Jinny knew the story well.

“She went away with him?” softly.

“Yes, she did.  I don’t blame her.  She was young, unlarned.  No man cared for our souls.  So, when she loved him well, she thort God spoke to her.  So she was tuk from me.  She went away.”

He patted the baby, his skinny hand all shaking.  Jinny took it in hers, and, leaning over, stroked his hair.

“You’ve hed hard trouble, to turn it gray like this.”

“No trouble like that, woman, when he left her.”

“Left her!  An’ then she was tired of God, an’ of livin’, or dyin’.  So as she loved him!  You know, my husband.  As I love you.  An’ he left her!  What wonder what she did?  All alone!  So as she loved him still!  God shut His eyes to what she did.”

The yellow, shaggy face was suddenly turned from her.  The voice choked.

“Did He, little woman? You know.”

“So, when she was a-tryin’ to forget, the only way she knew, God sent an angel to bring her up, an’ have her soul washed clean.”

Adam laughed bitterly.

“That’s not the way men told the story, child.  I got there six months after:  to New York, you know.  I found in an old paper jes’ these words:  ’The woman, Ellen Myers, found dead yesterday on one of the docks, was identified.  Died of starvation and whiskey.’  That was Nelly, as used to hang up her stockin’ with me.  Christian people read that.  But nobody cried but me.”

“They’re tryin’ to help them now at the Five Points there.”

“God help them as helps others this Christmas night!  But it’s not for such as you to talk of the Five Points, Janet,” rousing himself.  “What frabbit me to talk of Nelly the night?  Someways she’s been beside me all day, as if she was grippin’ me by the sleeve, beggin’, dumb-like.”

The moody frown deepened.

“The baby!  See, Adam, it’ll waken!  Quick, man!”

And Adam, with a start, began hushing it after the fashion of a chimpanzee.  The old bell rang out another hour:  how genial and loving it was!

“Nine o’clock!  Let me up, boys!”—­and Lot Tyndal hustled them aside from the steps of the concert-hall.  They made way for her:  her thin, white arms could deal furious blows, they knew from experience.  Besides, they had seen her, when provoked, fall in some cellar-door in a livid dead spasm.  They were afraid of her.  Her filthy, wet skirt flapped against her feet, as she went up; she pulled her flaunting bonnet closer over her head.  There was a small room at the top of the stairs, a sort of greenroom for the performers.  Lot shoved the door open and went in.  Madame ——­ was there, the prima-donna, if you chose to call her so:  the rankest bloom of fifty summers, in white satin and pearls:  a faded dahlia.  Women hinted that the fragrance of the dahlia had not been healthful in the world; but they crowded to hear her:  such a wonderful contralto!  The manager, a thin old man, with a hook-nose, and kindly, uncertain smile, stood by the stove, with a group of gentlemen about him.  The wretch from the street went up to him, unsteadily.