The Alchemist's Secret

by Isabel Cecilia Williams

"Does angels eat bread and milk, Mrs. Dempsey?" Peter asked the question in all sincerity. He had often wondered about angels and he really wanted to know.

"Oh, I guess they does," replied the good woman absently, too busy with her cooking to pay much heed to what Peter was saying. "Goin', Peter? Wish ye could stay and have a bite yerself, but I suppose if that precious father of your'n come home and his supper warn't ready he'd make it pretty hot for you, poor child. Well, good-night, Peter. Bring the baby back in the morning."

"By the way, Peter," she called after him just as he was closing the door. "To-morrow's Christmas day ye know. Don't forget to drop into the church on yer way home and hear Mass, like a good boy."

Peter's ideas on the subject of religion were very vague. Mrs. Dempsey had told him he must always attend Mass on Sunday and reminded him of the fact every Saturday night when he would come to claim the baby. Perhaps Christmas was another sort of Sunday, thought Peter. To him Christmas had always meant a time when other boys and girls talked of nothing but Christmas trees and turkey and wonderful presents they had received. No one had ever given Peter anything. He wondered if Mrs. Dempsey would. He had not known Mrs. Dempsey last Christmas; she came to the alley only a few months ago. Life had been somewhat easier for Peter since her coming for she helped so much in caring for baby while he was out. He wished Mrs. Dempsey would give baby something for Christmas. He had hoped to do so himself, but somehow he never could find a cent for anything except the absolute necessities of life. Sometimes he could do no more than provide bread and milk for the baby and go hungry himself. That was when father would beat him and take away the few pennies he was saving to buy food for the little sister and himself.

With baby held carefully in his arms, Peter descended the two flights of stairs to his home in the cellar. As he pushed open the door of the room which served as kitchen and living room in the daytime and as sleeping apartment for himself and baby at night, the damp chill of the place struck him as it never had done before. Groping his way to the table he lighted the candle upon it. Then, after wrapping baby in his mother's old shawl and depositing her upon their bed in the corner, he proceeded to make a fire in the cracked and rusty stove. Peter was only eleven, but the children of the slums are little men and women almost from their cradles, and Peter was really the man of the family. He it was who cared for the baby and prepared their frugal meals; he it was who cried his papers upon the street in the cold darkness of the winter mornings, who ran errands all day for the grocer on the next corner and again in the evening sallied forth with his papers under his arm in order to procure food to keep the life in their bodies. If father ever earned any money but little of it was contributed to the family support.

As Peter wrestled with the fire, which positively refused to kindle, he was still revolving in his mind the problem which troubled him. He had been thinking of it all day, and the only thing he could decide was that something must be done at once, but what that something was to be he could not imagine. Things had been going from bad to worse lately, and after last night he would never know an easy moment while baby was under the same roof with father and mother. For himself he did not care. He had grown accustomed to the beatings, to the drunken quarrels and fearful language; in fact, he had never known anything different. But last night father had tried to hurt baby. He might try again and perhaps next time no Peter would be at hand to save her. They were unusually bad last night, both father and mother; the child was frightened and had begun to whimper. Angered still further by the sound, the man had seized a stove-lifter and flung it straight at baby's head. But Peter had already sprung between and the missile struck him full on the forehead, causing a wicked-looking bruise. He had lain stunned for a time, then crept into bed with baby and listened in terror as the quarrel between his father and mother progressed from words to blows. He had not minded these things before, but what would he do if father should ever beat baby as he, Peter, had been beaten so many times? And Peter felt the time was coming when father would surely do it. Last night was but the beginning.

A noise from the next room told him that mother must be waking from the drunken sleep in which she had lain for several hours. At any moment she might open that door and enter the kitchen, and her temper was always terrible when she would first awaken from those long sleeps which followed a carousal. In a few moments, too, father would come home. The fire refused to burn; so supper would not be ready, and with mother in a temper and no supper at hand, something would surely happen.

Peter looked at the sleeping baby and shuddered. For her sake he dared not face another night like last night. Yet, what could he do? A volley of imprecations from the next room decided him: he must take baby away from here and at once. Yes, he would take her away, but where, where could he go? Where in all the great city could he find a shelter for his baby on this cold winter night? If he did take her away it might be only to have her freeze to death on the street. Well, they must go, anyway. No matter what happened to them later they must leave here at once.

Rearranging the shawl so that part of it covered the golden head, he stooped and gathered the baby into his arms. Then it all came to him in a sudden flash of inspiration and he almost laughed aloud in his joy as he hurried from the room and out into the street. He knew exactly where to go and wondered why he had not thought of it before. How foolish he had been not to think of it at once!

One day last summer he had stood outside a tall iron railing and watched a crowd of happy children at play in the grounds which the railing enclosed. He could see it all now, the yard, the romping children and the great brick building on the other side of that railing through which he watched enviously. They were having such a good time, he did wish he might go in and join in the fun. But he could not spare the time, he had wasted too much already, and the grocer would scold him for being so long on the errand which had brought him into the neighborhood of the yard and the children. As he turned reluctantly away, two ladies passed and he heard one say in answer to a question from her companion: