Lodoiska Agnes had draped it pictur 
 esquely over the end of the sofa. 
 
 He tapped at the door. There was no answer, 
 and he opened it softly and slipped in. The gas 
 was still burning, and there, before the fire, the 
 child sat in his big arm-chair, toasting her bare 
 feet. She was wrapped in the red dressing-gown, 
 which stood out in hideous discord with the 
 green reps. 
 
 "Well, I ll be blest!" exclaimed the Doctor; 
 " aren t you in bed yet ? " 
 
 Startled, she jumped down and faced him, 
 huddling the too ample garment about her in a 
 way that suggested a desire to conceal some 
 more intimate deficiencies of attire.
 
 QO THE MIDGE. 
 
 " No," she said, " I am not fatigued. I go to 
 bed always twelve, one o clock sometimes." 
 
 " Not here you don t," the Doctor corrected 
 her vigorously : " if you want to stay here, you ve 
 got to turn in when the drum beats. Pile right 
 into bed, young woman, and leave that article of 
 clothing where I can get at it, or I ll have to tie 
 a blanket around me to get to my bath in the 
 morning." 
 
 She turned obediently to the couch, which she 
 had already prepared for the night. 
 
 " All right. You come back in two seconds, 
 you find it there, on the chair." 
 
 She waited for him to go, but he lingered in a 
 new perplexity. 
 
 " I say," he commenced, hesitatingly, " aren t 
 you in the habit I suppose you are but 
 don t you generally say something before you go 
 to bed?" 
 
 " Say what ? " 
 
 " Why, say a prayer, or something. Most 
 people do it when they ain t grown up," the 
 spirit of truth compelled him to add. 
 
 She opened her eyes, and shook her head. 
 
 " No not me never." 
 
 " Didn t your mother teach you to say your 
 prayers ? " 
 
 She shook her head again, bewildered. 
 
 " No." 
 
 He felt dimly that a moral responsibility de-
 
 THE MIDGE. gi 
 
 volved upon him, and that he was not quite up 
 to it, at the moment. He turned away in un 
 comfortable irresolution. She called him back. 
 
 " You want me to say prayers ? " she asked. 
 
 "Why yes. Seems to me it would be better." 
 
 " All right, if you want." 
 
 And in an instant she had dropped on her 
 knees, the great red dressing-gown puffing out 
 around her, and before the Doctor could quite 
 grasp the situation, she had rattled through an 
 " Ave Maria, gratia plena." Then, still on her 
 knees, she looked up at him and calmly inquired, 
 " How many ? " 
 
 "That s enough," said the Doctor, and returned 
 to his own room. "Maybe it s too much," he 
 reflected. He certainly had no idea of taking 
 her religious training in hand ; but when he fell 
 asleep, a little later, his brain was drowsily work 
 ing to reconstruct the exact wording of a simple 
 formula of his childhood, which had somehow 
 slipped his memory in the course of years, and 
 which began : 
 
 " Now I lay me down to sleep ; 
 I pray the Lord my soul to keep." 
 
 Yes, he had actually forgotten the third line. 
 He knew the Ave Maria better. He had heard 
 it oftener in sick-rooms and hospitals. Oneida 
 County was a long way from the French quarter 
 of New York.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 PELOUBET was more discouraging than 
 ever when Dr. Peters informed him that 
 he proposed to make the Talbot child his guest 
 until her relatives sent for her. The Doctor had 
 come to this decision while smoking his after- 
 breakfast pipe. He had debated the question 
 within himself all night, and had satisfied him 
 self a dozen times over that there was nothing 
 to do but to order Lodoiska Agnes to put her 
 self in charge of the milliner. He was consider 
 ing ways and means of avoiding or mitigating 
 the necessarily consequent "scene," when it sud 
 denly dawned upon his mind that he had not the 
 slightest intention of doing anything of the sort; 
 and, greatly relieved in spirit, he marched off to 
 Peloubet to tell him so. 
 
 Peloubet was really doubtful this time. He 
 had made the suggestion the day before, but it 
 was only in a jocular way just as he had talked 
 about the Doctor s vast wealth. This serious 
 acceptance of the idea staggered him. He was 
 a good, sensible, liberal-minded man, but he was 
 a Frenchman, and he had a Frenchman s ideas 
 92
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 93 
 
 and prejudices. The Frenchman in him had a 
 struggle with reason and experience before he 
 gave his grave and dubious consent. After all, 
 though, there was nothing to be said against the 
 proposition. Dr. Peters could have qualified in 
 any court as a proper guardian for the child 
 and it was a saving to the Society. " You will 
 ripport ev-ver-y wick, eh? "he said: "Eet is a 
 fo malitee Jos write me a line I put it on ze 
 file." 
 
 The temporary guardian of Lodoiska Agnes 
 felt an almost boyish light-heartedness as he 
 trudged from butcher to baker, and from baker 
 to grocer, that cold, sharp, clear morning, exe 
 cuting domestic commissions. He felt that he 
 was having fun ; that he was going to have fun. 
 Perhaps he felt also that he had not behaved 
 exactly like a rational, sober, sensible man, forty 
 years old ; but the boy in him rather enjoyed its 
 own assertion of independence. He was not at 
 all sure that he didn t want to run away from the 
 man of forty, and forget his dull adult rule. 
 
 He was at home by one o clock, with his arms 
 full of bundles, and when he reached his hallway, 
 he whistled " Boots and Saddles " up the kitchen 
 stairs. There was no reply, and then he remem 
 bered that he had a parcel to stow away in his 
 own room. He put it on the upper shelf of the 
 closet, and went up stairs after Lodoiska Agnes. 
 She was not in the kitchen. " Here ! young
 
 94 
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 woman ! " he called, and glanced vainly into the 
 pantry. He waited for the answer that did not 
 come, and then he looked in the servant s 
 room, in front. There was no trace of the small 
 housekeeper. He ran down stairs and glanced 
 through the rooms. She was not there. He 
 looked hastily in every corner, but she was not 
 there. Up stairs again, he called her, and got 
 no answer. " Here ! young one ! you Lo-do- 
 is-ka ! " he cried. Perhaps she had gone out on 
 some errand. But just then he remembered 
 that her outer garments, which were a jacket 
 and a little black straw hat, were still at Mme. 
 Goubaud s. They had been hanging in the old 
 woman s room when she took her flight, and 
 Mme. Goubaud had promised him to send them 
 around, and had not kept her promise. He 
 knew that, for Alphonsine had come out to 
 thank him as he passed through Houston Street 
 that afternoon, and she had bewailed her mis 
 tress s bad faith. A sick feeling came over him. 
 He looked around to see if a window was open. 
 What a fool he was ! Probably the child had 
 gone down stairs to scrape acquaintance with 
 the tenants of the lower kitchens. Yes, that was 
 it. She was lonely, and she had gone down 
 stairs. He would descend and see. Then came 
 the thought that he might not find her there, 
 and he cast one more hopeless glance into the 
 depths of the pantry.
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 95 
 
 When Dr. Peters had first undertaken to imi 
 tate, on the top floor of a New York lodging- 
 house, the New Netherlands homestead kitchen of 
 his boyhood, he had had a vivid memory of his 
 mother s pickle-jar. That memory represented 
 it as a stoneware crock of colossal size. He pic 
 tured it to incredulous dealers as being about a 
 yard in diameter. They one and all assured 
 him that no such crock had ever been known in 
 the New York market. He expressed his unflat 
 tering opinion of the New York market, and 
 continued his search. Finally, an enterprising 
 man had one made for him. It came, about a 
 year after his plan of housekeeping had faded 
 into an unsubstantial dream. It was twenty-four 
 inches across the top, and stood nearly three feet 
 high. He then perceived that the family of a 
 Biblical patriarch could not have needed such a 
 pickle-jar. And he remembered also that he 
 had never cared much for pickles. He paid the 
 bill, and he put the crock on its side, in a corner 
 of the pantry s lowest shelf. There it lay, year 
 after year, doomed to be forever pickle-less. 
 
 There it lay now, with Lodoiska Agnes in it. 
 She was seated on a stool, her head and shoulders 
 and arms within the vast hollow of that crock. 
 The Doctor, his heart suddenly light once more, 
 went to her and gently pulled her out. She had 
 been crying ; her face was wet with tears and her 
 hair was wildly " mussed."
 
 9 6 
 
 THE MIDGE, 
 
 "What s the matter?" he asked. 
 
 " Maman," she replied, simply. 
 
 She cried a little more on his shoulder, and 
 consented to be comforted. " I was alone," she 
 said, " and I wanted to be in the night." 
 
 He lavished caresses upon her with a warmth 
 that she did not quite understand, and that was 
 something of a revelation to the Doctor himself. 
 He told her eagerly how the Benevolent Society 
 had consented to let her stay with him until her 
 uncle should want her. She listened, but with 
 no great interest. She had never contemplated 
 any other order of things. He told her more 
 about Elise, who was coming that afternoon. 
 He had stopped at Mme. Pigault s to get the 
 bundle now in his room ; but he said nothing 
 about that. 
 
 Soon they were chatting cheerfully over their 
 housekeeping schemes. He made a diversion to 
 tell her how frightened he had been when he 
 could not find her ; and he remembered how he 
 had struggled with her polysyllabic first name. 
 
 " By the way," he said, " what am I going to 
 call you ? " 
 
 " My name ? Lodoiska Agnes Hunt Hunt 
 Talbot. It is long ; but it is nice, don t you 
 think ? " 
 
 " Yes, I know ; " and he laughed : " it s a nice 
 name ; but it won t do for family use. Lodoiska 
 is too long, and I don t know what to call it for
 
 THE MIDGE. 97 
 
 short, and you don t seem to me to be Agnes/ 
 somehow; and I can t call you either of the 
 Hunts." 
 
 " Lodoiska is a nice name," she observed, 
 gravely. 
 
 " Yes, but it s altogether too much of a name 
 for a little midget like you." 
 
 " What is a midget? " she inquired. 
 
 "Why " he hesitated: "a midget a midget 
 is a little thing like you." 
 
 She was standing before him as he leaned 
 against the table, holding her hands. She cer 
 tainly was very small. 
 
 " Why," he went on ; " you re not even a mid 
 get you re a midge." 
 
 " Midge, " she said, giving the word a curi 
 ously pretty little French turn, " Midge is a nice 
 name." 
 
 " It s not usually given to girls, though. What 
 what did what are you usually called ? " 
 
 " Cherie" she said, " or petite, or you know 
 just some name like that. They said that same 
 thing what you said about Lodoiska it is too 
 long. I think you call me Midge I like that 
 name. It is not everybody has it." 
 
 " I should think not," he assented, smiling. 
 " Midge Midge well, it isn t so bad. We ll 
 try it." 
 
 " And now," she began, looking calmly up at 
 him, " what I call you, eh ? " 
 7
 
 9 3 
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 " My name is Evert Peters." 
 
 " Doctor Evert Peters ? " 
 
 " Well, they call me so." 
 
 She reflected. 
 
 " Doctor/ " she repeated : " I like not that. It 
 is too much physic. Peters no. I call you 
 Ev-ert" 
 
 He smiled at the dainty un-English accentu 
 ation. 
 
 " Ev-ert," she said again : " Yes, that is good. 
 I call you Ev-ert." 
 
 The innocent audacity of the idea caught his 
 fancy. How many years it was since any one 
 had called him " Evert " ! and it had a pretty sound 
 as she spoke it. Yes, she should call him 
 "Evert" for three weeks. 
 
 " Evert it is ! " he said, gayly, and caught 
 her up and kissed her. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Elise came later in the afternoon, a tidy, 
 grizzled little woman, with a face like a small 
 and well-disposed gargoyle. The housekeeper 
 was pleased with her, and they got on pleasantly 
 together, setting amiably to work to prepare 
 dinner. 
 
 The result of the collaboration was satisfactory. 
 At six o clock the Doctor and the Midge sat 
 down to a modest, but well-cooked meal, the 
 serving whereof, having been left to the Midge, 
 was graced with numerous refinements, unsub-
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 99 
 
 stantial in themselves, but appetizing in conjunc 
 tion with the labors of Elise. She herself called 
 his attention to them, with frank pleasure in her 
 skill, and gave him hints of the way in which 
 these accomplishments had been acquired. 
 
 There was a napkin folded so as to resemble 
 a snail-shell, with the snail s horned head peep 
 ing out. 
 
 " That" she asserted, " is a what is then the 
 word in English? a chef-d oeuvre. The other 
 things all the world can do ; but that is the Art, 
 you understand that is an invention. It was 
 Alcide who has inventioned that. Alcide was 
 our waiter at the hotel at Nice. Not at Mme. 
 Cavelli that was the little pension boarding- 
 house where we went first but up at the hotel. 
 We have gone there after Papa had his great luck 
 at Monaco." 
 
 "Eh?" broke in the Doctor, with his fork 
 poised in the air. 
 
 " He made much money at Monaco at the 
 Bank. Three thousand francs. It was not for 
 long. He had bad luck next week." 
 
 " Gambling ? " 
 
 It was her turn to say " Eh ? " 
 . " What do you mean by luck ? " 
 
 " Oh ! He made money at the play at the 
 table. They play cards there thousands oh, 
 thousands of people, all at the same time. Some 
 times they make much money. Most times they
 
 100 THE MIDGE. 
 
 lose. The bank makes all the money most times. 
 It is amusing." 
 
 The Doctor distinctly heard the call of duty. 
 
 " In this country we think it s wrong to do that 
 to play cards for money." 
 
 " You think that ? That is amusing, too," she 
 said, with pleasant indifference. 
 
 The Doctor was silent. He felt himself help 
 less. He did not try to illuminate with the rush 
 light of an impromptu disquisition on the sin of 
 gambling the vast moral darkness that this 
 answer revealed. But he tried to sound the pro 
 fundity of her ignorance ; and he led the conver 
 sation by slow degrees to the subject of religion, 
 and made some desultory inquiries into the faith 
 of her parents. The topic did not interest the 
 Midge, and she gave him but scanty information 
 before she skipped away to some more congenial 
 theme. Maman was a Catholic, she said ; but she 
 did not go to confession. Maman said that was 
 superstitious, and Papa said so too. Papa was a 
 Church of England man. That was the only 
 church for a gentleman, he said. He did not go 
 to church, of course; there were no churches of 
 that kind anywhere they had been. Yes, that was 
 strange ; but Papa said there were none. Papa 
 knew a great many priests. He liked them when 
 they played piquet. She liked them too, herself 
 Pere Mathieu was very nice. He always gave 
 her bonbons. Sometimes he brought the bon-
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 101 
 
 bons in the same pocket with his tobacco, and 
 that was not nice. But it was good of him, all 
 the same. Pere Mathieu drank too much wine. 
 And then she asked the Doctor if he did not 
 think it was bad to drink too much wine. 
 
 At nine o clock he told her that he was going 
 around to the Brasserie Pigault for an hour. 
 The announcement was made with some awk 
 wardness ; but it was received with a cheerful 
 submission that rather disappointed him. If he 
 had known more of womankind, it might have 
 put him on his guard. 
 
 She got him his hat and coat, and she men 
 tioned a number of small occupations with which 
 she proposed to while away the period of his 
 desertion. She accepted her prospective loneli 
 ness meekly and uncomplainingly, making no 
 manner of remonstrance. But when he left her, 
 she stood at the head of the stairs and watched 
 him go. He reached the lower hall and lingered 
 a moment to hear her turn back in his room and 
 shut the door. But he caught no sound from 
 above, and he went out with the uncomfortable 
 feeling that the lonely little figure was still stand 
 ing there, at the top of the stairs, looking down 
 the way he had gone. 
 
 The comforts of the Brasserie Pigault did not 
 appeal to him that evening. He had gone there 
 as a matter of principle, feeling that there was 
 something weak in breaking up his regular
 
 1 O2 THE MIDGE. 
 
 habits, even to please himself. Yet he could not 
 enjoy his beer while he had the unpleasant feeling 
 that took possession of him as he thought of the 
 lonely Midge at the top of the dark stairs. He re 
 fused to play a game of dominos with Mr. Martin, 
 and then he felt still more uncomfortable, as he 
 saw the poor old gentleman sit watching the door, 
 in hopes that M. Ovide Marie, or some other 
 friendly soul, would come in to play with him. 
 
 Dr. Peters read two columns of editorials in 
 one of the morning papers. When he had fin 
 ished the two columns, he found that he had 
 paid no attention whatever to the meaning of the 
 words. He was thoroughly dissatisfied with 
 himself. He decided to go home and go to bed. 
 It was early, of course ; but then he could stroll 
 slowly back, and perhaps walk a few blocks up 
 Fifth Avenue. It was a fine night, and not cold. 
 The brasserie was close and warm. A saunter 
 in the open air would be just the thing for him. 
 But when he was once in the street, he walked 
 home as straight and as fast as he could. 
 
 The Midge welcomed him with a kiss, making 
 him bend down so that she might put her arms 
 about his neck. His attitude was symbolic, and 
 he recognized the fact. He knew why he had 
 come home ; he knew that she knew it, and he 
 felt that he was being rewarded for good be 
 havior. It was his turn for submission. He 
 accepted his subjugation in penitent gladness.
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 103 
 
 She invited him to sit down in the easy-chair, 
 and she climbed on his knee and tucked her 
 head under his ear ; and they sat there chatting 
 for an hour. She treated him to various small 
 caresses from time to time. It was very pleas 
 ant; but he remembered the case of the butcher s 
 boy, and he began to have a dim idea of what 
 she meant by " being nice " to people. It dis 
 turbed him a little. He had not known that 
 they began so young. 
 
 Lacking any positive knowledge on the sub 
 ject, the Doctor concluded that half-past ten was 
 a good hour for a child of twelve to go to bed ; 
 so at half-past ten she prepared her temporary 
 couch, by his orders. Then he sent her into 
 the hall-way to turn out the gas, and he made a 
 hurried trip to his own room and back. After 
 he had bidden her good-night, and had closed 
 the door behind him, she found on her bed a 
 package. Mme. Pigault had acted as the Doc 
 tor s agent in purchasing the contents. They 
 supplied certain crying needs in the Midge s 
 wardrobe. Presumably they answered their 
 purpose. But never, not on the morrow, or at 
 any time thereafter, did she make the slightest 
 mention of them. 
 
 It was not three days before the Doctor woke 
 to an uneasy consciousness that he had made 
 a grave misstep. He had to acknowledge to
 
 104 
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 himself that an attachment of the affections was 
 beginning to bind him to this waif who must 
 in a couple of weeks be sent across the ocean 
 to her natural guardians and protectors. And 
 when he admitted to his reason that the attach 
 ment was growing, within his heart he knew 
 that it had grown the mischief was done. And 
 the worst of it was she was the worst of it. 
 There was nothing of the coxcomb about Dr. 
 Peters. He was rather modestly distrustful of 
 all proffered affection, from man, woman or child. 
 He knew, moreover, how often a child s fondness 
 is a mere cat-like adaptation to agreeable condi 
 tions. But he perceived in this child an ardent 
 temperament and a precocious decision of char 
 acter that gave her likes and dislikes the weight 
 and value of maturity. And that she was seri 
 ously fond of him, already, there was no doubt. 
 She was a waif, and she was tying herself up to 
 him as the one thing stable and trustworthy 
 in a stormy world. 
 
 Seeing all this, dreading the parting close at 
 hand, he proceeded to make the situation worse 
 day by day. When a strong will is once handed 
 over to the control of the ill-regulated affections, 
 those beggars-on-horseback are wont to ride 
 their prey pretty hard. With a complete aban 
 donment of discretion and common-sense, Dr. 
 Peters devoted all his time to the society of a 
 weird, strange, heathenish infant, of foreign ex-
 
 THE MIDGE, IQ$ 
 
 traction, who did not belong to him, and who 
 had dangerously clinging ways about her. 
 
 After his overthrow on the second evening 
 after her arrival, he made up his mind to give up 
 the Brasserie Pigault during the Midge s stay. 
 Pretty soon he found that he was giving up 
 everything else in the way of individual initia 
 tive. If he went to walk, he took her with him. 
 If he worked at his gun, it was only when she 
 condescended to perch on his work-bench and 
 chatter to him. Work was neglected when it 
 struck her vagrant fancy that they both would 
 be better employed looking in the shop-windows 
 on Broadway, or inspecting the steamers at the 
 West Street piers. 
 
 It was very foolish ; it was worse than foolish, 
 he guiltily admitted to himself when he thought 
 it over at night, after the little one had gone to 
 bed. It was a self-indulgence likely to bring 
 cruel consequences. 
 
 Look at it whatever way he might, he could 
 only^ reproach himself. His conscience told him 
 of the wrong he was doing the child, and his 
 reason had no adequate excuse to offer. True, 
 he had been lonely. He had not known the 
 measure of his own loneliness until her advent 
 opened his eyes. She filled his days so full of 
 bright companionship that he began to realize 
 how empty they had been before she came ; how 
 much emptier they would be after she had gone.
 
 I0 6 THE MIDGE. 
 
 And yet did he want to keep her with him ? 
 No, he had to answer himself. How could he 
 take the charge of this untutored mind, assume 
 the vast responsibility of her education, moral 
 and mental, take upon himself the burden of 
 shaping her life ? Of course, there was no need 
 of thinking of it it was not a possibility to be 
 considered but if even in the speculation of 
 fancy he was forced to acknowledge that he did 
 not care to have the child for his own, what 
 right had he to treat her as though she were 
 indeed his ? 
 
 But ten days slipped away, and two weeks, 
 before he finally cast up accounts with himself. 
 He had made two or three attempts to hold her 
 off at arm s length, by way of preparing her for 
 the approaching separation. They had been 
 pitiful failures. She had only nestled the closer, 
 each time. And now, he reflected, it was too 
 late. The order of separation must come in a 
 week. Conscience should be silent for that 
 week, while he and the Midge enjoyed their 
 comradeship. And conscience acquiesced with 
 base and treacherous readiness, until three days or 
 so before the letter from Europe was due, rising 
 up then to torment him with refreshed vigor. 
 
 The letter should have arrived on a Saturday. 
 It did not come then, nor on Monday, nor on 
 Tuesday. He felt nervous and unstrung. He 
 took to excessive smoking. The Midge con-
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 eluded that he was sick, and consoled him with 
 caresses which he received in shame and abase 
 ment of spirit. He wished the letter would ap 
 pear, to end the matter ; but he clung to each 
 hour of suspense, and when it turned up on 
 Wednesday, he was no more ready for it than 
 he had been a fortnight before. 
 
