Helen Trevlyn took up the burden of her life, refusing to despair because of her child.  It was a hard struggle for her, and she lived on, until, as we have seen, when Archer was nine years of age, she died.

When all this was known to Archer Trevlyn he was almost beside himself with passion.  If he had possessed the power, he would have wiped the whole Trevlyn race out of existence.  He shut himself up in his desolate garret with the tell-tale letters and papers which had belonged to his mother, and there, all alone, he took a fearful oath of vengeance.  The wrongs of his parents should yet be visited on the head of the man who had been so cruelly unpitying.  He did not know what form his revenge might take, but, so sure as he lived, it should fall some time!

* * * * *

Five years passed.  Archer was fourteen years of age.  He had left the street-sweeping business some time before, at the command of Grandma Rugg, and entered a third-class restaurant as an under-waiter.  It was not the best school in the world for good morals.  The people who frequented the Garden Rooms, as they were called, were mostly of a low class, and all the interests and associations surrounding Arch were bad.  But perhaps he was not one to be influenced very largely by his surroundings.  So the Garden Rooms, if they did not make him better, did not make him worse.

In all these years he had kept the memory of Margie Harrison fresh and green, though he had not seen her since the day his mother died.  The remembrance of her beauty and purity kept him oftentimes from sin; and when he felt tempted to give utterance to oaths, her soft eyes seemed to come between him and temptation.

One day he was going across the street to make change for a customer, when a stylish carriage came dashing along.  The horses shied at some object, and the pole of the carriage struck Arch and knocked him down.  The driver drew in the horses with an imprecation.

Arch picked himself up, and stood recovering his scattered senses, leaning against a lamp-post.

“Served ye right!” said the coachman roughly.  “You’d no business to be running befront of folkses carriages.”

“Stop!” said a clear voice inside the coach.  “What has occurred, Peter?”

“Only a ragged boy knocked down; but he’s up again all right.  Shall I drive on?  You will be late to the concert.”

“I shall survive it, if I am,” said the voice.  “Get down and open the door.  I must see if the child is hurt.”

“It’s no child, miss; it is a boy older than yourself,” said the man, surlily obeying the command.

Margie Harrison descended to the pavement.  From the sweet voice, Arch had almost expected to see her.  A flush of grateful admiration lit up his face.  She beamed upon him like a star from the depths of the clouds.

“Are you hurt?” she asked, kindly.  “It was very careless of Peter to let the carriage strike you.  Allow us to take you home.”