In the shop was a woman with touzled hair and a gown with placket split from gathers to hem, showing the ribs of a dirty skeleton skirt.  A child with one garment on,—­some sort of woolen thing that had never been a clean color, and was all gutter-color now,—­the woman holding the child by the hand here, in a safe place, in a way these mothers have who turn their children out in the street dirt and scramble without any hand to hold.  No wonder, though, perhaps; in the strangeness and unfitness of the safe, pure place, doubtless they feel an uneasy instinct that the poor little vagabonds have got astray, and need some holding.

“Give us a four-cent loaf!” said the woman, roughly, her eyes lowering under crossly furrowed brows, as she flung two coins upon the little counter.

Luclarion took down one, looked at it, saw that it had a pale side, and exchanged it for another.

“Here is a nice crusty one,” she said pleasantly, turning to wrap it in a sheet of paper.

“None o’ yer gammon!  Give it here; there’s your money; come along, Crazybug!” And she grabbed the loaf without a wrapper, and twitched the child.

Hazel sat still.  She knew there was no use.  But Desire with her point-black determination, went right at the boy, took hold of his hand, dirt and all; it was disagreeable, therefore she thought she must do it.

“Don’t you want to come and swing?” she said.

“——­ yer swing! and yer imperdence!  Clear out!  He’s got swings enough to home!  Go to ——­, and be ——­, you ——­ ——­ ——!”

Out of the mother’s mouth poured a volley of horrible words, like a hailstorm of hell.

Desire fell back, as from a blinding shock of she knew not what.

Luclarion came round the counter, quite calmly.

“Ma’am,” she said, “those words won’t hurt her.  She don’t know the language.  But you’ve got God’s daily bread in your hand; how can you talk devil’s Dutch over it?”

The woman glared at her.  But she saw nothing but strong, calm, earnest asking in the face; the asking of God’s own pity.

She rebelled against that, sullenly; but she spoke no more foul words.  I think she could as soon have spoken them in the face of Christ; for it was the Christ in Luclarion Grapp that looked out at her.

“You needn’t preach.  You can order me out of your shop, if you like.  I don’t care.”

“I don’t order you out.  I’d rather you would come again.  I don’t think you will bring that street-muck with you, though.”

There was both confidence and command in the word like the “Neither do I condemn thee:  go, and sin no more.”  It detached the street-muck from the woman.  It was not she; it was defilement she had picked up, when perhaps she could not help it.  She could scrape her shoes at the door, and come in clean.

“You know a darned lot about it, I suppose!” were the last words of defiance; softened down, however, you perceive, to that which can be printed.