 It was a brief letter ; but it was clear and ex 
 plicit. Sir Richard Talbot did not feel himself 
 in a position to undertake the care of Mrs. Hugh 
 Talbot s child. He had already extended to his 
 unfortunate brother all the assistance in his 
 power. The claims upon him were such that 
 he did not feel justified in going to any further 
 expense. He begged leave to inform Dr. Peters 
 that his brother s marriage had been made against 
 the wishes of his family, and that he, Sir Richard, 
 could not consent to consider himself as in 
 any way responsible for the maintenance of his 
 brother s child. If, however, the child could be 
 placed in a respectable orphan asylum, not under 
 the charge of Romanists or Dissenters this 
 was a positive condition Sir Richard would 
 pay any necessary fees. If Dr. Peters would 
 communicate with Sir Richard s lawyers, whose 
 address was enclosed, he would find them fully 
 advised. They would also be prepared to make 
 good to Dr. Peters any expenditure of money 
 or time which he might have been obliged to 
 make on account of the child.
 
 I0 8 THE MIDGE. 
 
 " By thunder ! " said the Doctor to himself, 
 " he did want to * tip me arf-a-crown/ for a fact." 
 
 Sir Richard s niece came into the room while 
 the Doctor was tearing up the letter and drop 
 ping the pieces into the fire. 
 
 " Midge," he said, " how would you like to 
 stay with me I mean for good and all for 
 ever?" 
 
 " But certainly I will stay with you forever," 
 she said, rubbing her cheek against his coat- 
 sleeve : " what is it you have thought ? " 
 
 " I thought you were going to your uncle in 
 England." 
 
 She pursed her lips and shook her head in 
 airy, contemptuous negation. 
 
 " No," she said, " I never have meant to go 
 there. I have meant to stay with you."
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 IT was done. The move was made, and, like a 
 wise commander, the Doctor burned his ships 
 without procrastination. That day he called 
 upon Peloubet, and the next day Sir Richard s 
 lawyers were notified that the child was in charge 
 of the French Benevolent Society, and that she 
 would be properly cared for without cost to Sir 
 Richard. And the lawyers informed their client 
 of this fact, and frankly advised him to take no 
 further steps in the matter. He took none. 
 
 The Doctor went before the Board of Control 
 of the Society, established his respectability and 
 responsibility, and was formally made the guard 
 ian of Lodoiska Agnes Hunt Hunt Talbot. 
 And then, to finish his work, he took the Midge 
 to Mme. Pigault, a dressmaker was called in, 
 and the three of them " confectioned " a ward 
 robe. The Midge had a voice in all that was 
 said, and the wardrobe did not lack the stamp of 
 her individuality. She wanted to have some 
 mourning dresses ; but the Doctor emphatically 
 objected, and so she gave up the idea and went 
 in for artistic arrangements of red ribbon. 
 
 109
 
 ! I0 THE MIDGE. 
 
 So it was finished ; the last scruple of con 
 science was satisfied ; there was no act left undone 
 in formal confirmation and establishment of his 
 impulsive adoption of the child. What he had 
 undertaken hastily he had carried out with honest 
 deliberation. And now he could afford to ask 
 himself about the wisdom of it. 
 
 There is, I believe, a disease known as 
 "engaged-fright." It is said to attack young 
 men and women who are betrothed, when they 
 realize that in the game of matrimony they have 
 put their stakes upon the table, and the wheel is 
 spinning. In some instances, it forces them to 
 snatch their money back, and withdraw from the 
 game. But in the majority of cases, they strug 
 gle against the sensation, feeling that they have 
 gone too far to get out honorably or comfortably, 
 and they leave it to time and married life to 
 " pinch into its pilulous smallness the cobweb of 
 pre-matrimonial acquaintance." Thus do many 
 blunder into happiness. 
 
 The Doctor s feelings were not unlike those of 
 a very unsettled young man in wholly different 
 circumstances. If his doubts could have affected 
 his action, he would have been positively unhappy. 
 But he reflected, with a shameful satisfaction in 
 the moral weakness of his defense, that, for better 
 or worse, the matter was settled ; he had only to 
 do his best, and trust that all would be well. 
 
 But doubts rose up to harass him in such
 
 THE MIDGE. XII 
 
 numbers that in the midst of his trouble he had 
 a humorous suspicion of the morbid and fantastic 
 nature of their origin. 
 
 No possible suggestion of future misfortune 
 was spared him. What did he know, after all, 
 of this child ? What inherited traits might she 
 not have that would cause him trouble hereafter ? 
 What ugliness of character might she not de 
 velop, to put herself outside of his affection and 
 regard ? And even if she were all that she should 
 be, what guarantee could he give himself that his 
 own fondness for her would not some day wear 
 out in the selfishness of age ? Was he not unwise 
 to open the gate of that quiet garden-plot of his 
 life, to let in a stranger from the street, who would 
 share with him his secluded walks ? Had he 
 not been in sole possession too long to bear such 
 intrusion with lasting good grace ? 
 
 He asked himself such questions as these. 
 He even went further, and questioned the sincer 
 ity and genuineness of the child s affection for 
 him. From this he came back to sanity, when 
 he perceived the depths of cynical speculation in 
 which the idea involved him. 
 
 But when the unprofitable self-torment was put 
 aside, enough remained to worry him. The 
 Midge had shown no evil tendencies whatever ; 
 but she dwelt serenely in an atmosphere of pagan 
 un-morality, doing right only by natural impulse 
 and an innate sense of ethical good taste. He
 
 112 
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 did not feel sure that he was competent to under 
 take her education ; and if he were, he did not 
 know where to begin. 
 
 The time to come dismayed him. In ten or a 
 dozen years she would become of marriageable 
 age. Where was he to find her a husband ? The 
 Doctor was not socially ambitious, nor given to 
 overmuch observation of class distinctions ; but 
 he could see that his little circle of casual ac 
 quaintances was not likely to furnish forth an 
 eligible husband for a young woman of rather 
 delicate clay. And if she did not marry, what 
 then ? When he himself came to die, at sixty or 
 seventy the Doctor thought that he would be 
 ready to die at sixty or seventy was he to leave 
 her in mature but unprotected maidenhood ? 
 
 When a man is in a morbid state such as this, 
 and is trying to keep his internal irritation to 
 himself, a chance abrasion from the outside pene 
 trates his self-consciousness with peculiar cruelty. 
 He feels that the world knows, or is likely to 
 know, what a pitiable thing he is ; and every 
 trifling annoyance to his pride seems like a 
 wound at the hand of malicious contempt. 
 Madame Pigault unwittingly stabbed the Doctor 
 under the fifth rib, and he himself gave the blade 
 a twist. 
 
 He had dropped in to pay the dressmaker s 
 bill, and lingering a moment to chat, for he felt 
 somewhat of a deserter under the Pigault roof,
 
 THE MIDGE. U 3 
 
 his awkwardness in his new position betrayed 
 him into a clumsy jest. 
 
 " I feel rather strange, Madame Pigault," he 
 said, " entertaining a young lady in my bachelor s 
 hall. But I guess I m old enough. You don t 
 think people will talk, do you ? " 
 
 " What shall they talk ? " demanded Mme. 
 Pigault, with sympathetic warmth. " They can 
 only say that you are very good. We other 
 women, we will not speak bad of you. It is not 
 every man, voyez-voiis, Monsieur le Docteur, who 
 is generous like you. We know that we know 
 what they are, the men. May the good God 
 have pity of us ! But we know what they are. 
 They will only say you have behaved noble." 
 
 The Doctor murmured a confused acknowl 
 edgment, and digested the compliment when he 
 got out in the street. His cheeks burnt when he 
 understood it. 
 
 " I m damned," he said to himself, " if they 
 ain t beasts ! " 
 
 They were aliens and strangers. He had lived 
 among them for fifteen years ; but they were aliens 
 and strangers, after all. He could never be quite 
 at home with them ; they could never be to him 
 exactly as his own people. There was always a 
 difference a something at bottom that was irre 
 concilable with perfect understanding or friend 
 ship. Here was this woman, a religious woman, 
 a good wife, a good mother, calmly and as a 
 8
 
 j ^ THE MIDGE. 
 
 matter of course putting this hideous interpre 
 tation on his simple action. Had they, then, no 
 decent, natural clean-mindedness ? He remem 
 bered how in his boyhood he had walked to 
 morning church by his mother s side, and how 
 they had passed the French Canadians who formed 
 a little colony near by, strolling home from mass. 
 His mother had looked the other way as they 
 went by ; but he had stared at them in contempt 
 mingled with a certain awe at the audacity of 
 creatures who could dare to live and breathe, and 
 yet refuse to conform to the correct standard 
 of Protestant America. Was there not, indeed, 
 some justification for his childish narrowness of 
 mind ? Was not the stamp of a hopeless infer 
 iority upon the race ? 
 
 He was vexed and hurt ; but after a while his 
 sense of justice asserted itself. He had con 
 victed Mme. Pigault of wronging him with an 
 unclean suspicion ; but he had to give her credit 
 for the charity that pardoned the imputed sin, 
 and cordially approved the supposed penitential 
 reparation. He could hot help thinking that he 
 was lucky to live in a community where such a 
 misunderstanding could not possibly put an in 
 nocent child under a cruel social ban. 
 
 He had another remembrance of Oneida County. 
 He remembered when Injun Jane came down 
 from the Reservation to sell baskets. She brought 
 her boy with her, and none of the boys of the
 
 THE MIDGE. ! r 5 
 
 town would play with him. Everybody knew 
 that he was the son of Pete Doolittle, who owned 
 the farm back of the Peters s, and who had also 
 a family of young Doolittles, born with the 
 sanction of society and religion. But nobody 
 would play with Injun Jane s Joe, and so while 
 she sold her baskets at the kitchen door, he 
 stood alone in the road, a bright, slim boy, not 
 much browner than the other country-bred 
 youngsters, noticeably different only in his black, 
 coarse, straight hair, like a colt s mane. He was 
 proud and silent, and he made no attempt to 
 speak to any of them ; but twanged his won 
 derful snakewood bow and sent arrow after arrow 
 through a knot-hole. It was his one form of 
 silent self-assertion, and the other boys in their 
 hearts envied his skill, as they hung over the 
 fences and jeered at him as loudly as they dared 
 to. Evert Peters had been one of those mean 
 boys in his time, and he thought of it with shame. 
 Yet he knew that it had not been from inborn 
 meanness in him, or in Visscher Jansen, or in 
 Phil Doolittle. They had merely reflected the 
 sentiment of the elder community. It seemed 
 that there were expansions of Christian charity 
 in the French quarter of New York that were 
 unknown in Oneida County. 
 
 There were plenty of annoyances for the 
 Doctor, in his new capacity of guardian ; but he 
 did not doubt and suffer wholly as one without
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 hope. He might arraign himself for his unwise 
 soft-heartedness ; but he continued to be soft 
 hearted, and he enjoyed the consequences. He 
 felt that he was having a good time, a better 
 time, in every way, than he could ever remember 
 before. Viewed as a responsibility, the Midge 
 undeniably caused him uneasiness ; but consid 
 ered as a companion, she was unmixed and 
 unlimited fun. Even when the companion gave 
 way to the fatherless, motherless child, and she 
 sobbed on his shoulder, her personal grief never 
 put her apart from him. He had always the 
 knowledge that his love and tenderness were a 
 consolation to her, and her every outburst of 
 grief for those she had lost made her somehow 
 more his own. 
 
 She had, moreover, in her vehement, earnest 
 nature, a faculty of feeling one thing at a time 
 which helped her greatly through the first hard 
 weeks. When she put aside her sorrow, she 
 devoted herself to what she had in hand wholly 
 and thoroughly. When she thought of pleasing 
 or serving her protector, she gave him her eager 
 affection to the utter exclusion of every other 
 interest. He got into the habit of slipping in to 
 look at her an hour or two after she had gone to 
 bed, and he often found her awake and crying 
 softly to herself. But when he sat down by her 
 side and began to soothe her, she resolutely dried 
 her tears, and turned her whole attention to him,
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 117 
 
 and he became, for the time, the one important 
 being in her small world. So her housekeeping, 
 which was something between work and play, 
 was all-engrossing while she was about it. Her 
 sense of loss was loyally strong and lasting ; but 
 its manifestations were intense and exclusive, and 
 when it had found its relief, she took up her new 
 life in the same spirit of loyalty. 
 
 She certainly put her whole soul into the 
 furnishing of her bed-room. It was the large 
 back room. The Doctor had given it up to her, 
 and had taken his models and tools to the front 
 hall-room up stairs. This was only a temporary 
 arrangement, so far as his work was concerned ; 
 but he had come to the conclusion that it would 
 be well to let the work go, for a little while. He 
 would come back to it with a fresh zest, and he 
 might thus accomplish more. And he was not 
 quite certain in his own mind whether it was 
 worth while to go on with the cannon or not. 
 His original idea seemed to have grown anti 
 quated. And at one time he had had some 
 notion of trying to simplify the mechanism of 
 the sewing-machine. Perhaps it might be wise 
 to look into the sewing-machine question once 
 more. At any rate, he could do nothing until 
 the Midge was really settled, and their various 
 plans of home-making were carried out. 
 
 The room was certainly very pretty when the 
 Midge at last took possession. He was surprised
 
 H8 THE MIDGE. 
 
 to see how his own conception of what a room 
 should be had been disregarded with pleasing 
 effect. There was a Frenchy chintz-pattern paper 
 on the walls, with a darker dado this was the 
 Doctor s first experience of a dado and there 
 were curtains and portieres of cretonne. Cre 
 tonne and portieres were also new words to him. 
 He could not quite remember how these things 
 had been done. The tradesmen had suggested 
 them, to the best of his remembrance; the Midge 
 had approved, with a prompt exhibition of easy 
 familiarity with such matters ; he had disap 
 proved, and, somehow, there the things were, 
 and he was satisfied. He had wanted black 
 walnut furniture, and had sternly objected to 
 mahogany with brass trimmings as being old- 
 fashioned; but he had yielded to the supercilious 
 scorn of the dealers and the strong backing the 
 Midge gave them, and there was the mahogany 
 and brass, just like that which he had seen in his 
 boyhood, except that it was more shiny. There 
 was only one thing in the room that he had 
 bought uncontrolled and unaided, and that was 
 the brass bedstead, with its light chintz-draped 
 tester. And he never would have bought that if 
 the Midge had not casually and artlessly de 
 scribed such a bed, which she had seen in a stolen 
 peep into the apartments of some royal personage 
 in a French watering-place hotel. 
 
 The general effect was creditable to the Midge.
 
 THE MIDGE. ng 
 
 He had had to chasten her somewhat extravagant 
 taste in certain particulars. She had expressed a 
 yearning, repressed at his especial desire, for 
 white and gold ; and he felt that he had not been 
 too firm. He had been obliged to deny her a 
 bisque clock, representing a pannier of roses ; 
 and he had stood out against a waxed floor. But, 
 looking on the work as a whole, it dawned upon 
 him that the Midge had some lights in matters 
 of taste which had never been revealed to his 
 artistic consciousness. 
 
 Yet there were some of her fancies that were 
 quite incomprehensible to him. While they were 
 in the way of furnishing, they made some radical 
 changes in the sitting-room, to its great improve 
 ment; and for the uneasy easy-chair of faded 
 green reps, they substituted a leather-covered 
 structure that was as comfortable as it was big. 
 But the Midge insisted on taking the discarded 
 piece of furniture into her pretty, new room, and, 
 despite his protests, she had a slip-cover of chintz 
 made for it, and put the ungainly thing in a sunny 
 corner by the window and sat in it to sew and to 
 study. 
 
 For she had begun a course of study. She 
 had at first expressed a doubt as to there being 
 anything left for her to learn ; but after a test 
 examination, the Doctor had become convinced 
 that not only must her education be taken in 
 hand at once, but he must take it in hand him-
 
 I20 THE MIDGE. 
 
 self. No school was fitted to cope with such a 
 bewildering combination of knowledge and ignor 
 ance. In simple arithmetic she had great pro 
 ficiency. She could calculate with marvelous 
 rapidity in French, German, English and Ameri 
 can currency. She had, so to speak, an empirical 
 knowledge of European geography. She could 
 read fluently in French and English. But she 
 had never regarded it as necessary or expedient 
 to learn to spell in either language. He asked 
 her to give him a specimen of her hand-writing. 
 She evaded compliance at the moment, but the 
 next morning, when he left the house, he found 
 this note hid in his hat: 
 
 i louve you hot i louve not the riting 
 
 i can djiographie a ritmatique Tranche ingliche and 
 
 too couque hot not the riting seau wel 
 
 i dounot thingue it is goude for a wouman too nau too muche 
 howe too rite 
 
 i am your afectuous frend 
 
 midj 
 
 When he had got this insight into her system 
 of phonetics, he went out and bought a lot of 
 school-books, and he began his task of instruction 
 with many forebodings. But she soon relieved his 
 fears. She saw that he desired it, and she studied 
 hard. She learned only too rapidly ; but she re 
 tained a fair proportion of what she learned. Of 
 course, he had to make some allowance for her
 
 THE MIDGE. I2 i 
 
 habits of independent thought. To the end she 
 retained a profound contempt for the unpractical 
 character of the man who wrote the spelling-book. 
 
 "Acme, apostroph\ asth-ma" she said, running 
 her finger down the column, " what shall he want 
 of such words like those ? I never shall say 
 them. Apple, acorn, ashes there is the sense. 
 If you go take a walk in the country, you see 
 acorns, you see apples. But you never shall say: 
 See the beautiful apostroph look at the fine 
 asth-ma. It is a stupidness, to write such words 
 that nobody will say." 
 
 The spelling-book was a humiliation for the 
 Midge, and in self-defense she sought to vindicate 
 her claim to intellectual maturity by demanding 
 some French books to read. The Doctor went 
 to the little " Librairie " with the blue sign, in 
 South Fifth avenue, and bought a couple of 
 volumes of the Bibliotheque Rose the " Me- 
 moires d un Ane " and " 1 Auberge de 1 Ange 
 Gardien." She contemptuously rejected both as 
 childish and wholly beneath her. She wanted 
 novels. So late one afternoon he made a solitary 
 excursion to Brentano s. 
 
 The winter was nearly over. It was a soft, 
 moist, slushy day toward the end of February. 
 The city was soaked in soiled snow, rapidly melt 
 ing into soiled water. The shop doors were open, 
 and through them came the rumble of stage- 
 ridden Broadway, pierced by the high, shrill,
 
 I2 2 THE MIDGE. 
 
 humming ring of the car-wheels on the rails. 
 A thin stream of handsomely dressed women 
 trickled in, swerved from counter to counter, and 
 trickled out. Here and there, browsing on the 
 fields of outspread books and pamphlets, were 
 odd-looking men; men who would have been 
 noticed in a crowd, each for some eccentricity 
 or individuality of dress or personal appearance ; 
 men whom one would have called "professional," 
 without exactly knowing why. In the " music 
 department," a piano was pealing forth the latest 
 waltz, and a dozen pretty bonneted heads nodded 
 in time with its measure. The well-dressed 
 clerks moved leisurely about, chatting in a friendly 
 way with old customers. It did not look like a 
 shop. The whole thing suggested an afternoon 
 reception ; and the clerks carried out the idea. 
 They looked like a reception committee. The 
 Doctor felt somewhat as though he were in 
 truding upon a semi-private social affair. He 
 hardly knew which way to turn, or how to go 
 about his business of book-buying. 
 
 There was a pretty young woman at the desk. 
 She had a sweet and kindly face, and the Doctor 
 addressed himself to her. She pointed with her 
 pen to the far-off counter where the French books 
 were sold, and when he reached it, a courteous 
 young Frenchman laid before him a half dozen 
 of the latest importations. The covers were 
 enough for the Doctor.
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 123 
 
 "Here!" he expostulated, "this won t do. I 
 want something for a young lady pourunejeune 
 fille see ? This isn t the sort of thing at all." 
 
 But the courteous young Frenchman had been 
 carried off by a group of rather too well-dressed 
 men, with handsome, over-fed faces, who seemed 
 to be in search of just that " sort of thing," in a 
 more exalted degree. 
 
 " Try this ! " said a voice over his head. The 
 Doctor looked up bewildered, and saw on the top 
 of a small step-ladder, set against the book 
 shelves on the wall, a broad-shouldered young 
 man in a rough tweed suit, with a cloth traveling 
 cap on the side of his head. He had a handsome, 
 happy, boyish face, with curling fair hair and blue 
 eyes, strikingly dark for his complexion. On 
 his upper lip was what might some day be a 
 moustache, and under it he showed, as he smiled, 
 white, even teeth. He looked down at the Doc 
 tor and the blue eyes laughed with amiable mis 
 chief. For a moment he stood holding out a 
 book, and then he poised himself on one toe and 
 skipped down from his perch much as a cat comes 
 down a wall, landing almost as lightly. 
 
 " This is the sort of thing you want, I guess, 
 he said: "there isn t a blush in it perfectly 
 safe." He handed the Doctor a copy of Sar- 
 dou s " Perle Noire," and he smiled again as his 
 eye ran over the volumes that had been proffered 
 by the courteous Frenchman.
 
 124 
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 " Pretty hard lot he gave you, didn t he ? But 
 then French novels mostly are a pretty hard lot, 
 Captain." 
 
 " Why do you call me Captain ? " the Doctor 
 asked, sternly. He felt a certain irritation. He 
 would not have cared to own to himself that 
 any part of it was attributable to the stranger s 
 display of athletic, exuberant youth. Yet one 
 has to be a little older than the Doctor was to 
 look quite kindly upon a boy in his first years 
 of spring and snap. 
 
 " Well you are a captain, aren t you ? " laughed 
 the young man : " or you have been, anyway." 
 
 " Not since you were in baby-clothes," returned 
 the Doctor, grimly. The youth flushed under 
 the rebuke, and frankly apologized. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, sir," he said ; " I had no 
 right to be so fresh with a man of your to talk 
 like that, I mean. But I was sure you \vere a 
 military man, or had been I knew it by the way 
 you carried yourself. I m in the navy that is, 
 I m just out of the school-ship" he flushed 
 again " and I want to get transferred to the 
 army, if I can so you see I ve got my head a 
 little turned on the military question." 
 
 He smiled, and the Doctor smiled in return. 
 
 " That s all right," he said, " only I m not 
 accustomed to using a title. I was only a volun 
 teer captain, anyway, and colonels and majors are 
 so cheap, now a days, that a captain is nowhere."
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 12$ 
 
 "They were somewhere, though, when you 
 were a captain," suggested the boy, with an 
 admiring look in his eyes : " I wish I d had a 
 chance at the business then only I was in baby- 
 clothes ; " and again he colored and laughed. 
 
 "No, you don t," demurred the Doctor; "you 
 wouldn t have liked it. It was too mussy. 
 Did you tell me this book was all correct and 
 proper ? " 
 
 " Straight as a string, sir. How old I beg 
 your pardon but how old, about, is the young 
 lady ? I might find you something else." 
 
 " Let me see," mused the Doctor, aloud, " let 
 me see. She was born twelve or thirteen years 
 ago. That ll make her say about eighteen or 
 twenty, now, as far as I can calculate." 
 
 The young man stared in frank amazement. 
 
