Evening star., 1913-03-02

and stood bereft of speech. Tears filled her
eyes, blotting out the welcome there.
Neither spoke. The children had gone;
there was lull in the discordant sounds of
the street. For full minute the man and
the woman stood gazing past each other,
through the walls of the little shop, out into
the infinite.
A LITTLE girl tugged persistently at the
"A unyielding latch of the shop door,
finally giving it up.
"Ya, va! Did ye ever git left?' shouted
a boy from the opposite side of the street.
"Whur's de pale lady?" asked the child in
fearful apprehension.
"Aw, she skidooed dis mornin' wild a swell
guy in one O. dem carriages an nurse lady
from de horspital. piped dem to de sta
| ton.
And so the news travelled up and down
Rookery Row. The pale lady had gone,
| "like as not to join her husband, poor thing"
| The fat Italian, at whose prosperous shop,
little way down the street, the children
could play slot machines, smiled happily
when he heard it, and turned up his machines
another notch so that his truant customers
| should pay for their diSaffection.
But his smile was marked for early diSsi-
patton. For three days the latch of the de-
serted shop clicked and its door panes rat
| tied under the assaults of incredulous little
patrons who must know for themselves and
would not be satisfied with less than half
dozen tries. There came at last morning
when the doors swung wide open; but in
stead of the pale lady, there, in a white
apron, ready to wait upon ali customers,
smiling, friendly, come to be one of them,
stood Atherton. Rookery Row stared; the
fat Italian chuckled; the stranger, forever
smiling, ,-mysteriously sometimes, had they
noticed it,-went quietly about the things
he had come to do.
Then, one day, the street was startled.
Cartmen came and drove away with the
shops furnishings and such of the stock of
cheap trinkets and sweets as had not been
passed out to the surging mob of juvenile
humanity that gathered from all quarters.
Workmen demolished the front and interior,
obliterating every trace of those who had
passed that way. The curtain was down on
the tragedy of the little shop.
But amazement multiplied in Rookery
Row. Followed teams with lumber, bricks,
builders stuff chorus of hammers and
saws echoed and reechoed through the
street, drowning out the treble cries of Joy
| that came from pile of sand, but not the
song that rang in John Atherton's heart.
MARY BELDON'S STORE" was the
A'A wonder of Rookery Row when, in late
summer, Atherton opened its doors to admit
the impatient, tumultuous throng that
clamored without. Scores of little friends
real friends ds-who, during the smothering
days of summer, had come to love the gen.
erous, smiling man who never lost patience
with them, pressed forward and found them
selves in veritable goody palace, the guests
of honor at the most wonderful reception
| they had ever known this side of dreamland.
| The place would have been remarked on
Fifth-ave. From its tiled floor to its gisten-
ing ceiling it was cream white, just such
shop as the one that had held Atherton that
night in the New York jungle, all nickel and
plate and enamel; and it was filled with
| things that a far more pretentious street
than Rookery Row could not have resisted.
| By way of adornment there were potted
plants and great bowl of goldfish. There
were electric fans, seats for the toil-weary,
numerous small comforts of the fashionable
city store unknown in the tenements. In
the rear there was wonderful white office
all grilled about with bronze and daintily
appointed, as if for woman. A neat, uni
formed salesgirl and jovial old man, the
latter specially charged with the duty of
keeping the place in close proximity to god
illness, constituted the staff. 1t was beau