The chill winds of another autumn swirled through the masonry-lined cañons of the metropolis and sighed among the stark trees of its deserted parks. They caught up the tinted leaves that dropped from quivering branches and tossed them high, as Fate wantons with human hopes before she blows her icy breath upon them. They shrieked among the naked spars of the Cossack, drifting with her restless master far out upon the white-capped waves. They moaned in low-toned agony among the marble pillars of the Crowles mausoleum, where lay in pitying sleep the misguided woman whose gods of gold and tinsel had betrayed her.
On the outskirts of the Bronx, in a newly opened suburb, a slender girl, with books and papers under her arm, walked slowly against the sharp wind, holding her hat with her free hand, and talking rapidly to a young man who accompanied her. Toward them came an old negro, leaning upon a cane. As he stepped humbly aside to make room, the girl looked up. Then, without stopping, she slipped a few coins into his coat pocket as she passed.
The negro stood in dumb amazement. He was poor––his clothes were thin and worn––but he was not a beggar––he had asked nothing. The girl turned and threw back a smile to him. Then of a sudden there came into the old man’s wrinkled, care-lined face such a look, such a comprehension of that love which knows neither Jew nor Gentile, Greek nor Barbarian, as would have caused even the Rabbis, at the cost of defilement, to pause and seek its heavenly meaning.
A few blocks farther on the strong wind sternly disputed the girl’s right to proceed, and she turned with a merry laugh to her companion. But as she stood, the wind fell, leaving a heap of dead leaves about her feet. Glancing down, something caught her eye. She stooped and took up a two-dollar bill.
Her companion threw her a wondering look; but the girl 4 made no comment. In silence they went on, until a few minutes more of brisk walking brought them to a newly built, stucco-coated bungalow. Running rapidly up the steps, the girl threw wide the door and called, “Mother dear!”
The Beaubien rose from her sewing to receive the hearty embrace. “Well, dearie?” she said, devouring the sparkling creature with eager eyes. “What luck?”
“We’re registered! Lewis begins his law course at once, and I may take what I wish. And Mr. Hitt’s coming to call to-night and bring a friend, a Mr. Haynerd, an editor. What’s Jude got for supper? My! I’m starved.”
The Beaubien drew the girl to her and kissed her again and again. Then she glanced over her shoulder at the man with a bantering twinkle in her eyes and said, “Don’t you wish you could do that? But you can’t.”
“Yes he can, too, mother,” asserted the girl.
Father Waite sighed. “I’m afraid it wouldn’t look well,” he said. “And, besides, I don’t dare lose my heart to her.”