 "You see," the Doctor went on, "she s a 
 rather peculiar young woman. You can t tie 
 her down to years, the way you would any one 
 else. If you want to put it in plain, solid figures, 
 she s only twelve or so. But sometimes I think 
 she s a little older than I am myself. I m not 
 sure that I can get literature aged enough for 
 her. At any rate, she wants regular grown-up 
 French novels, and she s got to have them if 
 they can be got full-blown and respectable." 
 
 He checked himself with a frown. What was 
 he doing, running on thus like a garrulous proud 
 parent, in the presence of a perfect stranger ! It
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 was small consolation to reflect that he had been 
 talking to himself, rather than to the stranger. 
 
 But the young man set things right with his 
 cheery, friendly laugh, and in five minutes the 
 two were ransacking the shop for virtuous French 
 fiction. 
 
 When their search was ended, the afternoon 
 reception was well-nigh over. In the streets the 
 gas-lamps blazed brightly through the heavy 
 dusk, flickering in a chill, raw wind that had sud 
 denly come up from the East river. The Doctor 
 buttoned his coat, but the young man seemed 
 quite comfortable in his tweed suit, as they 
 strode down University Place together. 
 
 He gave the Doctor his card " Paul Hatha 
 way, U. S. N." and the Doctor, who had no card, 
 imparted his name. 
 
 It was Mr. Paul Hathaway s first card-plate, 
 beyond a doubt. His giving the card was un 
 necessary, for one thing, and, for another, he 
 took it out of a very new and very tightly packed 
 card-case. And in his giving of it there was a 
 certain touch of conscious importance that be 
 trayed the novelty of the act. The Doctor felt 
 sure that he had the first card out of the hundred 
 that Brentano had delivered that afternoon. 
 
 Mr. Paul Hathaway did all the talking. He 
 spoke of himself, of the school-ship, of his short 
 " leave," to come to an end the next week, of 
 how he had employed it in making sketching-
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 127 
 
 tours around New York he was a bad amateur 
 artist, he explained. 
 
 They parted at Eighth Street, Paul Hathaway 
 going off to his East-side lodging ; and the Doc 
 tor, as he looked at the light sailor-like swaying 
 of the broad shoulders vanishing in the wintry 
 darkness, felt something of his first unreasonable 
 feeling of irritation coming back to him. Why 
 should the spring go out of a man s walk in 
 the slipping away of a few miserable, unnoticed 
 years ? 
 
 The books that the Doctor brought the Midge 
 that night were a mixed lot There was " la 
 Perle Noire," "la Petite Fadette," "le Roman 
 d un Jeune Homme Pauvre," " Paul et Virginie," 
 Feuillet s "Sybille," "un Philosophe sous les 
 Toits" and " Elizabeth, ou les Exiles de Siberie" 
 he had read, in his boyhood, " Elisabeth, or , 
 the Exiles of Siberia," and he was pleased to 
 think, as he did, that it had been translated into 
 French. 
 
 The Midge received these offerings with vary 
 ing favor. Her criticism on " Elisabeth " was 
 decided. She called it " rococo." 
 
 Some months later, the Doctor happened to 
 take up " Sybille," and, after glancing at a page 
 or two, he read it through. When he had read 
 it through, he put it in the fire. From that time 
 on he was the implacable foe of French fiction in 
 the household.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE winter slipped away and spring was upon 
 the land. The Doctor found trouble in 
 making himself believe that it was six months 
 since his fortress had been invaded by the con 
 quering queen whose sweetly imperious rule he 
 was glad to own. He had looked upon the 
 time as a period of preparation, of making ready 
 to settle down under the new order of things. 
 It was only the green of the grass and the blos 
 soms on the trees that brought to him a realizing 
 sense of the fact that the new order had been 
 established long before, and that as to settling 
 down, there was no such thing as absolute set 
 tling down while this growing, changing, ever- 
 developing young life formed a part of his own. 
 He could never come to an understanding with 
 her, as he had come to an understanding with 
 himself. However well he might grow to know 
 her, her own highly original individuality must 
 take its own course of evolution, and there were 
 surprises for him all along the course. 
 
 Being brought up with a round turn by the 
 change of the seasons, he took account of stock, 
 128
 
 THE MIDGE. I2 p 
 
 after a fashion. He found himself best able to 
 realize the changes in the Midge and the changes 
 in his own surroundings by considering the 
 astonishing dimness that shrouded the past. It 
 was hard for him to remember that things had 
 ever been otherwise than they were now. The 
 meagre loneliness of his life seemed something 
 of ten or twenty years back. There was nothing 
 in the Midge to-day to suggest the pathetic 
 figure of the previous December. She was 
 rather plump now, was the Midge; certainly 
 pretty ; well-dressed, with a contented, comfort 
 able air about her that might have made her 
 uninteresting if it had not been for her inborn 
 coquetry. She had just enough whimsical airi 
 ness to carry off her self-complacency, which was 
 great for one of her size. 
 
 She had changed in other ways, too. A dis 
 tinct Frenchiness of idiom was never to be 
 wholly eradicated from her conversation ; but 
 she was no longer positively incorrect in speech, 
 except under stress of excitement. When once 
 her pride had been awakened, she had put all 
 her energy into the task of self-improvement ; 
 and she modeled her language so closely on that 
 of the Doctor that he was obliged to reform his 
 own vocabulary and give heed to many neglected 
 subtleties of English grammar. 
 
 In fact, she made the Doctor her model to an 
 extent that alarmed him. Except in matters of 
 9
 
 130 
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 dress and gastronomy, she adopted him and all 
 his codes, whole and complete. She had evi 
 dently become aware of the existence of stand 
 ards, moral and social, superior to those of her 
 infant years. She had discovered that to this 
 new world into which she had come, the life her 
 parents had led was something positively ob 
 jectionable. The feminine mind makes naturally 
 for the respectable ; and the Midge accepted the 
 new standards and secretly felt ashamed of the 
 old. When she spoke of her parents now, it 
 was never to recount their vagabond adventures ; 
 she made pitiful little attempts to dress them up 
 in her memory as rather nice and important 
 people, emphasizing everything that was digni 
 fied and well-bred about them, and tenderly 
 covering up all that was mean and poor. 
 
 The Doctor was glad of this. The rehabili 
 tation of the Talbot family amused him, and 
 touched his sense of the pathetic. He was 
 glad, further, to note her quick acceptance of 
 his cherished principles of conduct. He had a 
 military character, in some things. He was 
 scrupulously truthful, punctiliously faithful in 
 the discharge of duty, exact, prompt, temperate, 
 and just, as far as in him lay. Or at least he 
 tried to be all these, and he made a fairly good 
 job of it for a common mortal. And the child 
 imitated him at a distance, and with a feminine 
 difference.
 
 THE MIDGE. ^I 
 
 But this very imitation gave him a new cause 
 for uneasiness. Dr. Peters was reasonably well 
 satisfied with his moral code. It had cost him 
 enough to construct it, in bitter struggle with 
 temptation and perplexity. He had tried it ; he 
 had lived by it; and he knew that, subject to 
 frequent revision, and followed in due humility, 
 it was a good, practicable, working code. But 
 back of the code was the making of all codes, 
 and the standard by which all codes must be 
 judged. And while in that regard he was at 
 ease, how was it with his charge ? He had his 
 religion. It was not a creed, nor a system, nor 
 a formula of any sort. It was something com 
 pounded of hope and fancy and speculation, that 
 satisfied his spiritual cravings. It was the pri 
 vate adjustment that every thinking man makes 
 with his own immortalities. But he knew that 
 it was practically incommunicable. He could 
 not write it out, as he might have written out 
 his views on conduct, and hand the schedule to 
 his pupil to be learned over night. It was the 
 growth of individual experience and individual 
 thought. It belonged to him, and to him alone. 
 
 Now, was he not in honor bound to provide a 
 religion for the Midge ? He could not expect 
 her to construct one for herself. Women, as far 
 as he knew, had their religions supplied to them 
 ready made, and were supposed to take them 
 without questioning. His mother had accepted
 
 132 
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 the Thirty-nine Articles. If she had discovered 
 on her death-bed that there was a fortieth that 
 should have been accepted with the others, in 
 the first instance, and had been left out by mis 
 take, she would have accepted it without asking 
 what it was. 
 
 He found himself facing the religions of the 
 world, and called upon to select one to fit a child 
 one that she would not grow out of; one that 
 would last her through a life that might be long 
 or short, calm or troubled, happy or miserable. 
 He was only a plain man, who had been a medi 
 cal student, a civil engineer, a volunteer soldier, 
 a would-be inventor, and an amateur doctor. 
 He felt humbly ignorant and bewildered. He 
 wished that he knew more or less. 
 
 What complicated the matter was the consid 
 eration that, even if his conscience would allow 
 it, he could not pick out a creed at random and 
 present it to his charge. He had never faced 
 the great question which men in general prefer 
 to ignore : Do women reason ? He did not face 
 it now. But he knew that the Midge had some 
 appalling logical processes among her intellec 
 tual functions. And he reflected, with a chilled 
 dismay, that her final test of anything which he 
 asked her to believe would be to ask him if he 
 believed it himself. 
 
 It was an awkward situation for the Doctor. 
 When the Midge first came to him, the necessity
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 133 
 
 of improving her physical health had been of 
 the first importance. She was nervous and fee 
 ble, and all his efforts had been to the one end 
 of making her sound and strong. Sunday had 
 been their chosen day for excursions and open- 
 air exercise. In the winter, they had made little 
 trips to Central Park, or had taken sleigh-rides, 
 when there was any snow. And now that the 
 spring had come, and was fast changing to sum 
 mer, they had taken their Sundays to invade 
 Westchester } Staten Island, and the suburbs of 
 Brooklyn and Jersey City. 
 
 When he told her that these outings, the 
 crowning joy of her week, must be abandoned, 
 and that she must go to church, she acqui 
 esced ; but her disappointment was unconceal- 
 able. 
 
 He took her to the chapel where the Reverend 
 Mr. Pratt preached. Mr. Pratt was surprised to 
 see them there. He had always supposed that 
 Dr. Peters attended divine service somewhere 
 up town. 
 
 They went three times to Mr. Pratt s chapel. 
 The second and third Sundays, Dr. Peters noticed 
 that the Midge s lips were moving silently 
 through all the time of service and sermon. As 
 soon as they were out of church she eagerly ad 
 dressed him: 
 
 " Do we need to go any more ? I know it 
 now."
 
 134 
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 "Know what?" demanded the Doctor. 
 
 "All those things they say. It is the same 
 every Sunday. I have learned them all by heart 
 I will say them to you, and you can see." 
 
 " But they aren t the same thing every time, 
 Midge. The lessons are different, and so is the 
 collect." 
 
 " Well, we can read those at home. I will 
 learn those, too, if you want." 
 
 " But the sermon s different. Mr. Pratt has a 
 new sermon every Sunday." 
 
 " Oh, Mis-ter Pratt ! " she returned, with inno 
 cent scorn ; " do you care what he says, Ev-ert ? 
 He is no priest Elise has told me so." 
 
 Further investigation convinced the Doctor 
 that the Midge would never receive the ministra 
 tions of the Reverend Mr. Pratt in a proper spirit. 
 She had disliked him at their first meeting, and 
 she had since learned the opinion held of him in 
 the quarter, where he was looked upon as an 
 elegant amateur of religion, not to be mentioned 
 in the same breath with faithful, conscientious 
 Father Dube, or even with energetic, soul-amas 
 sing Brother Strong, of the Bethel. 
 
 They went no more to the chapel, and the 
 outings began again ; but on rainy Sundays the 
 Doctor slipped out by himself about eleven 
 o clock, each day visiting a new church, and 
 listening attentively to the prayers and the preach- 
 He heard, in the course of that summer and
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 135 
 
 the ensuing fall, a great deal of very interesting 
 discourse; but he did not come across any variety 
 of religious instruction that seemed to him to fit 
 the Midge s case. 
 
 In the autumn he came to the conclusion that 
 he was beginning his search at the wrong end. 
 The Midge was, after all, a child, and she needed 
 the education of a child. He sent her to the 
 Sunday-school of the chapel. 
 
 The Sunday-school scheme was a complete 
 failure ; but it brought about a better understand 
 ing. After the second Sunday of attendance, the 
 Midge revolted, and vigorously. 
 
 " It is a nonsense, Ev-ert," she said, excitedly; 
 " vois-tu,\hey have given me this little yellow thing 
 to learn " and she held up a printed text " and I 
 can learn ten hundred of those in a day. And 
 they have told me such histories ! of an old man 
 who is mocked of the little boys, and, figure-toi, 
 there are bears come out of a forest and eat them 
 up ! Is it that I am a child, to be told such 
 stories like that ? " 
 
 " Oh, Lord ! " groaned the Doctor, " why, that 
 was Elijah or Elisha I forget which. Why, 
 he was a prophet." 
 
 " I do not know what was his business ; but he 
 had no hair. And I am not a little boy who is 
 rude to old gentlemen. Why do they tell me 
 such stories ? " 
 
 " My dear," said the Doctor, " you needn t go
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 to the Sunday-school any more. I m going to 
 take this business in hand myself. It seems to 
 be laid out for me to do work out of my line, and 
 I m going to stumble right on." 
 
 He got down from his bookshelf his mother s 
 Bible, which stood between " Gummere s Sur 
 veying " and " Peveril of the Peak," and that day 
 he began a course of readings from the Scrip 
 tures, accompanied with comment and criticism 
 of a varied and often original nature, remembered 
 tradition struggling uncertainly within dependent 
 thought. 
 
 The Midge was interested at last. She was 
 always willing to sit on the ground, with her 
 head on hi.s knee, and to listen wisely to his read 
 ing and to his remarks. 
 
 Her ingrained skepticism led her to ask for his 
 personal confirmation of the story of Eve and the 
 serpent. 
 
 "My dear," he answered, gravely, "we can t 
 tell people to believe things, or not to believe. 
 Everybody has to act for himself or herself. My 
 mother died believing every word of this, from 
 cover to cover. I m in a sort of a mixed condi 
 tion, myself. When you get older the subject 
 is a little extensive for you, just at present you 
 can form your own conclusions, and I ll try my 
 best to help you. Just now, all that you and I 
 have got to do is to get all the good we can out 
 of it. As to the serpent well, some people have
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 said that this is a sort of a fable, as it were ; and 
 they say the moral is that a young woman may 
 sometimes know too much, or think she does." 
 The Midge was silent. 
 
 # * # # 5(C 
 
 It was a soft September day, and the foliage in 
 the parks was just beginning to thin out and look 
 pale in the warm sunlight, when Dr. Peters, 
 crossing Washington Square, found Father 
 Dube sitting on a bench, with a smile on his 
 round face as he watched a small flock of brown 
 birds hopping and tumbling about a crust of 
 bread. 
 
 " Hello, Dube ! " he hailed his friend, " I didn t 
 know you ever loafed." 
 
 " But I do," said the priest, his smile growing 
 kinder, though it was not a cheerful smile, " I am 
 capable not only of loafing, but of idle thoughts. 
 I have been wishing that I were a sparrow." 
 
 " I don t wish you were a sparrow," rejoined 
 the Doctor, sitting down on the bench beside 
 him, " for I want to ask your advice, and I m not 
 asking advice of sparrows." 
 
 " I am not a sparrow," said Father Dube, his 
 smile fading out ; " I am a priest, and I will give 
 advice to any one who wants it. That is what I 
 am here for. Sometimes I think that it is all I 
 am good for." 
 
 " I hope you are good for my case," the Doc 
 tor began ; and he went on to tell the story of his
 
 138 
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 perplexity and his audacious attempt to solve the 
 problem for himself. 
 
 " I don t know just what I want you to say," 
 he concluded, " and I don t suppose there s any 
 thing you can say, but one thing. But if you ve 
 got any light on the subject, I wish you d shed 
 it for the benefit of a humble heretic. You and 
 I don t talk quite the same language ; but I guess 
 you can sort of make signs that I can understand." 
 
 Father Dube clasped one knee with his locked 
 hands, and looked hard at the sparrows. There 
 was a shade of depression on his face, and he 
 spoke slowly and in a tone of sad gentleness. 
 
 " I suppose you think you know what I will 
 say. Eh ? That is it ? Make her a Catholic. 
 Well, no, I do not say it." 
 
 He paused for a moment. 
 
 " You cannot make her a good Catholic, while 
 she is under your influence ; while she believes 
 in you. You can not make her a member of the 
 Church of England. You know it. It is impos 
 sible. You can make her go to the altar, and 
 say her prayers but you know that that is not 
 religion, if her heart is not there. For an intel 
 ligent person, that is worse than no religion at 
 all. The worst enemy of the Church is he who 
 kisses the cross and doubts in his heart." 
 
 The priest s tone was stern, almost severe ; 
 but it changed to genial tenderness as he turned 
 to the Doctor and laid a hand on his shoulder.
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 139 
 
 " It is God who makes Catholics it is not 
 Dr. Peters or Father Dube. Leave it to Him. 
 Perhaps you do not believe in Him ? I do not 
 know. I have known you many years ; but I do 
 not know your thoughts. I know your heart, 
 however ; and what you have told me that is 
 all right. Go on teach her what you know 
 make her a good woman. That is all you can 
 do. Do not try to do more. You will not do it 
 well." 
 
 He rose, and clasping his hands behind him 
 spoke with suppressed excitement. 
 
 " My friend, it is not every one who shall say 
 to himself: I shall serve. Look at me. I am 
 sixty years old, and I am a mistake." He looked 
 Dr. Peters straight in the eye. " When I was 
 young, I thought I had a vocation for the priest 
 hood. I was full of enthusiasm. I had read of 
 the martyrs, of the soldiers of the Church. I 
 said : I too, I will serve her. Well it is now 
 forty years, and I know that I had no vocation. 
 I had only ambition. I am of a nature that is 
 not fit for a priest. I love my ease, I indulge 
 myself. I am tired. I could not be tired if I 
 had been called to my work. Look you, Peters 
 me, a priest of God it is distasteful to me to 
 go among these poor and ignorant my heart is 
 not in my work." 
 
 " You manage to control your distaste pretty 
 well," said the Doctor, warmly. " Don t talk in
 
 140 
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 that way about yourself. I know what you do 
 for those people." 
 
 " I do my work ; but another would do it 
 better. They like me, yes ; because I am easy 
 with them. They know I have not the heart to 
 be stern. They can put me off with any story. 
 Anything is good enough for old Dube. It is 
 not men like me who represent the dignity and 
 authority of the Church. There is Father Quin- 
 lan " he pointed across the square " they re 
 spect him 
 
 Quinlan was the priest of a neighboring parish. 
 
 " Quinlan s a brute, begging his pardon," said 
 the Doctor. 
 
 " But they fear him, they respect him," re 
 peated the old man, stubbornly. He was silent 
 for a moment, and then he broke forth again, 
 with uncontrollable vehemence. 
 
 " I am a soldier of the Church yes. But 
 what am I for a soldier ? I am a sentinel put 
 out far in the forest. What do I see of Her 
 victories, of Her grandeur, of Her glory ? What 
 have I done for Her ? " 
 
 His kind old face was drawn with lines of pain. 
 He looked upward, as if for some answer from 
 the skies. After a moment, he came to himself 
 with a heavy sigh. 
 
 " This is all wrong, of course," he said. " You 
 wonder that I should speak so to you to you 
 who are not of the Church. Well, you can
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 141 
 
 understand me better than some who are of the 
 Church. I have done wrong, however. And 
 you came to ask me for advice. Well, I have 
 given it. Good-bye, my friend." 
 
 He stalked solemnly away, his head bent, his 
 hands clasped behind him ; the autumn sunlight 
 falling on him as he walked down the avenue of 
 trees. 
 
 When the Doctor reached home, the Midge 
 was at the sitting-room window. 
 
 " I saw you and Father Dube in the square," 
 she observed: "you were talking a great deal. 
 What was it about ? " 
 
 " Oh, all sorts of things, Midge," he replied : 
 " vocation, and religion, and human error, and 
 various things." 
 
 The Midge meditated briefly. 
 
 " Ev-ert," she said, " if you want me to, I will 
 be a Catholic. But it is a nonsense." 
 
 " I don t think it s necessary, my dear." 
 
 "Well, what do you want that I shall be, 
 then ? " 
 
 The Doctor crossed the room, and, taking her 
 face between his hands, lifted it up, so that he 
 could look into her eyes. Then he asked : 
 
 " Midge, do you love me ? " 
 
 " You know I do ! " she answered, opening 
 her eyes. 
 
 " Right clean through, honest and true ? " 
 
 "Why, Ev-ert you know Yes."
 
 142 
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 " And you re going to be a good girl ? " 
 " Yes," she assented, in opened-eyed wonder. 
 The Doctor looked at her long and earnestly. 
 * Well," he said at last, " I guess you are."
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE fall went, and winter came, and Decem 
 ber, and it was a year since the Midge had 
 entered the apartments of Dr. Peters. Then 
 another year went by, and another, and a fourth 
 Christmas came. Late on Christmas Eve he 
 slipped a gold watch and a huge package of 
 candy into her slim, blue stocking, that swung 
 from the sitting-room mantle. He scowled as 
 he tried to think that he and the Midge were 
 three years older. 
 
 "Ain t either," he soliloquized ; "not so far as 
 I m concerned. I m three years younger, if I m 
 anything." 
 
 But he glanced ruefully at the long stocking. 
 
 " She grows," he thought 
 
 Their life was so regular and uneventful that 
 they marked the movement of time only by the 
 record of the calendar the annual holidays and 
 the changes of the seasons. Yet the Midge was 
 undoubtedly growing. She now wrote and spelled 
 French and English so well that she could never 
 have passed for a girl educated in a fashionable 
 school. She haci begun to make obscure refer-
 
 144 
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 ences to a serious and impending future of "long 
 dresses." Her hair no longer hung down her 
 neck. It was braided into two neat tails, which 
 were spliced together with effective ribbons, and 
 these tails displayed a tendency to crawl up 
 into a coil on the back of her head. Once or 
 twice, even, the coil had given place to a loose 
 knot. But the appearances of the knot were 
 only tentative, so far. 
 
 Her education was getting to that dangerous 
 point of ambitious beginning when young ladies 
 educations are generally " finished." She was 
 studying painting and music. It was good old 
 Parker Prout who taught her the art of Nassau 
 Street. Somebody once said of Parker Prout 
 that he succeeded as a teacher because he also 
 served his pupils as an Awful Example. Prout 
 came twice a week, and, under his tuition, the 
 Midge learned to paint water-colors, touching in 
 their simplicity of composition and their free use 
 of the primary colors. Her skies were blue, her 
 trees were green and her sun was yellow when 
 it was not red; and you could always tell just 
 where one thing left off and another began, in 
 her pictures. She was very well satisfied with 
 them, and so was the Doctor. He said they 
 indicated the possession of a cheerful dispo 
 sition. 
 
 Other twice a week came Professor Max 
 Mannheim, who tortured himself into paroxysms
 
 THE MIDGE. l ^ 
 
 of harmless rage in trying to teach her to play 
 the piano. 
 
