Yes, the Virgin would know and have pity;
the sweet, white-robed Virgin at the pretty flower-decked altar, or the
one away up in the niche, far above the golden dome where the Host was.
Holy Mary, Mother of God. Poor little Miss Sophie.
Titiche, the busy-body of the house, noticed that Miss Sophie's bundle
was larger than usual that afternoon. "Ah, poor woman!" sighed Titiche's
mother, "she would be rich for Christmas."
The bundle grew larger each day, and Miss Sophie grew smaller. The
damp, cold rain and mist closed the white-curtained window, but always
there behind the sewing machine drooped and bobbed the little
black-robed figure. Whirr, whirr went the wheels, and the coarse jean
pants piled in great heaps at her side. The Claiborne street car saw her
oftener than before, and the sweet, white Virgin in the flowered niche
above the gold-domed altar smiled at the little penitent almost every
day.
"_Ma foi_," said the slatternly landlady to Madame Laurent and Michel one
day, "I no see how she live! Eat? Nothing, nothing, almost, and las'
night when it was so cold and foggy, eh? I hav' to mek him build fire.
She mos' freeze."
Whereupon the rumor spread that Miss Sophie was starving herself to
death to get some luckless relative out of jail for Christmas,--a rumor
which enveloped her scraggy little figure with a kind of halo to the
neighbors when she appeared on the streets.
Pages:
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105