“Too good for me,” he said, bitterly, “for I give her lots of trouble yet.”
“But, Barry, you are doing better.”
“I never was a criminal,” he said, seriously. “Heaven forgive me for saying it, but I believe that the real, genuine criminal rarely reforms. I was and am a drunkard. It seems as if I can’t get rid of the thirst.”
“Pray to God, Barry, and work hard yourself.”
“O, it’s all very well for you,” he said, with an impatient shake of his head. “You have a fresh heart and soul. Mine are old, and dull, and hard. Intellectually I see things as clearly as ever, but when it comes to feeling—”
“Barry,” she interrupted, gently, “you are too hard on yourself.”
He clenched one hand and brought it down softly on the other. “Mrs. Everest, keep the children innocent and tender. That’s my thought about them. Now I’ve come to speak to you to-night about what I fear is a plot against a little child. There’s no one near to hear us, is there?” and he looked fearfully over his shoulder.
“No one, Barry. You may speak freely.”
He threw himself back in his chair with a sigh of relief. “I’ve been under tension for the last two days. Queer, isn’t it, what different kinds of people there are in the world. Seems as if the Lord makes some of us better than others. Now you live here in this vile street like a lily growing out of mud. You know the mud is here, but it doesn’t contaminate you.”
“Some one says that familiarity with vice is not necessarily pollution,” murmured Mrs. Everest, gently. “The lily regrets her environment, but her roots running out and fresh soil introduced may purify the mud.”