 " Du lieber Gott in Himmel ! " he would shriek : 
 " Iss dot a chordt off A ? Wat shall you do if you 
 shall not sink ? I do not esk zet you hef fing-erss 
 I do not esk zet you hef armss I do not esk zet 
 you hef hentss bot play mit ze kray metter off 
 your prain only once! La, la, la!" with a 
 staccato hammering of three of the piano keys, 
 as though he had the obstinate gray matter of 
 the Midge s brain under his wiry fingers. The 
 Midge, herself, merely smiled on him in amiable 
 calm, either recognizing in all this a form of 
 vehement patience, or accepting it as something 
 inseparable from the inculcation of the art of 
 music. After the hour of turmoil was over, they 
 were good friends, and the Professor frequently 
 took her to afternoon concerts, where Dr. Peters 
 could not have been dragged with ox-chains. 
 She liked the concerts fairly well, especially 
 when they ran to what the Professor called 
 the " tresh " of Strauss and Waldteufel and 
 Abt. 
 
 In these three years the Midge had become a 
 sturdy young thing, not tall that she never 
 would be but plump and mature of figure for a- 
 girl in her sixteenth year. Nor did her water- 
 colors belie her disposition, for she was cheerful 
 and contented, and her youthful vivacity was 
 apparently undimmed by any consciousness that 
 10
 
 146 
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 she had no friends or associates under forty years 
 of age. 
 
 It was in the fourth spring of her stay that the 
 Doctor noted a puzzling change in her. She 
 began to moult, as he put it. Her health was 
 excellent; but there was a marked diminution 
 in her usually large fund of energy and enthusi 
 asm. She seemed to lose her interest in their 
 long walks, and in their Sunday rambles. She 
 preferred to sit at home and read, or at least she 
 said she did. After a while he noticed that when 
 she had a book in her hand she was not always 
 reading. 
 
 The Doctor s affectionate diagnosis of the case 
 was wholly unsatisfactory. He felt that she had 
 something on her mind ; but delicate questioning 
 and gentle overtures to confidential communion 
 brought him no nearer to rinding out what the 
 something was. As time went on, she became 
 fickle of mood. Sometimes she fairly purred 
 in kitten-like felicity. And the next day she 
 would " moult " again. " I know the world is 
 hollow," thought the Doctor, "but she can t have 
 found it out yet. That comes later." 
 
 One day he found her crying, and he demanded 
 an explanation. She gave him none, but slipped 
 silently out of his grasp and went into her own 
 room. It was the first time that she had ever 
 been anything but gentle and submissive to him. 
 He refrained from following her ; but he made
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 147 
 
 up his mind that radical remedial measures were 
 in order ; and in a manner it eased his mind to 
 reflect that the extravagance of this manifesta 
 tion made it almost certain that there was a 
 physical cause for her morbid state of mind. 
 " Malaria, I believe," he pondered : " I suppose 
 that means moving up town. Something s got 
 to be done, and right now. She d never act 
 in that way if she wasn t sick. Malaria, for 
 certain. I presume I d have had it, living in 
 this region, if I ever had anything except an 
 appetite." 
 
 But he had a greater shock before him than 
 the discovery of malaria. An hour later the 
 Midge came gravely and sadly from her room 
 and stood in front of him, lifting a face painfully 
 set and old for a child of sixteen. 
 
 " I am sorry I went away from you like that," 
 she said, gently. " I did not mean to be not 
 nice. But I was feeling very badly. I was making 
 up my mind." 
 
 " Making up your mind? " he repeated, smiling. 
 
 " Yes. I want to go away." 
 
 " To go away ! Where ? " 
 
 She stood with her hands hanging down by 
 her sides, and her figure drooped as though she 
 were tired. 
 
 " I do not know. That we must find out. 
 Some place some asylum, or some place where 
 I can do some work."
 
 148 
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 " Midge ! " the Doctor cried, " what do you 
 mean ? " 
 
 She threw up her hands with a nervous gesture 
 and drew a quick breath of pain. 
 
 " No, I know what you will say ! But I can 
 not stay here more. I know it I did not know 
 it once ; but I know it now it is all wrong. I 
 have no right to be here. I am no relation to 
 you I am nobody at all. You have just found 
 me, and I have made you take care of me because 
 you are too good to send me away. I have been 
 selfish, and I have taken it all ; but I knew not 
 better when I came here. I was ignorant. Now 
 I know, and I will be selfish no longer. I will go 
 away no ! no ! you shall not tell me to stay. 
 It is not right that I stay. You must let me go ! " 
 
 The Doctor had a fleeting vision of the room 
 as it had looked on the night when the Midge 
 first entered it, and of the pitiful little form in the 
 long black waterproof. It gave him a shock to 
 connect that picture with the girl who stood now 
 on nearly the same spot. He reached out and 
 put his hands on her shoulders, though at first 
 she shrank a little from his grasp. 
 
 " Midge," he said, holding her firmly and speak 
 ing with slow decision, " you can go away if you 
 want to. If you are tired of living here " 
 
 "Ah! no." 
 
 " If you feel that you have got to go, I won t 
 hinder you. You can do as you please."
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 149 
 
 Her lips closed tightly, and her face grew 
 whiter. 
 
 " But, look here ! I want you to understand 
 one thing. You may go but if you go, I go 
 too. Do you understand that ? Wherever you 
 go, I m going too see ? " 
 
 A queer little cry came from her. It was 
 almost joyous, yet it seemed to have a sob be 
 hind it. 
 
 " My dear child," he went on, holding her 
 tighter as again she shrunk away, " let s settle 
 this thing once for all. You don t appear to 
 know that you re talking right down wickedly. 
 What s the use of telling me that you don t be 
 long to me ? You do ! What would I do with 
 out you ? I couldn t get along you ought to 
 know that. You aren t under any obligations to 
 me I m under obligations to you. That s the 
 way it stands. Now, just look at the matter 
 reasonably. I m an old man " 
 
 " You are not an old man ! " she broke in; "I 
 will not have you call yourself an old man. You 
 are forty-four years and seven months old. That 
 is not old ! That is nothing." 
 
 " It s something, my dear," he said, staring 
 into vacancy over her head. " I m too old to 
 make new friends. Now, you re my best friend. 
 You aren t any relation of mine that s true. But 
 you re a good deal more to me than any relation 
 I ever had, and I m going to hang on to you and
 
 150 
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 keep you and own you, do you grasp that fact ? 
 So don t you ever talk again about leaving me, 
 unless you want to make me talk to you pretty 
 seriously. You hear that ? " 
 
 She heard it in silence. He took her on his 
 lap and set to work to reason it out He told 
 her that he had no kindred who had claims upon 
 him, that he was free to do as he liked with his 
 own, that his income, though it was not extrava 
 gantly large, was more than he could ever spend 
 upon himself more than sufficient for both of 
 them. She listened, and yielded gently, almost 
 wearily. There was a trace of something like 
 humiliation in her manner, however, as she sat 
 with bowed head and heard him patiently. But 
 in the end she gave the promise he required of 
 her, never to mention the subject again, and to 
 put the thought out of her mind, as far as pos 
 sible. 
 
 When this was done, and the Doctor s mind 
 was relieved, he wanted to go on with a few 
 further comments and reflections, gathering up 
 the loose ends of their talk ; but she showed a 
 distinct desire to close the conversation, and left 
 her place upon his knee to prepare the table 
 for dinner, for the afternoon was passing into 
 evening. 
 
 Afterward she went to her room. She always 
 made some pleasing and significant change in 
 her attire for the evening meal. The Doctor was
 
 THE MIDGE. 1 $ 1 
 
 striding up and down the room, after his fashion, 
 when she suddenly emerged. Her listless fatigued 
 manner had gone ; she was tremulous, tearful and 
 excited, and she threw herself upon him, binding 
 him in her arms with a violent eagerness. 
 
 " I have been wrong," she cried; "yes, I have 
 been wrong to you. I have been ungrateful, and 
 I have pained you. I did not mean it. I do not 
 want to go away from you. I will never go 
 away from you unless you want me to. You 
 have not understood me. I have been wrong ; 
 but you have not understood me. I only mean 
 to do what you would have me. Yes, I do belong 
 to you, Evert, I will do whatever you say, now 
 and always. If you ever say to me go, I will go ; 
 and if you say to me stay, I will stay. I want 
 you to hear me, Evert. Always, always, always ! 
 I will do just what you say. Always I will do 
 just what you want. You can tell me nothing 
 that I will not do and I will be glad, if you say 
 it. Do you know that, Evert ? " 
 
 She trembled convulsively as she clung to him. 
 He saw that she was agitated beyond the limit 
 of her childish strength, and he soothed her with 
 all possible gentleness, until the wild excitement 
 gave place to unnerved exhaustion, and she let 
 herself be petted and caressed like a baby. 
 
 He scarcely understood it all; but he made 
 certain that she needed fatherly care and tonic 
 medicines, and for weeks thereafter she had both,
 
 152 
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 administered to the best of his ability. It was 
 some time before the treatment showed good 
 effects ; but by midsummer he saw with pride 
 that she had been brought back to sanity, and he 
 discontinued the use of the tonic medicines ; 
 though he relaxed nothing in his fatherly care. 
 
 They went out of town a good deal during the 
 summer, making little trips to the Catskills and 
 to the Jersey coast, spending a few days at a 
 time in these airings. He did not feel that he 
 could afford to give more, for he had got to work 
 upon the sewing-machine improvement; and, 
 besides, he was always needed in the quarter 
 although he was not called upon so often as he 
 had been in earlier days. There seemed to be a 
 general understanding among the poor people 
 that he was now a man of family, and that his 
 time was no longer wholly at their service. Yet 
 he went among them often, and sometimes, now, 
 the Midge went with him, and she showed a 
 creditable readiness and intelligence as a nurse. 
 
 They had a way of dining out, once in a while, 
 to break the monotony of a long succession of 
 household repasts. One fine day in November, 
 Elise wanted to go to Hoboken, to the christen 
 ing of her cousin s ninth child, and they were 
 glad to let her off, and to avail themselves of the 
 excuse to go forth and take their dinner in a 
 restaurant.
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 S3 
 
 It was a true day of Indian Summer summer 
 surely enough, although its radiance rested on 
 bare trees and grass out of which the life had 
 faded ; and though the cool blue of the higher 
 sky, and the soft haze on the horizon, seen down 
 the long vista of the city street, gave no sug 
 gestion of summer s sensuous languors. 
 
 The day before, the Midge had celebrated her 
 sixteenth birthday, and they agreed to regard 
 this dinner as an extension and continuation of 
 the celebration. 
 
 It was a modest feast only a plain table- 
 d hote dinner, eaten in the heart of the quarter, at 
 a cost of half-a-dollar apiece. They had tried 
 more elaborate dinners, at the great hotels up 
 town ; but they preferred the simpler joys of 
 Charlemagne s restaurant. They both possessed 
 that element of Bohemianism which belongs to 
 all good fellows the Midge was a good fellow, 
 as well as the Doctor. 
 
 Charlemagne s is a thing of the past ; but he 
 was a jolly king of cheap eating-house keepers 
 while he lasted. He gave a grand and whole 
 some dinner for fifty cents. The first items were 
 the pot-au-fcu and bouilli. If the pot-au-feu was 
 thin, the bouilli was so much the richer. And if 
 the bouilli was something woodeny, why, you had 
 had all the better pot-au-feu before it. Then came 
 an entree calves brains, perhaps, or the like ; a 
 roti, a vegetable or so coming with it ; a good
 
 154 
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 salad, chiccory or lettuce or plantain, a dessert of 
 timely fruits, a choice of excellent cheese, and a 
 cup of honest black coffee. And with all this 
 you got bread ad libitum and a half bottle of 
 drinkable wine, that had never paid duty, for it 
 came from California, though it called itself Bor 
 deaux. And if you were inclined to extravagant 
 luxury, you might respond to the invitation of 
 the small placards on the wall, and " Ask for the 
 Little Pot." And, having asked for the little pot, 
 you got a tiny china cup, shaped like a pipkin, 
 which held two or three brandied cherries, steep 
 ing in their luscious juice. It cost you ten cents 
 more, and it gave a dollar s worth of flavor to 
 your demi-tasse of coffee. 
 
 It was not aristocratic, M. Charlemagne s little 
 place in Houston Street ; the table-cloths were 
 coarser than the wrappings of Egyptian mum 
 mies ; there was little to show that the spoons 
 and forks had ever been plated ; there was no 
 ceremony among the diners, and shirt-sleeves 
 were always en regie. And the great bowl of 
 soup was passed around that every guest might 
 help himself, much as it might have been done in 
 the time of the proprietor s namesake. But 
 everything was clean, and all things were decent 
 and well-ordered within that respectable resort. 
 Poor French clerks and saving French tradesmen 
 mostly frequented it. Now and then there was 
 a table-full of newspaper men, actors, artists and
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 155 
 
 unclassified Bohemians, who atoned for their 
 uncontrollable noisiness by amusing all the graver 
 patrons of the house with their ready mirth and 
 ephemeral wit, always generously loud enough to 
 be at the service of the whole room. 
 
 Madame Charlemagne, holding the pot-au-fcu 
 breast-high, hailed the Doctor and the Midge as 
 they entered, and called upon M. Charlemagne 
 to find seats for them. 
 
 M. Charlemagne, rotund and jovial, with the 
 air of a comic cook in an opera bouffe, showed 
 them to the little table between the fire-place and 
 the window. 
 
 There was one other person already at the 
 table a young man. Looking up after his soup, 
 it struck the Doctor that he had seen the young 
 man before, somewhere. He had only a vague 
 sense of knowing the broad shoulders, the bright 
 young face and the moustache that was still as 
 small as anything can be that has a right to be 
 called a moustache. The young man, with the 
 color of confusion in his cheeks, directed toward 
 the Doctor a smile of recognition and toward the 
 Doctor s companion a look of awkward apology. 
 Dr. Peters felt sure he had seen him before. He 
 would have contented himself with a nod in 
 acknowledgment ; but the ingenuous embarrass 
 ment in the young face appealed to his sympathy. 
 
 "I think I ve met you before " he began, 
 doubtfully.
 
 156 
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 " Oh, yes, in that is, I think so don t you 
 remember ? One afternoon, two or three years 
 ago you were buying French books for a 
 young lady." He added this last clause with 
 impulsive eagerness, and then blushed furiously. 
 
 " Oh, yes," said the Doctor, " I remember, I 
 remember now. In the navy, eh ? But your 
 name has slipped me." 
 
 " Hathaway," returned the young man, 
 promptly; " Paul Hathaway. That was just 
 before I sailed for South America. We had 
 quite a talk together, don t you recollect." 
 
 " Why, yes," said the Doctor, beginning to 
 recall some of the results of that talk, in the 
 way of purchase of French literature. 
 
 " I hope," the young man boldly pushed on, 
 " I hope you liked the books you bought. Were 
 they what you wanted? " 
 
 He glanced furtively at the Midge, who was 
 eating her bouilli very daintily, and utterly ig 
 noring his presence. 
 
 " Well, no," the Doctor responded, slowly, a 
 smile curling the corners of his mouth ; " I 
 can t just say they were, exactly not all of 
 them." 
 
 "Weren t they weren t they satisfactory to 
 the young lady ? " 
 
 He was fiery red in the face with this ; but 
 the Doctor did not notice it, seemingly. His 
 smile of amusement grew broader.
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 157 
 
 " I don t know about that," he said ; " I didn t 
 hear her say anything much about them but 
 maybe she can tell you better for herself. This 
 is the young lady." 
 
 He indicated the Midge. It was rather comic 
 to him to think that the child for whom he had 
 bought novels three years before, was now so 
 near to being indeed a young lady. He saw 
 that he must introduce Mr. Hathaway to the 
 Midge, and he smiled again as he fitted her 
 rarely-used patronymic to his simple formula of 
 introduction. 
 
 " Mr. Mr. Hathaway, isn t it ? this is Miss 
 Talbot, who wanted the books." 
 
 It amused him to think of the Midge as Miss 
 Talbot. But if he took the formality somewhat 
 lightly, the Midge made up for it by the dignity 
 with which she received the intimation of Mr. 
 Hathaway s existence. She smiled condescend 
 ingly, as she ate her bouilli, and listened to the 
 young man s remarks on French literature. 
 
 Mr. Hathaway was frankly talkative. From 
 French literature he skipped to talking about 
 himself, and he had much interesting informa 
 tion to impart concerning his three years cruise 
 in the tropics. He had been at Valparaiso a 
 long time, and he described Valparaiso with en 
 thusiastic admiration. Valparaiso led him to 
 talk about Paris, and that brought the Midge out, 
 and the Doctor was able to withdraw from the
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 conversation and devote himself to his dinner, 
 while the younger people chatted of Europe and 
 European ways. To hear the Midge talk, you 
 would have thought that she had been a fashion 
 able tourist with many years experience of the 
 Continent. 
 
 Incidentally, it came out that Mr. Hathaway 
 was at home on sick leave. He had been hurt in 
 the course of some gun-practice at Newport, 
 early that summer. The Midge had thawed, by 
 this time, and she gave his sufferings the tribute 
 of a dainty little " Oh ! " which expression of 
 sympathy he manfully disclaimed. He had not 
 been hurt much, he explained ; it was really 
 nothing at all only a game leg for a few weeks 
 and he was all right now. Oh, yes, he was 
 all right only the day before yesterday he had 
 taken a twenty mile walk, to get a little sketch 
 ing, along the Bronx. 
 
 The Midge called the Doctor s attention to 
 this fact. They, too, had recently been wander 
 ing along the tortuous course of the river Bronx. 
 It was an interesting coincidence. And she also 
 told the Doctor that Mr. Hathaway had been 
 engaged in gun-practice. She drew his notice 
 to this with a proud sense of safety, for she knew 
 that he was wholly weaned from his old schemes 
 of bloodthirsty invention. 
 
 Dr. Peters heard her remarks rather absent- 
 mindedly. He had been thinking while the
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 159 
 
 other two talked. He thought that Mr. Hatha 
 way was a very kindly young man, to be willing 
 to spend so much time on a child. And he saw 
 that the Midge was enjoying the conversation. 
 She was positively vivacious brighter than he 
 had seen her in some time. She had never quite 
 recovered her high spirits since her sickness in 
 the spring. Now her eyes sparkled, and she 
 ran on so fluently that he was afraid she would 
 bore her new acquaintance. It struck him, for 
 the first time, that she did not see enough of 
 young people. Hathaway, of course, was too 
 old for her ; but if he was considerate enough to 
 talk with her, and if it did her good, why, 
 where would be the harm in asking him to come 
 and see them, once in a while ? It would be a 
 change for the Midge perhaps for him, too. 
 
 He asked Mr. Hathaway to call. Mr. Hath 
 away said he would, and when they left the res 
 taurant, he walked with them to their door, so 
 that he might not forget their number. 
 
 Two days later, he called. He made himself 
 very entertaining, and when he told of his long 
 and lonely sketching-tramps, the Doctor invited 
 him to join their expedition for the next Sunday. 
 He accepted the invitation with agreeable readi 
 ness. 
 
 After he had gone, the Doctor felt that his 
 act had been somewhat too impulsive. 
 
 " I ought to have asked you first, Midge,
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 whether you wanted to have him go. I was 
 rather thoughtless, I guess. How do you feel 
 about it ? I won t do it again unless you say 
 so." 
 
 The Midge raised her eyebrows and let them 
 fall in a doubtful frown. 
 
 "Just you and I that is what I like best, 
 Evert. But if you think he will be pleasant it 
 is for you to say. You like him ? you think 
 he is nice?" 
 
 " Why, yes ; he seems a straightforward, honest 
 sort of fellow. Don t you think so ? " 
 
 " I do not know." She shrugged her shoul 
 ders as she looked in the glass and adjusted her 
 hair. " It is too soon to say." 
 
 The next Sunday was fine, and they went to 
 Fort Hamilton, the three of them. Down there, 
 the sea breezes had kept the grass green, and 
 had left a few leaves on the trees. They wan 
 dered along the bluff, and admired the English 
 beauty of Clifton spire, nestling against the 
 Staten Island hills opposite. They went up to 
 the Fort, and saw the place where the Doctor s 
 gun had been tried; and the Doctor told the 
 story of the failure, with humor chastened by 
 retrospection. Mr. Hathaway informed them as 
 to the rig of the craft at anchor in the Narrows 
 and up the bay, and spoke of foreign ports 
 which he had seen. They had a good early 
 dinner, which they ate in a jovial frame of mind,
 
 THE MIDGE. I g I 
 
 at the queer old half-inn half-boarding-house 
 under the bluff; and a little before seven o clock 
 they took the rattling, swaying dummy for 
 Brooklyn, and were at home in gas-lit New York 
 just as the church bells began to ring for evening 
 service. 
 
 " Well, Midge," said the Doctor, later in the 
 evening, " how was it ? Shall I ask him again ? " 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 " I do not want to say, Evert. You must do 
 as you please. It is nothing to me. But you 
 have not said anything about my hair." 
 
 " What do you want me to say about your 
 hair ? Your hair s all right oh, I see ! What 
 has become of the pig-tails ? " 
 
 " They are not the fashion now. Don t you 
 think this way is more pretty ? "
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 IF it had been left to the Doctor to say whether 
 or no Mr. Paul Hathaway should be encour 
 aged to continue his visits, the chilly indifference 
 displayed by the Midge might have settled the 
 question in the negative. But it was not left to 
 the Doctor. Mr. Hathaway took the matter 
 into his own hands. He had received one invi 
 tation, and he needed no more. He simply came, 
 and continued to come, and as he was thoroughly 
 agreeable, and as they always enjoyed his visits, 
 there seemed to be no reason why he should do 
 otherwise. 
 
 The exigencies of social intercourse demand 
 that we should know who our friends are, and 
 whence they come. Mr. Hathaway supplied all 
 the necessary data in his case. He was frank 
 and open, and when he talked about himself, it 
 was with the indifferent ease with which he might 
 have discoursed on the peculiarities of the port 
 of Rio Janeiro. He was the son of a Pennsyl 
 vania clergyman, who had been also a school 
 teacher. His parents were dead, the old uncle 
 who had brought him up was dead; he had 
 162
 
 THE MIDGE. ^3 
 
 passed his boyhood on the school-ship, and he 
 was now in the navy. That was all his story. 
 As he put it, he was a regular out-and-out, 
 thorough-going, plain, unvarnished waif. No 
 body owned him, and nobody seemed anxious 
 to take possession of him. He had no prospects 
 of promotion in the navy, and he was as tired of 
 it as a man could be at twenty-three. He had 
 wanted to exchange into the army, because there 
 he would have more leisure, and more time for 
 sketching. Sketching was about the best fun he 
 knew. Of course, he couldn t really do anything 
 at it ; but, still, it was fun. Only he saw no 
 prospect of getting into the army. Lieutenant- 
 cies were not lying around loose. He supposed 
 he would have to go back to the Wequeteqiiock, 
 when his sick leave expired. And perhaps it 
 was all he was good for, after all. Certainly the 
 Peters household would be tired of him by that 
 time. Oh, it was very kind of them to say that 
 they wouldn t ; but they hadn t tried it yet. They 
 would have two months more of him. 
 
