“Yes, I might. I will. What’s father going to do now? he’s taken to the track.”
“He says that, though he has no work there, there isn’t any law forbids him sitting round, watching his old friends who have. He likes to talk with men, you know; and if you’re handy by he’s quite satisfied. Father doesn’t like to go wrong any better than we like to have him. He trusts you to watch out for him, honey. So, if I were you, instead of taking the baby and going along the street to the gate I’d go to the park by the railroad. You can climb up the embankment at an easy place, and stay near father. Then you’d be able to see everything. The children in the ‘Playgrounds,’ and the Gray Gentleman if he goes to them, and Bonny-Gay’s train when it comes, and all. Only—only, Mary Jane—take care to give the cars plenty of room.”
“Course I will. ‘Look out for the cars when the bell rings!’” laughingly quoted the child. “And you look out for the parrot when the crab-man comes! I guess you’re right. I’d better not take the baby. If I climb up the bank I might let him slip. Good-by. I’ll make father all right and happy, don’t you fear.”
The mother watched her darling out of sight, thinking how sunshiny and helpful she was, then settled the baby safely among his new playthings and resumed her endless toil. But she was wholly happy and contented now. They were poor, indeed, but they were not suffering, and her hopeful heart was sure that in some way a task would be found for her husband which would keep him out of idleness and evil company. She began her one hymn of cheerfulness: “Lord, in the morning Thou shalt, Thou shalt, Lord, in the morning Thou shalt hear, my voice ascending high.”
Meanwhile, Mary Jane had hopped along the road till she came to a part of the railway embankment which she could climb, then scrambled to its top. Just before her the rails were laid over a long trestle above the deep bed of a stream, now almost dry. A little water still ran among the stones below but Mary Jane did not look down upon that. She made her way swiftly, yet cautiously, beside the track, pushed rapidly along the trestle, and reached her father’s side, at the further end of it.
“Here am I, father. I’m going to watch for the train from here.”
“All right, daughter.”
A fellow workman looked up and remonstrated:
“You oughtn’t to let that girl walk that trestle, Bump. If her crutches slipped it—the bottom’s rough and deep down.”
“Oh! I’m not afraid. I don’t often, either, though I’ve played about this railroad ever since I was born. All the Dingy street children play there. How pretty the park looks, down yonder;” interrupted Mary Jane, anxious that her father should not be blamed, especially for what was not his doing.