"No, sir."
"Aw, Dick! think again," the acrobat pleaded. "Come, now! Ain't you going to Box Street?"
"No, sir," the boy answered, low. "I'm going to the curate's house, near the Church of the Lifted Cross."
They were soon within sight of the trees in the park. The boy's way was then known to him. Again he extended his hand—again smiled.
"Thank you," he said. "Good-bye."
The acrobat was loath to let the little hand go. But there was nothing else to do. He dropped it, at last, with a quick-drawn sigh.
"It'll come out all right," he muttered.
Then the boy went his way alone. His shoulders were proudly squared—his head held high....
Meantime, they had revived Millie Slade. She was in the common dressing-room—a littered, infamous, foul, place, situated below stage. Behind her the gas flared and screamed. Still in her panderous disguise, within hearing of the rasping music and the tramp of the dance, within hearing of the coarse applause, this tender mother sat alone, unconscious of evil—uncontaminated, herself kept holy by her motherhood, lifted by her love from the touch of sin. To her all the world was a temple, undefiled, wherein she worshipped, wherein the child was a Presence, purifying every place.
She had no strength left for tragic behaviour. She sat limp, shedding weak tears, whimpering, tearing at her finger nails.