 In the first of their acquaintance, when he 
 heard that the Midge painted in water-colors, he 
 had promised to bring his sketches around to 
 show her. On his first visit she exhibited her 
 own works, and reminded him of his promise ; 
 but somehow or other, from day to day he forgot 
 to produce the pictures. It was only on the 
 friendly insistence of the Doctor that he finally
 
 1 64 
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 brought a package of sketches for their inspection. 
 And immediately afterward the Midge s portfolio 
 disappeared from the sitting-room. 
 
 Mr. Hathaway s modesty had over-served him 
 in this instance. He drew uncommonly well, 
 and his work had that quality of confidence and 
 spirit which picture dealers and some art-critics 
 call chic. The next afternoon that he looked 
 in at the Peters establishment he had got to 
 "looking in " by this time the Midge was paint 
 ing, and much to his embarrassment, and against 
 his will, he found himself gently but firmly 
 placed in the position of a superior critic and 
 adviser a sort of amateur teacher, in fact. 
 
 This initial introduction of a visitor into the 
 family accomplished itself without friction and 
 with pleasant results. The Doctor saw that 
 their previous "twofold solitude" had been a 
 mistake. He began to ask people to come to 
 see them. He knew but few who were desirable 
 as familiar associates, and they were none of 
 them very young or very entertaining ; but he 
 did his best with these few. He got Parker 
 Prout and Professor Mannheim to drop in of an 
 evening, and when they took kindly to the idea, 
 as they did after a first trial, he was surprised to 
 see how much more there was in them than came 
 out in their professional hours, or even in their 
 time of recreation at the Brasserie Pigault, where 
 he had first met them. Father Dube, too, was
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 I6 5 
 
 willing to give them an evening from time to 
 time, and he taught the Midge to play dominos. 
 The Doctor seriously reproached himself that he 
 had not thought to instruct her in that innocent 
 and mildly exciting game. But then it seemed to 
 him that he had neglected the Midge in various 
 ways. There were possibilities in life with which 
 he had done nothing to make her familiar. He 
 had not noticed her growth, or the fact that his 
 own world was somewhat narrow for her. 
 
 This was borne in upon Dr. Peters when the 
 Reverend Mr. Pratt loomed up as one of the 
 possibilities of life. He was invited one night to 
 play whist with Parker Prout, Professor Mann 
 heim and the Doctor. The Midge abhorred 
 whist, and so Paul Hathaway kept her company 
 in a far corner while the game went on. Mr. 
 Pratt played whist, not because he liked it, but 
 because he considered it one of the approved and 
 accepted forms of amusement which it was his 
 duty, as a clergyman of the Church of England, 
 to encourage. He passed a jovial evening, for 
 him. He drank a glass of sherry and ginger- 
 ale ; although, as he observed, the use of strong 
 liquor did not agree with him. 
 
 Presumably, however, he did not suffer from 
 remorse or indigestion on the morrow, for he 
 began to pay frequent calls, and showed an 
 amiable interest in the welfare of Dr. Peters and 
 Miss Talbot.
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 " Miss Talbot " she did not long remain to any 
 of the little group. Her father s name had long 
 been unfamiliar to her own ears, and she did not 
 seem inclined to insist upon her right to it. The 
 Doctor and Prout called her "Midge"; Mann 
 heim hailed her as " Mitsh," which was as near 
 as he could come to it; and the two younger 
 men had to find more suitably respectful modes 
 of address. Mr. Pratt selected "Miss Lodoiska," 
 without sparing one syllable, and Hathaway 
 called her " Miss Lois." This was a bold and 
 original device, and he had the name to himself. 
 
 From the time that he first heard her called 
 " Miss Lodoiska," the Doctor became conscious 
 of a new discomfort. He had to recognize not 
 only the fact that she -was " Miss " Lodoiska, but 
 the fact that others recognized that fact. 
 
 The Reverend Theodore Beatty Pratt recog 
 nized it. Before he had been long a visitor in 
 that top floor on Washington Square, he became 
 aware, to some extent, of the deficiencies in her 
 religious education. He never grasped the 
 whole hideous truth, but he learned enough to 
 make him deeply concerned for her. He tried 
 to get her to teach a class in the Sunday-school, 
 by way of making up for what she herself should 
 have been taught, and, failing in this, he asked 
 her to read a few books which he desired to 
 select for her. She did not refuse, and he 
 brought the books, and came from time to time
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 167 
 
 to talk over them with her. He did nearly all 
 the talking himself; but then his opinions were 
 unimpeachably correct. 
 
 If it had begun and ended with the books, the 
 Doctor would have been well pleased. But the 
 books were only a small part of it. Mr. Pratt s 
 communications stretched out into expansions of 
 personality, and confidences. He told the Midge 
 of his private hopes and ambitions. He told her 
 of his early life in a small Ohio village, of the 
 struggles of his youth, of the sacrifices which his 
 mother had made to send him to college, of the 
 pride with which she looked upon his present 
 position. And, worst of all, he told Miss Lo- 
 doiska of his first and only love-affair and its 
 unfortunate ending. 
 
 The Doctor knew more or less of this, and he 
 was displeased and disturbed. He thought that 
 Pratt was very wrong to talk so to a girl of the 
 Midge s age. For, even if she was not quite a 
 child and he was willing to admit that she had 
 got beyond the point where she could be called a 
 child and nothing more she was certainly not 
 old enough for that sort of thing. Pratt was old 
 enough, himself, to know better. And he was 
 young enough to make his indiscretion possibly 
 dangerous. And the Doctor was displeased with 
 the Midge for listening to such talk. Why she 
 wanted to listen to Pratt at all he could not under 
 stand. But she certainly did listen.
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 The Doctor knew little of social diplomacy. 
 He had tact and delicacy in dealing with the poor 
 and miserable ; but he felt himself at a loss in a 
 matter like this. He gave Mr. Pratt two or three 
 hints so broad that no man free from an abso 
 lutely guilty conscience could have understood 
 them ; and he made some disparaging remarks 
 about Pratt to the Midge. These she received in 
 silence, which was the only way in which she 
 ever expressed disapproval of anything he did. 
 This annoyed and perplexed him more than he 
 would have been willing to confess to himself. 
 And so it came about that there grew up a mis 
 understanding undefined, unavowed ; but a mis 
 understanding between himself and her ; and 
 their life was not just what it had been before. 
 
 The Doctor was greatly relieved when he 
 learned that Mr. Pratt was about to leave New 
 York. There was to be a change in the manage 
 ment of the mission. Mr. Pratt s charge had been 
 only temporary in its nature, though he had held 
 it for some years ; and he had not been success 
 ful in his labors. The trustees were dissatisfied, 
 and he himself felt that he was out of place. So 
 he had accepted a call to a church in Ohio, near 
 his native place. He was very thankful for the 
 call, and very glad of the prospect of having a 
 church of his own. And he could see his mother, 
 from time to time, by driving twenty-five miles. 
 He never thought to inquire whether the dissatis-
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 faction of the trustees of the mission had any 
 thing to do with the procurement of the call. 
 He only knew that he was called to a field of 
 labor for which he felt himself better suited. 
 
 He came one afternoon to bid the Midge good 
 bye. He brought her several books which he 
 wanted her to read. He spoke of his prospects 
 and of what he hoped to accomplish. He told 
 her he wished he had been able to be of more 
 service to her, as a spiritual guide, than he had 
 been, and when he rose to go he stood for a 
 moment or two limply shaking her hand. 
 
 " I suppose," he said, " it doesn t seem very 
 attractive to you, the idea of living in a little 
 country village, away out in Ohio ? " 
 
 " No," she answered, frankly, " it must be 
 a bore. I hope you will like it better than I 
 should. It must be a great bore." 
 
 "There is so much to be done," he said. 
 
 "Well, I hope you will do it. It is nice of you 
 to go, you know. Yes," she added, reflectively, 
 "I am sure it is nice of you to go." 
 
 He looked hard at her, and then turned away, 
 and, saying " Good-bye," went down the stairs. 
 He was a poor little fellow, poor of intellect, poor 
 of soul ; but he was man enough to read and re 
 spect the high unconsciousness of her maiden eyes. 
 ***** 
 
 When the Doctor came home that evening 
 he had been out buying tools for his sewing-
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 machine model-making the Midge greeted him 
 with a rapturous smile, such as she had not given 
 him in weeks. 
 
 " Oh, Evert," she said, " Mr. Pratt has gone." 
 
 " Well ? " returned the Doctor, rather unsym- 
 pathetically. 
 
 " I m so glad ! " 
 
 " You re gladf" 
 
 " Why, of course." 
 
 " Well, I don t precisely see why of course. 
 I thought you had been pretty thick of late, 
 you two." 
 
 " Oh, I had to be polite to him, you know. I 
 did dislike him so." 
 
 " Your logic beats me, Midge," said the Doctor, 
 with an uneasy smile. " If you didn t like him, 
 why didn t you show it ? " 
 
 " Don t you understand ? " she asked, looking 
 at him in mild surprise. " I did not want to be 
 unjust, any more than you would." 
 
 The Doctor pondered. 
 
 " Well, I suppose there is something in that" 
 
 " Of course don t you see ? And he would 
 come to me and tell me all about his mother, and 
 how she has had meat only once a week, so that 
 he might go to college and be a clergyman. And 
 I was very sorry for his mother, and it was very 
 nice of her but you have no idea, Evert, how he 
 has bored me." 
 
 The Doctor s brows were wrinkled.
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 I/I 
 
 " I thought you were interested in his conver 
 sation." 
 
 " Interested ! But it was a bore oh, a bore" 
 
 " You managed to conceal it pretty well," he 
 observed, grimly. 
 
 She gave him a surprised look, and then her 
 face changed. She went swiftly to him and 
 touched him on the shoulder. He had been 
 looking gloomily out of the window, and he turned 
 toward her. 
 
 " Evert ! you have not thought I liked that 
 man ? " 
 
 " Why," he began, uncomfortably, " I thought 
 you seemed to have taken a sort of a fancy to 
 his society " 
 
 "Oh, Evert!" 
 
 " I m not finding fault, my dear. You ve a 
 right to choose your own friends, and " 
 
 " But I could never have him for a friend ! 
 How could you have thought that? Why, 
 Evert, he was not nice at all. You did not like 
 him yourself, did you ? " 
 
 " I didn t like him no, not exactly. I won t 
 say I disliked him, though. He was a good 
 enough little fellow, I suppose." 
 
 " Good ! I am not so sure he was good. That 
 is as you look at it. I should not want to have 
 you good like that. Why, Evert, do you know ? 
 he was engaged to a girl out there, and when he 
 found that if he married her he could not afford
 
 1 72 
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 to study and be a clergyman, he has gone to 
 her and broken it off. What do you think of 
 that?" 
 
 The Doctor smiled with more mirthfulness 
 than before. 
 
 " That s his own business, my dear his and 
 the young woman s." 
 
 " But he has gone to her and told her about it, 
 and how he had to choose between her and being 
 a clergyman, and they have prayed together, and 
 he has made her think the way he did, and 
 she has let him go. For me, I think it was a 
 shame. I think it was cruel and I have told 
 him so." 
 
 The Doctor laughed outright this time. 
 
 "Well, just there I think you exceeded your 
 duty, Midge. That was a question of morals 
 that it isn t for us to pass on. And it seems that 
 the young woman consented." 
 
 " That was because she was a woman. But 
 she was not young. She was thirty." 
 
 " Then she was old enough to know her own 
 mind." 
 
 " But would you have done such a thing?" de 
 manded the Midge, indignantly : " would you 
 give up a woman you have loved, for anything 
 for anything in the world ? I think it is 
 wicked !" 
 
 " I m not speaking for myself, Midge. But 
 I m not running Mr. Pratt s conscience. I dare
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 173 
 
 say he thought it was right, or he wouldn t have 
 done it." 
 
 " He thought it was right maybe. But he 
 ought not to have thought it was right. You 
 know it was wrong, Evert; and you would 
 never have told me to do such a thing. Only 
 you are so good to other people, you will never 
 say they are wrong. But now do you see why I 
 disliked him ? " 
 
 " You don t seem to have approved of him, 
 for a fact," said the Doctor, putting his arm 
 around her. 
 
 " And don t you see why I had to be nice to 
 him ? For he thought he was right, and that 
 was what made it so disgusting. Don t you 
 understand why I let him talk to me, Evert ? " 
 she pressed, nestling up to him. 
 
 " Because you are a woman ? " suggested the 
 Doctor, laughing. 
 
 " Ah, now you are making fun of me," she 
 said, smiling, herself, as she slipped out of his 
 arm. " And I have to set the table for dinner. 
 See it is ten minutes of six. You must go and 
 get yourself ready; and I have not changed my 
 dress. Only do not ever tell me again that he 
 could be my friend."
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE January wind blew in through the open 
 front door of the old house on Washington 
 Square, and brought a smell of cooking up to 
 Doctor Peters s top floor, one morning shortly 
 after New Year s. Most of the smell proceeded 
 from the lower regions ; but some of it was an 
 importation, a separate smell hanging around a 
 tonsled, smudgy, hunted-looking little boy, who 
 did not need a label to tell the experienced eye 
 that he was the male " slavey " of a New York 
 boarding-house of the third or fourth class. It 
 is not every cheap boarding-house that has such 
 an attendant on its domestic staff; but those 
 that do keep him use him as boots, scullion, 
 errand-boy, and in several other capacities, and 
 he is just such a soiled and harried creature as 
 stood before Dr. Peters that sharp morning, 
 rubbing his blue nose with the sleeve of his thin 
 jacket. 
 
 " The genTm n said to give it to you very per- 
 tickler," he said, in one breath. 
 
 The note which he handed to the Doctor read 
 thus:
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 175 
 
 " DEAR DR. PETERS Can I see you at once, and privately ? 
 I am in no end of trouble. I will meet you anywhere you say 
 but I don t want to have any one know it. 
 " In haste, yours, 
 
 "PAUL HATHAWAY." 
 
 The Doctor sent a line in reply : " Come here 
 in half-an-hour we shall be alone," and the boy 
 went down stairs three steps at a time tossing a 
 coin into the air and singing a paean of his own 
 to an air of the day : 
 
 " O-o-oh ! dat dime he gimme, 
 O-o-oh ! dat dime he gimme, 
 
 Good old chump wid a mustash on 
 Golden slippers in de mawn ! " 
 
 The Doctor listened, smiled, half-sighed, and 
 smiled again. Then he turned from the door, 
 and faced the Midge, dressed to go out for her 
 household shopping. She had long been con 
 sidered " equal to the exigencies of the situa 
 tion." 
 
 She was very pretty to look at, and rather patrix 
 cian, in her way, as she stood, erect and graceful, 
 in her trim seal-skin sacque, a neat, Frenchy 
 bonnet on her small, shapely, well-poised head. 
 
 " I shall not be long, Evert," she said. 
 
 " Well," he suggested, " you needn t hurry 
 home this morning." 
 
 She showed her white, even little teeth in a 
 mischievous smile.
 
 176 
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 " Oh, you are tired of my society ! " 
 
 " Not exactly tired, Midge only a little 
 fatigued, so to speak. No, dear there s some 
 body coming here on business. And if you 
 want to take the opportunity to call on your 
 dressmaker and see if there aren t some new 
 duds that you absolutely don t need why, you ve 
 got a good excuse." 
 
 " Ah, no ! " she persisted, maliciously : " You 
 cannot deceive me. You want to get rid of me. 
 Very well, I will stay out until you are anxious 
 to have me back, and put an advertisement in 
 the papers Midge : Return to your penitent 
 Evert. I will never turn you out again E. P. " 
 
 As might have been expected, to a young 
 woman of the Midge s sense of humor, the 
 " personal " column of a well-known morning 
 paper had no terrors. She finished her imagin 
 ary quotation with a saucy, dainty nod and wink, 
 and marched off to her shopping. 
 
 She had scarcely got out of the house when 
 Hathaway entered. One glance told the Doctor 
 that the " no end of trouble " was no exaggera 
 tion. The color had gone out of the handsome 
 face, and the blue eyes were filled with the 
 over-burdening, all-absorbing anxiety of the 
 young spirit in its first encounter with misfor 
 tune, when the moment s cloud makes black the 
 whole universe, and there never, no, never, was 
 such another woe upon earth.
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 177 
 
 " What s the matter, Hathaway ? " 
 
 " Everything s the matter ! " said the young 
 man, dropping into a chair; " I m a scamp and a 
 blackguard, and I m being punished as I deserve. 
 That s what s the matter." 
 
 " Oh, come, my boy it s not so bad as all 
 that." 
 
 " Yes, it is. I haven t the slightest claim on 
 your sympathy, or or any one s sympathy. 
 I don t know why I ve got the audacity to come 
 to you, and if you tell me that you can t help me 
 why, I ll admit it s all I m worth." 
 
 " Well, well," said the Doctor, encouragingly, 
 " let s have the whole damnation. What is it ? " 
 
 Hathaway silently handed him a letter. It 
 was written on thin paper, in a foreign hand, and 
 dated from Valparaiso. The English was most 
 un-English ; but the meaning of the communi 
 cation was clear. The Doctor read it through 
 carefully. 
 
 " Is this true ? " he asked. 
 
 "Yes," answered the boy. He sat with his 
 elbows on his knees, resting his forehead on his 
 hands. 
 
 The Doctor shook his head, gave a long, low 
 whistle of dismay, and walked to the window, 
 where he stood for a minute staring vacantly out 
 at the wind-swept square. 
 
 "Well," he said, at last, "you d better tell me 
 all about it." 
 
 12
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 " There isn t much to tell," Hathaway began, 
 in a choking tone, as if it hurt him to talk. 
 " We were at Valparaiso a good deal, off and on. 
 We were up and down the coast all through 
 those rows they had down there it was two 
 years ago, you know. And we got to going a 
 lot of us fellows to this old man s house this 
 Garcia. We found out afterward that it was a 
 regular gambling-place, in a shy sort of way, 
 and he got about all the money we had twasn t 
 much. And I got terribly gone on this girl 
 she was his eldest daughter, and she was hand 
 some beautiful in that Southern way. I don t 
 want to see anybody like her again, though. I 
 was in love with her or I thought I was I 
 don t know. I know I was a fool about it. The 
 fellows all said so. And I suppose I did ask 
 her to marry me yes, I did but that was only 
 in the first of it, when I didn t know what sort 
 of girl she was. Afterward why, I never 
 thought she d dream of such a thing as holding 
 me to it. I d cut my throat before I d think of 
 it." He clinched his hands and fairly shud 
 dered. 
 
 The Doctor looked over the letter again. 
 
 " Is it genuine, do you think, this business ? 
 Or is it blackmail?" 
 
 " I don t know," the young man groaned. 
 
 " What s the standing of the family ? " 
 
 " It s hard to say. I don t know what to tell
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 1/9 
 
 you. They have been respectable, certainly I 
 guess they had a good deal of money once. 
 The old man is nothing but a shark and a 
 sharper now, and I suppose they re a pretty bad 
 lot all around. But I can t go to work to prove 
 that, you know." 
 
 " Let s see " the Doctor referred once more 
 to the letter : " when does he say he ll send his 
 charges to Washington ? " 
 
 " They must be there now. You see, he 
 threatens to do it if he doesn t hear from me 
 within two months. And it s dated in October. 
 You see, he thought I was on the Wcquetequock, 
 at Rio, and she hasn t been at Rio. The accursed 
 thing has lain there over one mail and then been 
 forwarded. I got it last night." 
 
 " But you haven t heard from Washington ? " 
 
 " I haven t yet ; but I shall soon enough ; and 
 it will be the end of me, Doctor. They re lax 
 enough about most things, in the navy; but 
 that s the kind of thing they won t stand from a 
 fellow in my position. They ll make an example 
 of me, just as they did of Willy Blackford. Oh, 
 it s a bad business, Doctor." 
 
 " Yes, it is," said Dr. Peters, laying his hand 
 on the bowed shoulder ; " but we must try to 
 make the best of it. Come, look up and look it 
 in the face." 
 
 Hathaway did look up, after a moment. 
 
 " By Jove, Doctor, you re a good man ! "
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 " Never mind about that. Let s get at the 
 facts in the case. I want to know all about it. 
 How old was this this friend of yours ? " 
 
 " I don t know." A tinge of red came into 
 his pale cheeks. " The boys said she was thirty; 
 but I don t believe she was more than twenty-six 
 or so." 
 
 " And you were how old ? " 
 
 " I was twenty-one the day we first got to 
 Valparaiso." 
 
 " That s two years ago ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Why have they waited so long to follow you 
 up?" 
 
 " I suppose they thought we were coming back. 
 We went down the coast to look after some 
 privateer, or something, and then we got orders 
 to come home. I can t explain it." 
 
 " Looks crooked," said the Doctor, cheerfully. 
 
 He continued his examination, with encour 
 aging results. Things began to look better, at 
 least from the point of view of morality. Hatha 
 way was frank and self-accusatory. He made no 
 attempt to justify himself; and it was evident that 
 he had done wrong. But it was also evident 
 that it was the wrong-doing of an inexperienced, 
 impulsive boy, under the influence of a woman 
 much older than himself, and with whom he was 
 foolishly in love. It seemed probable that he 
 was the victim of a family conspiracy. He had
 
 THE MIDGE. !8i 
 
 had, at the time, a few hundred dollars, a legacy 
 from his uncle, and he had spent it all at Valpa 
 raiso. This might have given ground for a belief 
 that he was wealthier than most of his set. 
 
 He was utterly penitent, humble and abashed; 
 that was certain. It was not merely the fear of 
 the consequences ; the wound he had dealt his 
 own honor and his own sense of self-respect 
 seemed to trouble him more than anything else. 
 
 " It isn t the being discharged," he moaned. 
 " I m willing enough to get out of the service 
 but it s the going out in this awful way. Or, if I 
 were accused falsely, I shouldn t mind it so 
 much. But I feel so mean and degraded I can t 
 look anybody in the face." 
 
 " It s not so sure that you are going out of the 
 service," Dr. Peters put in. " And you ve got to 
 look me in the face while we resolve ourselves 
 into a committee on ways and means." 
 
 They began to talk of the possibilities of help 
 to be got from Hathaway s superior officers. He 
 had been something of a favorite on ship-board, 
 he owned, with another blush. 
 
 " Captain Chester is as good an old boy as ever 
 walked, and I know he d give me a hand, if he 
 could. But he got into trouble in Blackford s 
 case, and I believe he got an awful wigging from 
 General Beecham, and " 
 
 " Beecham ? General Beecham ? " repeated the 
 Doctor, " not Buel Beecham ? he s no sailor."
 
 jg2 THE MIDGE. 
 
 " That s the man. I know he s no sailor ; but 
 he s a grand mogul in the Navy department, all 
 the same : and he sits up there at Washington 
 and bullyrags old men who were in the service 
 before he was born, and who have forgotten more 
 about their business than he ever knew." 
 
 " Buel Beecham," said Dr. Peters, meditatively. 
 " Buel Beecham General Buel Beecham. You 
 don t say so ! " 
 
 " He s a terrible old martinet, you know. And 
 they all ko-tow to him. It was he who said that 
 Willy Blackford must be made an example of, 
 and that he d see that it was done. Oh, he ll look 
 after me." 
 
 The Doctor crossed the room to the mantel 
 piece, rilled his pipe, lit it, and smoked a good 
 three minutes three minutes is a long time in 
 solemn silence. Hathaway sat with his hands in 
 his pockets, gazing into the fire, a heavy despair 
 on his young face. There was no sound in the 
 room, save the Midge s latest-adopted kitten, 
 " scratching for luck " on the table leg. When 
 she had scratched and stretched enough, she stole 
 over to Hathaway, and rubbed against his feet. 
 He looked down at her and stooped to caress 
 her, and then suddenly drew back with a nervous 
 start, sprang to his feet and stood irresolutely 
 looking from the Doctor to the door, and back 
 again. 
 
 The Doctor rose and spoke deliberately.
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 133 
 
 " Hathaway, I m going to Washington." 
 
 "Sir/" 
 
 " I m going to Washington, to-night. Whether 
 this charge is pressed now or hereafter, it s none 
 too soon to look after the case. I think I may 
 be able to do something for you. Mind ! I don t 
 promise you anything. But I may have the 
 power to help you, and if I can I will." 
 
 " Oh, Doctor Doctor Peters ! " the young man 
 began " what can I say to " 
 
 " You can t say anything. Don t try to. All 
 I want to hear from you is this " he came closer, 
 and took hold of Hathaway by both shoulders. 
 They were nearly of a height, the young man 
 and the older. 
 
 " I want you to promise me one thing. Never 
 never again to give yourself a chance to ask 
 yourself whether you ve acted like an honorable 
 man or not." 
 
 "I promise, so help me God!" cried Paul 
 Hathaway, with the tears in his blue eyes. 
 
 " Midge," said the Doctor that evening, " I m 
 going to Washington." 
 
 " To Washington ? And when? " She looked up 
 with a bright anticipation of pleasure in her eyes. 
 
 " To-morrow." 
 
 " Oh ! I can t get ready so soon." 
 
 " There is no occasion for you to get ready, my 
 dear. Who said anything about your going ? "
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 " But you aren t going anywhere without me, 
 are you ? " She opened her eyes wide. 
 
 " I am, though. Yes, dear " he put his arm 
 about her " It s a business trip, unfortunately. 
 We ll make a pleasure -trip of it some day; but 
 this time I shall have to go alone. I m not par 
 ticularly hankering after the job, anyway ; but I ll 
 have to attend to it all by myself." 
 
 " It isn t the gun ? " She spoke with a shade 
 of incredulous apprehension. 
 
 " No, it isn t the gun. Fact is " he frowned, 
 and spoke hesitatingly, " it s not my own business 
 at all. It s something I ve taken in hand for 
 young Hathaway." 
 
 " Oh, how good of you, Evert ! Is it about his 
 getting out of the navy ? " 
 
 " Well yes. It s more or less connected with 
 that" 
 
 She laid down her book, and rose and came 
 to him, taking his hand and patting it with a sort 
 of admiring caress. 
 
 "And you are going to help him? You 
 are so nice, Evert ! You are always doing 
 such things. What is it that he wants you 
 to do?" 
 
 The Doctor frowned again, in perplexity. 
 
 " I don t think I can exactly tell you, Midge. 
 He he wouldn t like it. It s a matter of private 
 business, and and I m sure he wouldn t want 
 to have me talk about it."
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 I8 5 
 
 She moved away with a short " Oh ! " and the 
 Doctor stood in uncomfortable doubt. 
 
 " Of course, I did not mean to ask, if it is any 
 thing private," the Midge began again, after a 
 moment. " I did not know. If he has told you 
 not to tell me " 
 
 " Oh, no, he didn t," the Doctor interrupted, 
 hastily. " Nothing of the sort. He didn t say a 
 word about you. Only it s a private sort of 
 thing and I don t feel at liberty to talk about it 
 without his permission." 
 
 He was really at a loss. He had never had a 
 secret from the Midge, and the situation was very 
 unpleasant to him. He wanted to give her some 
 hint that Hathaway was in trouble ; but he knew 
 her too well to risk it. He could foresee the 
 questions she would ask him. She would not 
 inquire into the nature of the difficulty ; but, 
 sooner or later, she would ask if Hathaway had 
 done anything wrong, and she would receive his 
 answer with absolute confidence. What was he 
 to say ? 
 
 "It isn t that I don t trust you, Midge," he 
 began, awkwardly ; but she came back to him 
 with a bright laugh, and rubbed her cheek against 
 his shoulder, and talked to him as though he were 
 a child. 
 
 " Oh, you dear old thing I understand ! Did 
 you think I was angry ? " She grasped the lapels 
 of his coat, and pretended to shake him. " It is
 
 !86 THE MIDGE. 
 
 just like you. You are the soul of honor, and 
 you are just conscience all over, and I am glad of 
 it. There ! " and she kissed him " What do I 
 want to know about your Mr. Paul Hathaway ? 
 Go and get your traveling-bag, and I will pack it 
 for you. How many shirts do you want?" 
 
 The next evening Dr. Peters was in Washing 
 ton. He slept that night at a hotel, and went 
 down to breakfast the next morning at the com 
 mon table, where no Midge sat opposite him, 
 bright and fresh in flowery Watteau morning- 
 wrapper. He did not like it at all, and in spite 
 of his strange surroundings, through all his sense 
 of discomfort and disturbance, he somehow felt 
 as if it were the Midge who had gone away from 
 him, and not he who had left the Midge behind.
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 ENERAL BUEL BEECHAM sat at his 
 V J desk and listened rather impatiently to Dr. 
 Peters. General Beecham was gray -bearded, with 
 a thin, cold, rather handsome face a New Eng 
 land face ; the face of a man certainly self-con 
 scious, selfish perhaps, intelligent, determined, 
 and strong in the kind of pride that comes dan 
 gerously close to morbid vanity. 
 
 The Doctor was talking slowly but earnestly, 
 in his low, even voice. General Beecham listened; 
 but he played with a paper-knife, and looked out 
 of the window, where the January breeze was 
 whirling a thin faint fall of snow hither and 
 thither. 
 
 " I really don t see what I have to do with this 
 matter," he said irritably, as the Doctor paused. 
 " I have no connection at all with the case, Mr. 
 Mr. Peters. You appear to think that it rests 
 with me to determine what shall be done. You 
 are in error. And even if even if I had the 
 influence you suppose me to have, I should see 
 no reason no reason whatever for interfering. 
 I am sorry for your young friend, of course ; but, 
 
 187
 
 1 88 THE MIDGE. 
 
 as far as I can judge from what you have said, 
 he is unquestionably guilty of a grave offense 
 against the honor of the service, and an offense 
 that calls for exemplary punishment. I certainly 
 should not let my private feeling of pity for the 
 young man interfere with my obvious duty as a 
 public officer. And I may say, Mr. Mr. 
 excuse me Mr. Peters, that if you knew to 
 whom you were speaking, you would hardly 
 proffer such a request." He had worked himself 
 up into something like indignation a sublimated 
 testiness, as though he felt that he ought to feel 
 offended. 
 
 " I rather think I know you, General Beech- 
 am," said Dr. Peters, in the same quiet, slow 
 way. 
 
 General Beecham s lower jaw suddenly set 
 itself against the upper with a peculiar and signi 
 ficant firmness. 
 
 " I don t understand you, sir." 
 
 The Doctor was unmoved. 
 
 " Seems to me I ve met you before, General. 
 I was in the soldiering way once myself, and you 
 were a colonel then. Met you only once ; but I 
 think you ll remember it if I recall the circum 
 stances to you. You inquired my name then, 
 and, if my memory is correct, I didn t give it to 
 you. But I guess you remember me, all the 
 same. You had your quarters at old Mammy 
 Chapin s then, back of Vicksburg, and the time
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 189 
 
 I met you was the time I took a young man to 
 you who had made a bad slip, and who was sorry 
 for it afterwards." 
 
 " Yes," said General Beecham : " I think I 
 know you now." 
 
 He spoke almost mechanically. His face had 
 suddenly grown stern and troubled. He sat 
 perfectly still, holding the paper-knife balanced in 
 his hand, his eyes still staring out of the window, 
 where the snow-powder whirled in the wind. The 
 Doctor followed his gaze with a glance as absent 
 and absorbed. He did not see the snow or the 
 January sky. His memory was full of a day of 
 summer heat, of dust-laden air, trembling under 
 an intolerable glare of blue sky. 
 
 Captain Evert Peters, U. S. A., had been riding 
 up the road that ran over the hills near the 
 river, stretched across the broad depression that 
 lay between them and the rise of ground far to 
 the west, and disappeared on the hazy horizon. 
 
 He had been over a year at the front ; but he 
 had no stomach for the ride along that road. 
 There had been some sharp righting down below, 
 near the old Waters place ; the federal attack 
 had been repulsed three or four hours before, and 
 ever since daybreak the wounded had been 
 coming in, some in ambulances, some in ox-carts. 
 The heavy vehicles labored along in a low-hang 
 ing cloud of dust. Captain Peters, riding leisurely 
 back toward his quarters, got sick of passing the
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 long train with its endless succession of suffering 
 faces. They were silent, the most of the wounded, 
 but they were hot and thirsty and worn out with 
 pain and fatigue ; and sometimes they groaned 
 or swore or asked vainly for the water that was 
 not at hand. Just as he turned from the road to 
 follow a bridle-path that led across the fields, a 
 team of oxen lumbered by, drawing a heavy 
 wagon. In the bottom lay three men, one with 
 a blanket over his legs. A negro drove, sitting 
 sidewise on the high seat, his legs swinging over 
 the front wheels. He was whistling with amiable 
 cheerfulness ; but he stopped his music to answer 
 a low moan from the man with the blanket over 
 his legs. 
 
 " D r ain t none, honey," he said, soothingly: 
 " I done tol you a piece back dah wa n t none. 
 I m dreffle dry myse f, honey fo Gawd I wisht 
 I had some water myse f I do, shuah." His tone 
 had an exaggerated earnestness, as if he were 
 sympathizing with a child, and he spoke of his 
 own need of water as a consoling consideration. 
 
 Captain Peters shook his canteen it was 
 empty. With a sigh for the cruelty of it all he 
 had got beyond the first case-hardened period of 
 soldierly indifference he jerked his horse s head 
 to one side and left the road behind him. 
 
 " Seems as though they ought to have water, 
 anyway," he said to himself. 
 
 The bridle-path ran through a piece of woods,
 
 THE MIDGE. ICjI 
 
 and Captain Peters took off his cap as he entered 
 the quiet shade. His eye rested gratefully on the 
 cool spaces among the trees. He felt for a 
 moment a sense of relaxation ; of being out of 
 the ugly business ; a more than physical relief. 
 It was only for a moment, however ; the sight of 
 a man and a horse ahead of him brought him up 
 with tense muscles and alert nerves. 
 
 The man stood by the horse, tightening the 
 saddle-girth. He was hardly a man, the captain 
 saw, at a second glance. He was tall and well 
 built ; but he could not well have been sixteen 
 years old. His clothes were ragged and worn, 
 and much too small for him. The stained, 
 patched shirt of blue flannel was too tight at the 
 collar to button around his neck, and the short 
 sleeves showed half of his white forearm. The 
 clothes and the man did not belong together. 
 The man gave the lie to his garments. 
 
 Captain Peters had a good minute in which to 
 make these observations. His horse had stepped 
 softly on the grass, and the boy did not look up 
 until he had finished his work at the girth. Then 
 he turned on the Captain a handsome, thin-fea 
 tured young face, that went from a ghastly white 
 to a furious red. The Captain knew the face. 
 He had seen it two days before, at the railroad 
 station. 
 
 " That s Beecham s boy," some one had said. 
 " He s come down to serve on the general s staff,
 
 jo, 2 THE MIDGE. 
 
 with his father. Beecham took him out of 
 school to bring him here." 
 
 " Looks too pretty for practical use," some one 
 else had commented. 
 
 " Young man," said Captain Peters, gravely, 
 "what are you doing here ? " 
 
 The boy began to pull at the girth again, his 
 face away from the speaker. 
 
 " I don t know what business that is of yours, 
 sir," he replied with tremulous insolence. 
 
 " / do," said the Captain : " elk ! " 
 
 He gave a click with his tongue, at which his 
 horse raised his head. The boy started, and, look 
 ing up, followed with his eyes the line in which 
 the young officer s outstretched forefinger pointed. 
 There was a small morocco traveling satchel lying 
 on the ground at the feet of Beecham "s boy. 
 
 " Pick that up," said Captain Peters, calmly : 
 " lead that horse of yours that girth 11 do as it 
 is and come along with me." 
 
 "And suppose I won t?" asked the boy, his 
 blood once more in his cheeks. 
 
 " I ll shoot you, my son," said the Captain. 
 
 Young Beecham looked at him, and breathed 
 hard and fast for a few irresolute moments. 
 
 "What right have you ?" he began. 
 
 "It s no use talking, my boy," the Captain 
 interrupted, with grim good nature; "Anybody 
 has got the right. Does your father know what 
 you re doing ? "
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 193 
 
 The question, suddenly and vigorously put, 
 was too much for the boy. He threw up his 
 hands in a wild way, and his voice was broken 
 with half-hysterical sobs, as he cried out : 
 
 " No ! I don t care ! no, he doesn t. Yes, I m ( 
 running away. That s it. You may call me a 
 coward or anything else you want to. I don t 
 care I don t care, I say ! I can t stand it. It 
 makes me sick. I didn t know what it was I 
 thought I wanted to come here but I didn t 
 know what it was. I m not afraid of being killed 
 if any one says so, he s a liar. I d rather die 
 than see it all. Oh, it s awful awful ! " He 
 pressed his palms to his eyes, his ringers clutch 
 ing his head. " I ve been up since five o clock, 
 watching them come in," he went on ; " and it 
 almost drove me crazy. For God s sake, take 
 me anywhere anywhere where I won t see 
 them. I don t care what you do with me send 
 me to prison only let me get away from this 
 terrible place." 
 
 The Captain s voice gave no hint of either 
 sympathy or disdain, as he said : 
 
 " Get on that horse, young man, and come 
 along with me." 
 
 The boy obeyed, silently. He hung his head. 
 His eyes were wet with the ready tears of youth. 
 They rode on together through the woods, hear 
 ing no sound save the breaking of dry twigs 
 under their horses hoofs, and the rustle and 
 13
 
 194 
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 whirr of an occasional frightened bird, flying 
 away at their approach. 
 
 Finally the Captain spoke. 
 
 " Who gave you those clothes ? " 
 
 " These clothes ? " the boy repeated, anxiously. 
 
 " Your father s servant, wasn t it ? the nigger." 
 
 Young Beecham lifted his head. 
 
 " I shan t tell you," he said. " You have no 
 right to ask me that." 
 
 "Just so," the Captain assented; "that s a fact. 
 I haven t." 
 
 They passed out of the woods in silence, and 
 struck the road. They were not pushing their 
 horses ; but the pace at which they traveled 
 brought them up with the rear of the ambulance 
 train in a few minutes. The last wagon was the 
 one which Captain Peters had noticed when he 
 left the road. Something had caused it to drop 
 behind the others. As they came alongside it, 
 the Captain remembered the wounded man who 
 had asked for water. 
 
 " Is there anything in your canteen ? " he de 
 manded, turning to the boy, who was staring at 
 the wagon load with a sickened fascination. 
 
 Beecham took the tin flask from his pocket. 
 " There s water in it," he said. 
 
 Captain Peters rode up and hailed the negro 
 driver, who was whistling still, but somewhat less 
 cheerily, as though the burden and heat of the 
 day were beginning to wear on him, too. He
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 195 
 
 stopped his team, and the Captain thrust the 
 flask over the side of the wagon. Two of the 
 occupants were sitting propped up against the 
 back of the seat. One was wounded in the 
 shoulder, and the other was badly cut about the 
 head, which was swathed in rough bandages. 
 Both of them drank, acknowledging the atten 
 tion with eager grunts. The negro looked on 
 with mutely yearning eyes. When the second 
 man handed the canteen back it was empty. 
 The Captain glanced at the third man, the one 
 who had lain with a blanket over his legs. The 
 blanket covered his whole body now, and his 
 upturned face. 
 
 The man with the wounded shoulder saw 
 Captain Peters s glance, and spoke. 
 " He don t want no water no more." 
 The other sufferer lifted his head, swaddled in 
 dirty white, directed a wink of sinister humor at 
 the Captain, and said to his comrade : 
 " How do you know he don t, Pete ? " 
 The Captain looked at young Beecham. He 
 was shaking with an aguish tremor. They hur 
 ried on, riding down the long line; and until 
 they had taken the cross-road that led to Colonel 
 Beecham s quarters, the boy kept his head 
 averted, looking off the road to the bare and 
 dusty fields. 
 
 When they came in sight of the little hill on 
 which the old Waters house stood, Beecham
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 grew pale and made a motion to check his horse. 
 He saw the Captain looking at him, and he 
 pressed on. But his boy s face expressed an 
 emotion of mortal anguish. He was suffering 
 as only young things can suffer. 
 
 There was a little clump of bushes and low 
 trees near the gate of the place. When they 
 reached it, Peters spoke, as quietly as ever. 
 " Stay here till I come back. You hear me ? " 
 The boy nodded, with an effort. Captain 
 Peters rode up to the house, and in five minutes 
 he had said what he had to say to Colonel 
 Beecham, and the two men were walking down 
 to the spot where the boy stood, motionless as 
 death, with his tortured white face turned expect 
 antly toward them. 
 
 General Beecham was more than twenty years 
 older, his black beard had gone gray, a score 
 years of ambition and successful struggle had 
 hardened his handsome features ; but the face 
 that stared in blank misery out of the window of 
 the office in Washington was the same face that 
 when Peters had last seen it had reflected the 
 shame and agony of that younger face that to 
 day was but a memory. 
 
 General Beecham s eyes did not leave the 
 window as he spoke to the Doctor, in a harsh, 
 constrained voice, picking his words with evident 
 distaste for speaking at all.
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 197 
 
 " At the time I met you, Captain Peters 
 pardon me you are Captain Peters still ? " 
 
 " Plain mister/ now," said the Doctor. 
 
 " Captain Peters," the General resumed, with 
 a slight inclination of his head, and a quietly 
 dignified insistence in his tone : " I told you, at 
 that time, that you had put me under the great 
 est obligation of my life. It has been the only 
 obligation of my life. I have never " 
 
 " Excuse me ! " broke in the Doctor ; and at 
 his tone General Beecham started and wheeled 
 round in his chair, his eyes opening wider as 
 they rested on the speaker. " / told you at that 
 time, General Beecham, that you were under no 
 obligation whatever to me. What I did, I did 
 not do to oblige you, or to oblige any one ; but 
 because I felt that the boy had a right to be 
 judged mercifully." 
 
 There was nearly a minute of silence between 
 the two men. Then General Beecham got up 
 and went to the window and drummed on the 
 pane. 
 
 " Do you know about my boy afterwards ? " 
 he asked, slowly. 
 
 " In Virginia ? " 
 
 " Yes. He led his company, you know, when 
 Mcllvaine was shot ? " 
 
 " I heard about it," said the Doctor. 
 
 General Beecham came back from the window. 
 
 " I have a letter here," he began, with an
 
 198 
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 anxious eagerness in his manner, " which Craw 
 ford Colonel John Crawford you know him ? 
 wrote me at the time. I d like you to see it." 
 
 His fingers were shaky as he took out his 
 wallet and drew from it a discolored paper, folded 
 and cracked at the folds. He spread it out care 
 fully, almost tenderly, before he gave it to the 
 Doctor. Then he smiled in a wan way. " I ve 
 often wanted to meet you, Captain," he went on : 
 " to show it to you. He was only seventeen 
 then. He would have been thirty-nine this Janu 
 ary, if " 
 
 The Doctor pretended to read the paper on 
 his lap ; but he had no heart to try to make 
 sense of it. He only remembered afterward 
 that old-fashioned Colonel Crawford wrote : " An 
 act of such exceptional Gallantry, performed by 
 one so Young, merits the highest commendation 
 from his Superior Officer." 
 
 General Beecham was again drumming on the 
 window-pane. 
 
 " I thank you, Captain Peters," he said, some 
 what awkwardly, " for pointing out to me that it 
 was my duty to look at this matter in a rather 
 more Christian light to to make allowances. 
 I suppose we all we all need these reminders 
 from time to time. This has been painful to me, 
 of course ; but I am glad to have had the oppor 
 tunity of letting you know how Buel how my 
 boy retrieved his " he paused " his error."
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 I 99 
 
 " I knew it before," said the Doctor, rising ; 
 " or I should not have spoken." 
 
 General Beecham dropped into his seat, and 
 stroked his gray beard with a thin, nervous hand. 
 
 " Of course, of course, you understand, Cap 
 tain Peters after what you have said, I shall 
 certainly look into this matter, and I shall see 
 what can be done for your young friend. Your 
 opinion of the case must naturally go a long way 
 with me. And you must pardon me if if I did 
 not take this view of it, at first. The clemency 
 of the department has been so outrageously abused 
 are you staying in Washington for any length 
 of time?" 
 
 " I leave to-night," the Doctor told him. 
 
 " I should have liked to to show you some 
 thing well, never mind."
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE weary trip from Baltimore to New York 
 came hard on the Doctor. A sense of de 
 pression for which he could not account weighed 
 on him with a discomfort that was almost physi 
 cal. He had succeeded in his mission ; yet he 
 felt down-cast and troubled. He tried to reason 
 it out with himself, but he could not. Perhaps, 
 he thought, it was the stirring up of old memories 
 that had made him feel old himself. Perhaps it 
 was merely the natural effect of a first absence 
 from home and from the dear child whose pres 
 ence made all that he meant when he said to 
 himself, " home." 
 
 " It s my stomach," he concluded, as he got 
 out of a University Place car at Houston Street. 
 " I ll go to Pigault s and get a nip of brandy to 
 settle those sawdust sandwiches at Wilmington. 
 I shall frighten the Midge if I go home like 
 this." 
 
 Pigault s had changed within the past year or 
 so. It was no longer a brasserie it was rather 
 an American bar-room. The little crowd that 
 had formerly come, night after night, to drink
 
 THE MIDGE. 2O1 
 
 mild potations of beer and play long games of 
 dominos, had somehow melted away. The Doc 
 tor had been the first to depart ; then M. Marie 
 had gone up town, to teach in a fashionable school 
 (and ultimately to run away with a German brew 
 er s daughter, and to be forgiven and made a slave 
 of authority among the slaves in the brewery 
 counting-room); Mr. Martin was dead, and little 
 Potain was in the lunatic asylum on Blackwell s 
 Island, all day long reading a newspaper aloud to 
 an imaginary wife. And, for one reason or an 
 other, they had all deserted the place. The 
 "young fellows " of the quarter had it pretty well 
 to themselves now. There was a pool-table in 
 the rear of the room. Mme. Pigault sat no more 
 behind the desk. A barkeeper with a black 
 moustache and a white apron mixed drinks with 
 agility and despatch, shoved his compositions to 
 one set of customers with his left hand, and 
 grasped a fresh bottle in his right as he hailed the 
 next lot with " Well, gents, what ll it be ? " 
 
 Half way down the counter swung a screen, 
 shutting off the further half from the sight of 
 people at the door. There was a general deteri 
 oration, moral and material, about the place; but 
 this was its last and worst sign. 
 
 The Doctor, who had all his life drank what 
 he had a right to drink in the face of all the world, 
 carefully placed himself between the screen and 
 the door, and asked for a "pony" of brandy. As
 
 202 THE MIDGE. 
 
 the barkeeper poured it out, he heard a familiar 
 voice at the other side of the screen. Bending 
 forward enough to glance down the bar, he saw 
 Piero and young Goubaud, the puffy-faced, weak, 
 absinthe-drinking son of the house of Goubaud. 
 
 The place had indeed run down. The Doctor 
 was no aristocrat, neither had the line of caste 
 been sharply drawn in the old brasserie, as he 
 remembered it ; but such a couple as this would 
 never have been allowed to hang over the bar in 
 the days when Mme. Pigault s comely presence 
 graced the other side of that piece of furniture. 
 Goubaud s voice was husky, and Piero was talk 
 ing so loud and laughing so much, that the Doc 
 tor felt sure that the man of maritime ways was 
 taking a sailor s privilege. 
 
 At the moment, he was urgently asserting that 
 some one was a good man. 
 
 " Oh, yes," he said, " he is a good man. I 
 know im ten fifteen twenty yeah. He good 
 man fairs rate boss vair damn good man." 
 
 Young Goubaud had his doubts about this, and 
 expressed them with thick earnestness, reiterating 
 after the fashion of a man who exploits an old 
 grievance. 
 
 " I do know," he grumbled, " I do know bout 
 zat. I tell you, seh, I do know bout zat. Ouat 
 fo he ouant take money out my pipple s pocket 
 fo ? I tell you, M sieu Piero, I tell you, seh, he 
 don t had no right fo to take zat ge l away f om
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 203 
 
 w eh she ouas sen to bo d. I tell you, M sieu 
 Piero, zat ouas not ho-no-nz-ble no. My poo 
 fazzer, zat take ze money out f om his pocket, 
 same you put yo hand in an take it out." 
 
 " Ouell," said Piero, consolingly, " zat all a-ight 
 now he don kip her no mo , I guess. Zat 
 young fel , he take her away prit soon, I guess. 
 She laike young man betteh as ol man." 
 
 " Zat se v him raight, M sieu Piero," said 
 young Goubaud, with Rhadamanthine severity : 
 I tell you, M sieu Piero, I tell you " 
 
 Piero laughed loudly, the humor of the situa 
 tion growing on him. 
 
 " I guess he don kip her fo himse f no more 
 young fel get her ol man ain t got no show." 
 And he laughed still more noisily. 
 
 The Doctor, facing the screen, half raised his 
 clenched fists. Then a look of disgust came 
 over his face ; the steely fire went out of his eyes, 
 and he turned away, and walked out of the place 
 utterly sick at heart. 
 
 The barkeeper looked at the untouched glass 
 and the quarter of a dollar lying beside it. He 
 poured the brandy back into the bottle. " Old gent 
 seems to be pretty well rattled," he said to himself. 
 Then he put the quarter in the till, took out ten 
 cents in change, and carefully put the ten cents 
 under the cheese-safe at the end of the bar, where 
 
 there were various other coins already deposited. 
 *****
 
 204 
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 The Doctor could hardly bear to go on his way 
 and meet the Midge, yet he did, and so controlled 
 himself that she saw only his obvious fatigue and 
 exhaustion. She made him go through the mo 
 tions of eating a bit of supper, and gave him a 
 glass of the hottest hot punch that affection and 
 boiling water could produce, and then sent him 
 to bed. She had asked him nothing about the 
 business on which he had gone not even 
 whether he had been successful or no. She had 
 only expressed her delight at having him back, 
 treating him royally to her rare kisses, and rally 
 ing him brightly on his desertion of her. And 
 he had taken her caresses and had returned 
 them, with a sense of absolute shame, with a 
 feeling of guilt, as though he were receiving 
 something under false pretenses. 
 
 When he got into his own room he did not 
 go to bed he tried to think it all over. It was 
 shocking it was shameful but he had to admit 
 that it was something that he should have fore 
 seen. It was a vile thing that there should be 
 people to talk and think as those two louts in 
 the bar-room had talked and thought. But then 
 he had always known what the world was. Was 
 any one to blame except himself because he 
 had found out what he ought to have expected, 
 if he had used his brains ? He had been watch 
 ing the Midge, furtively, in the half hour during 
 which she had let him sit up and be nursed and
 
 THE MIDGE. 20$ 
 
 petted. But he had had no need to make the 
 inspection. From the moment that he had 
 heard Piero s speech the Midge had ceased to be 
 the Midge to him she had become a woman. 
 He marveled how it was that he had looked at 
 her before and had made no more of her sex 
 than if she had been his sister, or a piece of 
 furniture. He could never think of her in that 
 way again. She was a woman. She was not 
 only a woman, but a pretty woman. And more 
 than that, she was a charming and fascinating 
 woman, radiant with that mysterious power 
 which is given to some women irrespective of 
 beauty or cleverness the power of making men 
 admire and love and worship and long for them. 
 He had seen it all before, of course, but he 
 had not been conscious that he saw. Now he 
 saw, indeed. He had looked at her a thousand 
 times with fond affection, as she moved about 
 the rooms, busying herself with little duties, 
 singing softly to herself, fetching and carrying this 
 or that for his comfort and convenience. But 
 she had been, in a way, a part of him, a part of 
 his life. He had had no consciousness of her as 
 a distinct being as one of the women who make 
 up the other half of our world. Now, all of a 
 sudden, he could look at her from a distance, 
 and take note and cognizance of her as though 
 she were a stranger. Now, for the first time, it 
 meant something to him that she was graceful as
 
 2o6 THE MIDGE. 
 
 she moved, as she lifted her head, as she turned 
 her delicate white wrists ; that her face was full 
 of quick changing expressions ; that her voice 
 had tones like music, mysteriously expressive, 
 provoking, alluring; that she could, when she 
 pleased, turn to him and make manifest in her 
 whole bearing a thought of love or tenderness 
 that was in itself a caress. He did not formulate 
 this in clean-cut thought ; but as an emotion it 
 was forcibly present and real to him. And in 
 all the whirl of puzzled feeling and thinking in 
 which he found himself, one idea came over and 
 over again to him, and he drove it angrily away, 
 and tried to put it aside, and was ashamed that it 
 should come back to him over and over again. 
 * * * * * 
 
 The next day he went to see Paul Hathaway. 
 Mr. Hathaway was living in a certain caravan 
 sary in Clinton Place, that did not call itself a 
 lodging house, but that had " furnished rooms to 
 let." It had been a grand old house in its time. 
 The mahogany folding-doors were there still, 
 though they never rolled back in their grooves, 
 opening the great archway between the two 
 parlors ; for an actress had the back parlor, and 
 a chiropodist was in front. A great many people 
 knew that old house who would not care to boast 
 of their acquaintance with it. Many lively and 
 rather disreputable young Bohemians, and many 
 dull and respectable dry-goods clerks have occu-
 
 THE MIDGE, 
 
 2O7 
 
 pied those dingy rooms. The men who gave 
 that word " Bohemian " its meaning to New 
 Yorkers, men who live now only as traditions ; 
 men who have reformed themselves into Philis 
 tine solidity, men who have made themselves 
 great and honored in literature ; men who are 
 still staking body and soul against drink and 
 poverty and general degradation scores of such 
 men have taken their turn in that queer lodging- 
 house, and have gone on their hurried way 
 through youth. 
 
 Many a bright boy has clattered over the 
 marble pavement of that great hall-way, swung 
 himself up the mighty spiral staircase, bolted 
 into his little room on the third or fourth floor, 
 and found the letter there from the great maga 
 zine, respectfully declining his poem. Then he 
 has cursed the magazine for a ring-ridden hum 
 bug, run by a clique of selfish old-fashioned 
 harpies of literature, in league with that hypo 
 critical dunderhead, the complimentary, polite, 
 regretful, manuscript-returning editor. And he 
 has dashed off, of a Saturday night, maybe, to 
 forget it and seek a happier world in the wretched 
 holes so near at hand, with vile drink and with 
 viler company. And on the morrow he has 
 wakened to find in a headache and an empty 
 purse the result of all such experiments in con 
 solation, and he has sent off a letter to well, the 
 likeliest man he knew, asking for a dollar or two,
 
 2o8 THE MIDGE. 
 
 for God s sake: and if the dollar or two came, he 
 has bought brandy and soda, and has sat him 
 down to write a poem on his headache, which he 
 has sent to the magazine he cursed the night be 
 fore, and to which he has sworn a hundred times 
 never to apply again, and from which he surely 
 gets back that liberal-spirited lay. And if the 
 dollar or two did not come, why, he lay in bed, 
 and listened to the church-bells, and crawled out 
 when the freshness of the day was gone, to wait, 
 breakfastless, for dinner-time. 
 
 What becomes of such boys ? One whom I 
 knew, lodging in that very house, is now a 
 "prominent" leather-dealer in the swamp. He 
 would draw his check for a thousand dollars if I 
 would let him destroy that scrap-book of his 
 poems now in my possession. Another is the 
 distinguished and successful litterateur there is 
 a point where a successful writer ceases to be a 
 literary man and clearly becomes a litterateur 
 who is now in Europe, purchasing choice olive- 
 wood for his library shelves. A third is in a 
 little cemetery near Schenectady, where the 
 f Seneca grass fills the wind with its old-time scent, 
 all summer long. 
 
 The Doctor climbed the long dark sweep 
 of three stairs, and entered Hathaway s tiny 
 room, where the yellow walls were covered with 
 water-color sketches. There were other sketches 
 tied up in a bundle, and the open trunk was evi-
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 209 
 
 dently in process of packing. The Doctor saw 
 it and smiled. He had been a boy, and had dis 
 counted Fate, in his time. 
 
 Hathaway looked haggard and tired ; but his 
 eyes were brighter, for the Doctor had sent him 
 a cheery note from Washington, and his sky had 
 begun to clear already. Still, he was very humble 
 and gentle, and his humility and submission 
 seemed strangely out of keeping with his bright, 
 aggressive youth. 
 
 He gave the Doctor his one chair, and sat on 
 the bed, which was not yet made up, while he 
 listened to the report. He thanked his friend 
 gratefully and simply ; but his cheerfulness did 
 not come back to him. He went over his story 
 again, and the Doctor learned of a number of 
 palliative facts which the boy had been too proud 
 to adduce in his own defense while his fate was 
 in the balance. 
 
 When it was done, the Doctor sat looking at 
 the young man, as he lay half-stretched-out on 
 the tumbled bed. Neither spoke for a while, and 
 then Hathaway said, staring hard at the small pil 
 low, out of which he was trying to pluck a feather : 
 
 "I suppose, after this, sir, that you ll object 
 that is, that you won t want that you had 
 rather I wouldn t see Miss Lois Miss Talbot." 
 
 The Doctor rose, thrust his hands into his 
 trousers pockets, and stood looking down at his 
 boots. 
 
 14
 
 2io THE MIDGE. 
 
 " No," he said, after a while, drawing in his 
 breath through his closed lips, and speaking 
 thoughtfully : " no, my boy, I had rather you 
 would see her. That is, if it s going to prevent you 
 from seeing the kind of thing you have seen." 
 
 "You re too too devilish good to me, Dr. 
 Peters," cried the boy. 
 
 " Nonsense," said the Doctor, absent-mindedly. 
 He was thinking how the Midge and he between 
 them could be of help to young Hathaway. 
 
 " Do you, don t you think perhaps I ought " 
 the young man began, stammering. The Doctor 
 smiled. 
 
 " I think not, Hathaway," he said : " there s 
 no reason why she should ever know anything 
 about it. It s closed and done with now, and 
 you know more than you did, and we might as 
 well drop the subject. Besides " his face grew 
 grave " women can not be made to look at these 
 things as men do. You don t want to think of it." 
 He grew graver still as he considered the possi 
 bility. He knew the Midge s code of honor his 
 own, passed through the close small filter of a 
 woman s ignorant purity. He shook his head 
 and put the question aside. " Come around to 
 morrow evening," he said: " I shall probably have 
 heard from Washington by that time." 
 
 When Hathaway came around that next even 
 ing, the Doctor had heard from Washington. 
 General Beecham wrote that Mr. Hathaway
 
 THE MIDGE, 2 1 1 
 
 would be permitted to resign, without further 
 investigation into the charges already preferred, 
 and that Sefior Garcia had been informed that if 
 he was wise he would refrain from pressing his 
 demands, and would thus avoid certain inquiries 
 which our representatives would otherwise be 
 instructed to make into his financial transactions 
 with certain gentlemen in the naval service of the 
 United States. 
 
 The letter enclosed to Captain Peters an item 
 from a newspaper of 1864, giving an account of 
 the erection of a tablet in the college chapel at 
 Williamstown, to the memory of Lieutenant 
 Buel Beecham, the gallant young soldier, who 
 fell in the Battle of the Wilderness a tribute 
 from his affectionate class-mates. 
 
 ***** 
 
 As he was on his way home from Clinton Place, 
 the Doctor met Father Dube, slowly pacing down 
 past the dreary gray front of the University build 
 ing, which looked, that dull winter day, more 
 than ever like some huge pasteboard toy. 
 
 The two men greeted each other warmly, for 
 they had not met often of late. 
 
 " I have not seen you in an age," said the 
 Father, pressing Doctor Peters s hand. " Give me 
 news of yourself, and of the little one. She is not 
 married yet, eh?" 
 
 " No," replied the Doctor, uneasily ; " I can t 
 find any man good enough for her."
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 " No," assented Father Dube ; " I know but 
 one, and he is too modest." 
 
 His eyes made his meaning clear. The Doc 
 tor flushed hotly. Dube laid a large hand on his 
 shoulder. 
 
 " Why should I not say it," he remonstrated, 
 kindly. " I am sure it would be for the best, for 
 both of you. It is only we priests who ought 
 not to marry. For you others, it is a duty." 
 
 " You oughtn t to talk in that way to a man 
 of my age, Dube," said the Doctor. He was 
 awkward and uncomfortable, and conscious of 
 himself. 
 
 " Of your age ? What is your age ? You are 
 forty forty-five ? " 
 
 " Forty-six." 
 
 " Bah ! what is that ? You are young you 
 are strong ; you lead a good life you are young. 
 I am sixty-four. It is not so terrible to be sixty- 
 four. Why should you not marry? Why not ? 
 Will some stranger the first boy you meet 
 will he be so kind to her as you ? Ah, well, I 
 have said enough. You will not come to me 
 when you marry. But I will bless you all the 
 same. Good-bye, my friend." 
 
 The Doctor walked rapidly across the Park. 
 He felt like a boy, like a fool, but his heart was 
 beating fast, and he was saying to himself, while 
 his cheeks burnt : 
 
 " Why not ? why not ? "
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 WHY not ? He had refused to entertain the 
 thought ; he had turned it away from him 
 and bade it begone. But it had been brought 
 back to him, and now that he was forced to let it 
 in, and to look it in the face, what was there 
 about it that should make him refuse it hospi 
 tality ? It was not a mean or unworthy thought 
 it seemed, indeed, when once he looked at it 
 face to face, simple, natural and beautiful. After 
 all, wherein was it strange ? When a man and a 
 woman loved each other, they married. And did 
 not he love this woman, and did not she love 
 him ? Only was it with the same love ? 
 
 Ah, he was gone. From the moment that he- 
 asked himself that question, and that the answer 
 ing doubt came with its sudden chill to his heart, 
 the Doctor had slipped from the safe ground of 
 pure reason, and was groping about in that dim 
 wild dreamland of uncertainty in which, since 
 time began, every lover has walked his appointed 
 time; in which every lover shall walk until time 
 shall end. There are no exemptions or exceptions, 
 there are no classes or conditions for those who 
 
 213
 
 214 
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 enter that strange limbo. Great or small, wise 
 or foolish, they wander hither and thither in the 
 mist, led by flickering lights and great revealing 
 flashes, cast down in deathly darkness, and 
 wakened again by a warm glow on the far hori 
 zon. And so they must wander, until they go 
 out of the place by one of two gates. And for 
 those that go out by the one gate, the light of the 
 morning is on their faces ; and for those that go 
 out by the other gate, may God have pity on 
 them ! 
 
 He was no better off now, for all his years and 
 his brains and his doctoring and his soldiering, 
 than the veriest boy that ever tied his heart to a 
 ribbon or went at night to look at a common 
 brick-and-mortar house because of a woman 
 sleeping somewhere in it. 
 
 He had to ask the same question of Fate, 
 and to ask it with the same knowledge that the 
 answer could not be affected by any will or wish 
 of his of the woman he loved. It was to be, or 
 it was not to be, and he, and she, perhaps, must 
 wait for the revelation. 
 
 He was at his own door before he knew it, 
 and he found himself wondering how he should 
 meet the Midge. Two minutes later K he found 
 himself meeting her and talking with her calmly 
 and quietly, without embarrassment, without con 
 fusion, with no sense of awkwardness whatever. 
 
 For the first time he looked at this comrade
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 215 
 
 of years, at this child grown a woman under his 
 care ; and knew that he wanted her for his wife. 
 As far as he could make out, he ought to have 
 been nervous and constrained. Perhaps he 
 ought to have been ashamed of himself. But, 
 as a matter of fact, he was not nervous, or con 
 strained, or ashamed. He did not understand 
 the change in his own attitude ; but he was con 
 scious of it. An hour before, he had blushed at 
 the mere idea. Now he was as shameless about 
 it as if he had been King Cophetua and she a 
 beggar-maid with no choice in the matter. 
 
 In truth, as he looked at her and listened to 
 her, he was aware within himself of a certain 
 feeling of triumphant superiority. It was for 
 him to take this dear and lovely creature by the 
 hand and to say to her: " You thought that this 
 was all this sweet companionship and tender 
 affection. But there is more infinitely more 
 and infinitely better, and I will lead you to it." 
 
 The Midge went to bed early that evening, as 
 though in obedience to some unspoken wish of 
 his. He wanted to be alone ; to " have a think," 
 and he had it, by the fire, far into the night. He 
 had looked forward to this hour of self-counsel, 
 but when it came, it was not what he had ex 
 pected it would be. He had thought that he 
 would reason out with himself the question of 
 his right to love the Midge. He found that he 
 regarded that question as settled ; that he looked
 
 2i6 THE MIDGE. 
 
 upon it as an accepted premise, upon which he 
 could base upon which he was basing his cal 
 culations for the future. He was surprised at 
 this ; he had not yet realized that when a man is 
 in love, his intellectual faculties are handed over 
 to the control of the mysterious power within 
 him which takes him in charge and makes an 
 inspired fool of him ; and that he himself does 
 not know how he will argue out the simplest 
 problem in the privacy of his own mind. But it 
 seemed to him that, in some mysterious way, he 
 had quite settled this one thing. Indeed, if he 
 thought at all of the past, it was only to try to 
 trace this new love back over the lines of the 
 old ; to identify the two, and to prove to himself 
 that they had always been the same ; that from 
 the first he had loved her with this very love, 
 that had only been disguised as something like 
 parental affection until the time came for its dis 
 closure as a greater and higher thing. 
 
 But most of his thoughts which were not 
 thoughts, he found ; rather imaginings dealt 
 with the present and the future. 
 
 One idea came to him, at first with a chill, then 
 with a sudden glow of pleased and suggestive 
 anticipation that she did not know all this : that 
 she must be taught to love must be wooed. 
 He must begin a courtship. Indeed, he felt as 
 though he had yet to be introduced to the 
 woman he had to court.
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 Just here, the Doctor s memory took an odd 
 backward twist. He remembered certain boyish 
 thoughts of a certain Alida Jansen, and he 
 understood now why he had been glad when he 
 woke up in his little attic bed-room, and thought 
 that singing-school was to be held that night. 
 
 The courtship began the next day, but not 
 quite in the way the Doctor had planned. He 
 was much surprised to find that his manner 
 toward the Midge had already changed, uncon 
 sciously and involuntarily. It distinctly asserted 
 a masterful superiority. 
 
 Beyond this, he did not make any active move. 
 And for the next few days, in fact, for the next 
 few weeks, he had business other than his own 
 to attend to and it was his custom to attend to 
 other people s business before his own. Mr. 
 Paul Hathaway, now out of the navy, had to be 
 established in life as a self-supporting citizen. 
 This was done, after a little while, more success 
 fully than the Doctor could have hoped. The 
 sympathies of Parker Prout and Jack Wilder 
 being 1 enlisted, Hathaway sold some sketches in 
 Nassau Street, and got some odd jobs on the 
 Morning Record, which was now " illustrated," 
 with outline cuts, conceived in the utmost sim 
 plicity of art. 
 
 But all this involved a great deal of consulta 
 tion and discussion and speculation among the 
 three of them for the Midge was at once called
 
 2 i8 THE MIDGE. 
 
 into their councils. Hathaway called almost 
 every day, and they held long debates over the 
 smallest move he took. The Midge was a 
 modest authority in matters of art, and the 
 Doctor was general business-adviser. The Doc 
 tor felt a particular pride in acquitting himself 
 well of his duties. It seemed to him that he was 
 doing himself credit in the eyes of the Midge, 
 and he was proud and pleased when he con 
 ducted Mr. Hathaway s affairs to a fortunate 
 issue. 
 
 And Hathaway s affairs certainly flourished. 
 Everybody pronounced his sketches clever, and 
 his draughtsmanship worthy of an older hand. 
 Parker Prout said he was going to be a great 
 artist, and there was no doubt whatever that he 
 was facile, adaptive and intelligent. Before the 
 spring was far advanced, he was earning a 
 modest living for himself, and had repaid a 
 small loan from the Doctor. 
 
 So encouraging were Mr. Hathaway s pros 
 pects that in March he engaged in a grand com 
 petition. The New York Montlily proposed to 
 send a ship around the world ; and a famous 
 writer was to recount the history of the voyage. 
 The illustrations were to be made by a famous 
 artist, assisted by a novice in art. All novices 
 in art were invited to compete for the honor, by 
 sending sketches to a chosen committee of artists. 
 The only conditions were that they should be
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 219 
 
 native born and under thirty years of age. With 
 both of these conditions Mr. Hathaway could 
 comply. He sent in his sketches, and in due 
 time was notified that he was one of five most 
 promising contestants, and that the prize would 
 be awarded to the one of these best qualified, by 
 nature and training, for the work. Mr. Hathaway 
 presented himself before the committee with a 
 fluttering but confident heart. 
 
 This came about toward the end of the month, 
 and the breath of April was in the air when, one 
 warm evening, the Doctor and the Midge sat 
 before the ghost of a fire. He felt honestly and 
 innocently proud of having been able to help 
 Hathaway, and he could hold it in no longer. 
 
 " I think our young friend is pretty fairly 
 launched Hathaway, I mean," he said. 
 
 The Midge was sewing, bending low over her 
 work, so that the gaslight fell on her dark hair. 
 She paused to give a woman s speculative, ob 
 servant look at the stuff in her lap before she re 
 sponded. 
 
 " You think it is all right for him for the 
 future?" she said. 
 
 " I think it s a sure thing for him he s almost 
 certain to get it." 
 
 " Then he will go away ? " 
 
 "Why yes. But it s only for a year or so. 
 He ll enjoy the voyage." 
 
 The Midge said nothing.
 
 22O THE MIDGE. 
 
 "It s a grand opportunity for any young man," 
 he went on, meditatively ; " it will be the making 
 of him in his his business." 
 
 " Is it not dangerous ? " hazarded the young 
 woman. 
 
 The Doctor fairly laughed. 
 
 " My dear child ! " he remonstrated, " after a 
 man has been knocking about for years in one 
 of those old tubs that we call men-of-war ! Why 
 he ll think he s safer than he s ever been before 
 in his life. 
 
 Dr. Peters filled and lit his pipe before the 
 Midge spoke again. 
 
 " Evert," she said, " I do not wish to ask too 
 much, or what I should not. But there was 
 some trouble that he was in Mr. Hathaway 
 when you went to Washington. It was trouble, 
 was it not ? " 
 
 " Why, yes," he answered, doubtfully. 
 
 " I do not want to know," she hurried on, 
 " what it was I do not ask that. But was it 
 was it something it was nothing against him ? 
 nothing wrong. 
 
 The Doctor had been prepared for this, in 
 some sort, from the first; but it cost him a quick 
 mental wrench to get his conscience and his logic 
 in accord as he replied, with great firmness and 
 decision : 
 
 " No, my dear." 
 
 He held himself justified in saying this. What-
 
 THE MIDGE. 221 
 
 ever wrong had been done, it was repented of, 
 atoned for, and would never be repeated. To 
 the Doctor it was as though it had not been. 
 What right had he even to speak of a cancelled 
 sin as a present fact ? 
 
 " No," he said once more : " if there had been 
 anything of that kind, my dear anything to 
 make us alter our relations toward the lad, I 
 should have told you. But there was not. He 
 was indiscreet, I suppose ; but-= well, we re all 
 more or less fools, all the humans made on any 
 pattern known up to date ; and he isn t any such 
 startling variety of fool that we need to be too 
 particular with him. No, no, he s a good boy, 
 my dear." 
 
 " I am glad," she said softly, resting her chin 
 on her hand as she looked into the fire. " That 
 there was nothing bad that is well. I could 
 not bear it." 
 
 She spoke with emphasis. The Doctor, still 
 smoking meditatively, nodded approvingly. 
 
 " I know how you feel about those things, my 
 love," he said. 
 
 She began again, a little nervously. 
 
 " Evert, it it you do not think it strange 
 that I ask such a question about his private 
 affairs ? He would not think it was something I 
 had no right to ask about ? " 
 
 " I should think he d feel very much flattered 
 at the interest you take in him," the Doctor re-
 
 222 TH E MIDGE. 
 
 plied, reassuringly. " Indeed, I think you have 
 been particularly friendly and kind to him, Midge. 
 He ought to be grateful to you." 
 
 She rose quickly, and came and seated herself 
 on the arm of his chair. 
 
 " No, it is you who have been good to him 
 you need not tell me I know it. You are good 
 to everybody, Evert." She bent over and kissed 
 him. He smiled with a deep gratification. It 
 was this praise that he had wanted beyond any 
 other reward for well-doing. " You have done 
 everything for him, Evert." 
 
 " No, my dear," he corrected her, with a 
 pleased generosity, " he s done pretty well every 
 thing for himself. You can t do much for a man. 
 He s got to do the doing, in the end. Hathaway s 
 a fine fellow. I hope he ll come back from this 
 trip and settle down and make a position for 
 himself, right here where we can see him. And 
 we shan t be sorry that we gave him a lift when 
 he first needed it, shall we, little one ? " He took 
 her disengaged hand in his. The other fluttered 
 to and fro a dangling trail of fancy-work. The 
 Doctor glanced at the flimsy stuff with careless 
 interest, and smiled. He thought how happy he 
 could be, in all the years to come, sitting thus by 
 the fire and seeing her work inexplicable things 
 in soft materials of which he did not even know 
 the names. 
 
 She did not answer his question directly ; but
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 223 
 
 rose, freeing herself with a motion that was 
 almost a caress, and returned to her seat. 
 
 " You are too good to everybody, Evert," she 
 said, giving her head a sad little shake : " you 
 do not know it ; but you are too good. Some 
 times you make me wish you were not so 
 good." 
 
 The Doctor smiled. " I m not so good, Midge," 
 he said. " You may find me considerable of a 
 bother yet. But I m glad I ve been able to be of 
 some use to that boy Hathaway. And I rather 
 think his future s settled that is, in a business 
 way. I d like to see him safely married, though. 
 He needs it" 
 
 " Why do you think he needs it ? " asked the 
 Midge, quietly. 
 
 The heap of glowing coals in the grate fell 
 with a little crash into a flickering crater. The 
 Doctor stopped to pile up the fire before he 
 replied. 
 
 " Everybody needs it, my dear. When it s a 
 good thing at all, it s the best thing in the world. 
 I should like to have that boy have a fireside " 
 he bent over and poked vigorously at the half- 
 kindled cannel "a fireside, a fireside that s the 
 thing. I don t mean only a grate, and coal and 
 stuff there s a woman goes with every real, 
 genuine fireside. That s what he wants that s 
 what most everybody else wants a woman. 
 A woman, Midge. A man s only half a man if
 
 224 
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 one half of him ain t a woman. That s one of 
 the truths a man s got to learn ; and I ve noticed" 
 he smiled at the fire " that Providence gen 
 erally provides him with a teacher." 
 
 He sat, bending forward, playing with the 
 poker, patting the lumps of cannel till they gently 
 cracked into clean fissures that coaxed the wan 
 dering flames. He was talking as though he 
 were talking to himself. The Midge rose abrupt 
 ly, gathering up her work, and moved toward the 
 door of her room. 
 
 " I m tired, Evert," she said, in the hushed 
 undertone that women use when their thoughts 
 are apart from their speech. " I think I ll go to 
 bed." 
 
 For a moment he made no effort to detain 
 her ; then he stretched out his hand and said : 
 
 "Aren t you going to bid me good-night? " 
 
 She turned back quickly her hand w r as on 
 the handle of the door and kissed him on the 
 forehead. Then she withdrew, with a pleasant 
 rustling of garments. He sat still, smiling at the 
 fire, until the sudden sharp ring of the door-bell 
 below fell on his ear. He heard it sleepily, sitting 
 back and listening with a pleased, absent-minded 
 smile pleased at his own thoughts. Vaguely 
 he heard some one stumble up the stairs ; then 
 there was a knock at the door, and he rose to 
 take a crumpled note from a sleepy messenger- 
 boy.
 
 THE MIDGE. 22$ 
 
 The note was this : 
 
 "March 3ist. 
 " My dear Doctor : 
 
 " I have got the appointment. The committee accepted me 
 without discussion. And now I have something to say to you 
 that will give you pain ; but I cannot help it. I do not feel that 
 I have the right to speak to her without your permission ; but I 
 want to come to-morrow, early, to ask Lois to be my wife. I 
 know what this must be to you but will you forgive me if I 
 take her from you? Lknow that you look upon her as a daugh 
 ter. I know how selfish I must seem, and, believe me, I know 
 what I owe to you. I feel sure that she will say Yes and if I 
 could feel as sure that you would give us both your blessing, I 
 should be happy. 
 
 " Gratefully and truly yours, 
 
 "PAUL HATHAWAY." 
 is
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 HE heard the sleepy messenger-boy thump his 
 doubtful way down the stairs, as he read the 
 last lines of the note. 
 
 Of course. Why had he not known it before 
 why had he not seen it before ?, He felt as if he 
 had been asleep a long time, getting a respite 
 from the burden of some awful truth, and had 
 suddenly awakened to a chill dawning of inevita 
 ble consciousness. 
 
 He thought of it with a horror-stricken sense 
 of shame, as of some omitted duty. What had he 
 done what had he been about to do ? He had 
 meant to ask this woman to be his wife this 
 woman who loved another man. It came to him 
 with a ghastly cold clearness that she would have 
 struggled with herself, would have fought down 
 her love for duty s sake, and would have married 
 him, loving this other man, to be miserable all 
 life long. 
 
 The cold draught from the still open door blew 
 
 in on him. He was dimly conscious of it ; but it 
 
 seemed nothing to him beside the deeper chill 
 
 that had penetrated to his inmost being, para- 
 
 226
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 227 
 
 lyzing his soul. In a blind, mechanical way he 
 rose and moved across the room and shut the 
 door. He thought that he staggered; but he 
 was not sure. His consciousness of himself 
 seemed far removed from the flesh-and-blood 
 automaton that got up from its seat and went to 
 shut a door and stop a draught. 
 
 He had held the letter in his hand all the time. 
 It was in his hand when he sat down again. 
 With an absolutely, involuntary motion, he raised 
 it to the level of his eyes two or three times, and 
 each time his eyes wandered away, seeing noth 
 ing save some most commonplace and meaning 
 less bit of their surroundings a corner of the 
 mantelpiece, the bow of the ribbon that tied the 
 window-curtains back, his pipe, lying on the 
 table, half full of lifeless gray ashes. 
 
 He felt this an unpardonable weakness, and 
 pulled himself together, with scowling brows. 
 He read the letter half through, and then had to 
 read it over again. He had understood the 
 words, as each one had come under his eye ; but 
 they had been only words. They had meant 
 nothing beyond signs and sounds. He read 
 them now with a stern determination to drive 
 their sense into his head. 
 
 He distinctly felt, as he began, that he was 
 doing something hopeless, futile ; a mere make 
 shift to fill up the time until he could command 
 himself. But he had not read the third sentence
 
 228 THE MIDGE. 
 
 through before his heart sprung up in him 
 with a wild intoxication of joy. What was it, 
 after all ? This boy wanted to marry the woman 
 he himself loved. Well, what of that ? Had he 
 not been warned of it ? Was it not to be ex 
 pected ? Did it follow that she loved him ? What 
 reason had he to suppose that any such absurd, 
 wild thing was possible ? He passed his hand 
 over his eyes, like a man who tries to clear away 
 a dream. He must have been mad to think of it 
 Faintly and feebly, he laughed aloud to himself, 
 and sighed in weary relief. He had been nervous ; 
 that was it ; he had dwelt so long and so earnestly 
 on this one thought that he had grown morbid 
 and excitable, and he had lost his self-control. 
 It was an impossibility, an absurdity, and he must 
 have been strangely weak to consider it at all. 
 
 Then he reflected that he would have to con 
 sider it, and this brought a certain cheering 
 strength to him. To have something to reason 
 out, something to employ his faculties, gave him 
 a hold on himself. He got up again, and walked 
 up and down the room, and tried to think it all 
 over. What did he know positively? That 
 Paul Hathaway was in love with the Midge ; 
 that Hathaway thought the Midge loved him. 
 Did she love Hathaway? He could not believe 
 that he could have been so blind as not to have 
 seen it if she did. Yet, he remembered, and his 
 heart sank, he had been so blind as not to see
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 229 
 
 that Hathaway was in love. Had he not been 
 blind in every direction ? For the idea had been 
 suggested to him, weeks before. But then he 
 remembered how that idea had been suggested, 
 and how he had put it out of his mind entirely, 
 as an unworthy thought. He had set it aside 
 out of pure loyalty to young Hathaway. He 
 had refused even to think that this boy, whom 
 he had made his friend, could dream of stealing 
 away from him the woman in whom his life was 
 wrapped up. 
 
 And now he had it, in Hathaway s own hand, 
 that this inconceivable thing was a positive fact. 
 He grew hot with sudden anger. What right 
 had this pink-and-white boy to come in with his 
 boyish love, his boyish passion, his boyish, arro 
 gant hope, to dare to think of taking this woman 
 from him ? And suppose suppose she loved 
 the boy ? Well, again, what of it ? Should a 
 boy-and-girl fancy such as that weigh against a 
 man s love his own love, grown from the small 
 est beginnings, grown naturally into a great, 
 consuming passion, something that, sooner or 
 later, however she might mistake herself now, 
 she must answer to ? 
 
 He grew hotter and hotter as he walked up 
 and down. Anger gave him a strange fluency 
 of thought. He saw with vivid clearness how 
 he had loved the child and the woman with a 
 love that had changed not in nature, but only in
 
 230 
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 growth. He did not think of what he had done 
 for her; but only of what he had tried to be to 
 her how he had studied her tastes, her capa 
 cities, her tendencies; how he had conscien 
 tiously tried to teach her the best that he knew, 
 to make of her the best that it was in her to be. 
 
 And now this boy this Hathaway came in 
 smug and smiling, and self-complacent, with his 
 little sixpenny, sentimental fancy this fellow 
 who a year or two before had been swearing 
 love and promising marriage to the common 
 coquette of a South American naval station. 
 Great God! but he would put an end to this 
 profanation he, an honest man, with but one 
 love to his life. Whatever pain it cost her, for 
 the moment, whatever she or any one might think 
 of it, at least this thing should not be. He knew, 
 to an absolute certainty, that he had only to tell 
 her what he knew, and Paul Hathaway would go 
 out of her life forever. He knew she would 
 never forgive such an outrage against love and 
 honor. He knew what she w T as and what he 
 himself had taught her, and that she could never 
 forgive as he fool that he was had forgiven. 
 
 He remembered what she had once said : 
 " Yes, (I do belong to you, Evert, I will do what 
 ever you say, now and always" 
 
 He strode wildly across the room to her door, 
 meaning to throw it open it was never locked 
 to go to her bedside, as he had gone many a
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 231 
 
 time before to watch over her in some childish 
 sickness, and there to tell her the truth, and leave 
 her to struggle with and kill whatever love she 
 might have for this fellow. But he stopped 
 suddenly, with his hand on the door, every mus 
 cle in him cold and quivering, and he knew that 
 he could not go into that room. Until that 
 moment he had not known how he loved. He 
 had thought of his love as a simple and natural 
 affection ; the growth of years ; a mere develop 
 ment of an earlier fatherly tenderness. He 
 knew now that it was the love of a man who 
 wants a woman for his wife ; and he knew that 
 never, unless this woman were his wife, could he 
 cross the sill of her chamber, and look upon her 
 as she lay asleep. 
 
 He turned back and went to the window, and 
 looked out. It was faintly misty. The light of 
 the morning sun was somewhere high in the 
 heavens, and its dull refraction lit up all things 
 with an even, cold light that had no life in it. 
 He saw the great vacant Square, and the broad, 
 red brick houses opposite. Their marble facings 
 stared out, a dull, damp white. 
 
 If the body of your dearest friend lay in your 
 house, there would be times when it was nothing 
 but a corpse to you something lifeless and not 
 human, that claims a mocking identity with the 
 man you loved ; that is he, and is not he. You 
 want to get it away, out of sight, this cold gray
 
 232 
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 thing, that must always come between you and 
 your remembrance of him you knew when he 
 lived and breathed and moved, and had color 
 in his cheeks and light in his eyes. A feeling 
 akin to this took hold on the Doctor as he 
 looked out of the window into this dim fore- 
 dawn that was not so much night as a dead day. 
 
 The day came, misty, veiled, and softly bright. 
 It woke up the flocks of swallows in the great 
 Square ; it put touches of gold on the budding 
 branches of the trees ; it lit up the generous red 
 brick houses with a rosy radiance not their own. 
 It found the Doctor still looking out of the win 
 dow, with his forehead resting against the frame. 
 He was weary, for it aroused him from a sort of 
 stupor ; and in this stupor, as he half remem 
 bered, he had thought over, in inconsecutive, 
 irregular moments of thought, the most of his 
 life had seen the Midge grow up by his side, 
 through childhood, girlhood, to womanhood and 
 to the time of parting. For, with a sudden com 
 prehension of the nature of his love for her, 
 there had come a quick, instinctive conviction 
 that she never had loved him in that way ; that 
 she never could love him in that way. He did 
 not know how he knew this ; but it came to him 
 as a fact, which he accepted as one accepts the 
 fact that death has come into the house.
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 233 
 
 There were certain things left for him to do in 
 this world. There was one thing most promi 
 nent at the moment to go into his own room, 
 and lie down, and sleep, or make some pretense 
 of sleeping, until such time as morning should 
 begin for other people. It was one of the things 
 he had to do, and he did it. All his life long he 
 had done the things he had to do, and this was 
 one of the last things that could greatly vex him 
 on this side of the grave. 
 
 Two hours later there was a ring at the door 
 below that awoke him ; a sound of feet on. the 
 stairs, and a knock at the door of his sitting- 
 room. He heard Elise tell the visitor to wait 
 for Miss Lodoiska, and heard her tramping 
 heavily around to the side-door of the Midge s 
 room. 
 
 He arose from the bed on which he was lying, 
 and made himself presentable, and went into the 
 sitting-room. Paul Hathaway was there, flushed 
 and excited. He shook hands with him, and 
 said a few commonplace words. Then he heard 
 a step in the next room, and his heart leapt up 
 to hear it. The door opened, and the Midge 
 came out, and he saw her eyes meet Paul Hath 
 away s with that wonderful lightening of love 
 which cannot be mistaken.
 
 234 
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 " I haven t slept well, Midge," he said : " I m 
 going out for a walk before breakfast." 
 
 He stopped as he went toward the door to 
 take up his hat and coat that lay upon the 
 sofa. 
 
 "Hathaway, my boy " he began not quite 
 knowing why or how he spoke. The Midge 
 ran to kiss him a quick, impulsive good-bye, and 
 then turned to Hathaway, and the Doctor went 
 out to take his walk. 
 
 They were married in June, when Washing 
 ton Square was all one flush of green. Hatha 
 way gave up the voyage around the world. The 
 Doctor made that the only condition, in "giving 
 his consent. And he himself so arranged mat 
 ters that compliance with the condition was easy. 
 It was a quiet wedding, in the old sitting-room. 
 There were only two people present, beside the 
 Doctor Parker Prout and Professor Mannheim 
 and they brought their wedding gifts with them. 
 Parker Prout had one of his own pictures a 
 picture on which he had worked very hard 
 and Mannheim brought a stack of precious 
 music he, and no one else, knew how precious 
 it was to him. 
 
 And when it was over, and they had gone 
 away, the two of them, to a certain little house 
 up-town, which the Doctor had inspected long
 
 THE MIDGE. 
 
 235 
 
 ago, when he himself thought of moving from 
 the rooms in Washington Place, he went up 
 stairs and looked at the empty kitchen he had 
 sent Elise out to take a half day s holiday. 
 
 Then he went into the big pantry. In the 
 corner, on the shelf, still lay the crock in which 
 the Midge had hidden her head, heavy with 
 childish grief, years before. The old stool stood 
 before it. He sat down on it, and rested his hot 
 forehead on the cool rim of the jar. 
 
 And that s the end of the story.
 
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 BY E. T. W. HOFFMANN. 
 
 A. NEW TRANSLATION FROM THE GERMAN (WITH A BIO 
 GRAPHICAL MEMOIR) BY J. T. BEALBY, B.A. 
 
 Two volumes, 12mo, with portrait, $3.0O. 
 
 "The Weird Tales of E. T. W. Hoffmann have long held a 
 unique place in German literature. Their translation into 
 English and publication in an American edition will introduce 
 to American readers one of the most fantastic and original 
 geniuses of modern times; a man of more gifts than Poe, 
 and with the same mastery of the weird and supernatural 
 which gave Poe s works their unfailing fascination. Hoff 
 mann knew how to construct a ghost story quite as skilfully 
 as Poe, and with a good- deal more sense of reality. All 
 those who are in search of a genuine literary sensation, or 
 who care for the marvellous and supernatural, will find these 
 two volumes fascinating reading." Christian Union. 
 
 THE DIAMOND LENS, AND OTHER STORIES. 
 
 BY FITZ-JAMES O BRIEN. 
 
 COLLECTED AND EDITED WITH A SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR 
 
 BY WILLIAM WINTER. 
 One vol. 22mo, clotli, $1.OO ; paper, 5O cents. 
 
 In the region of the fantastic and bizarre, O Brien has, except Poe, 
 no superior. This collection of tales selected by Mr. Winter 
 contains the best and most striking of his stories. 
 
 *** These books are for sale by all booksellers, or -will be sent, post 
 free, on receipt of price, by 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER S SONS, 
 
 743-745 Broadway, New York.
 
 " Mr. Stockton has written a book which you can t discuss with 
 out laughing; and that is proof enough of its quality." 
 
 N. Y. TRIBUNE. 
 
 THE LATE MRS. NULL. 
 
 By FRANK R. STOCKTON. 
 
 One Volume. 12mo. Cloth. $1.50. 
 
 "THE LATE MRS. NULL" is one of those fortunate books that 
 goes beyond all expectation. Even those readers whose hopes 
 have been raised the highest have before them especially in the 
 fact that they receive the story complete and at once, without 
 intermediate serial publication such an enjoyment as they hard- 
 ]y foresee. 
 
 It is enough to say of the scene that it is chiefly in Virginia, 
 to show the possibilities of local character-drawing open to Mr. 
 Stockton in addition to his other types ; and to say that every 
 character is full of the most ingenious and delicious originality 
 is altogether needless. In an increasing scale, the situations are 
 still more complicated, ingenious, and enjoyable than the charac 
 ters ; and finally, the plot is absolutely baffling in its clever in 
 tricacy yet apparent simplicity a true device of Mr. Stockton s 
 tireless fancy. 
 
 "We congratulate the novel reader upon the feast there is in The Late Mrs. 
 Null. "Hartford Post. 
 
 "We can assure prospective readers that their only regret after finishing the book 
 will be that never again can they hope for^the pleasure of reading it again for the 
 first time." The Critic. 
 
 " Original, bright, and full of the author s delicate humor." New York Journal 
 of Commerce. 
 
 " The Late Mrs. Null is delicious." Boston Journal. 
 
 For sale by all booksellers, or sent, post-paid, by the publishers, 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER S SONS, 
 
 r 745 Broadway, New-York.
 
 Date Due 
 
 PRINTED IN U.S.A. 
 
 CAT. NO 24 161
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILIT 
 
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