Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1913-10-18
THE EVENING STORY.
The Gift.
Copyright. 1918, by w. werner.)

Copyright. 1918, by w. Werner.)
Bockley swept up the last dustpanful
of dirt. emptied it into the great ash can
and sat down to rest. The day had been
a hard one and he was dead tired.
All that morning and early afternoon
he had hunted for work, as he had the
week before, grimly. determinedly, driven
ever on when courage waned by the
thought OF his wife in the North Side
tenement, patiently suffering in the rick
ETY. invalid chair. He could not bear the
thought Of going back to her with the
story of failun written on his face and
see her bravely try to cheer him.
In moment of deepest despair. as he
walked one Of the business streets. he
caught sight of gray-haired man with
a serene, kindly face. He had spoken to
him, and the man gave him card, after
scribbling a few words upon 1t. and d.
rected him to take the card to the address
given and work would be offered him. He
had followed his instructions. and gen.
tle-faced woman. after smiling as she
read the card. and saying. Just like Ste
phen.'' set him to work in the basement.
The task was finished: the electric light
shone on everything, clean, neat and in
order But he was tired-so tired he stag
gered when he walked. Only one thing
more there was to do. and a slow happi-
ness beat through him as he thought Of
it.
Going to one of the ash cans. he began
to pick out carefully from several punches
of discarded flowers those that retained
some of their former freshness and color.
He would take them to his wife. So In
tent and absorbed was he In the process
of selecting the fairest flowers he did not
10
come toward him. pause and watch him
in establishment for moment
why, what do You want with those
old howers?'' she asked, smiling In amuse-
ment
He started and stumbled back. but he
chung to his treasure. Il jest thought II
you didn't want 'em I'd take 'em home.
You see, my wife likes flowers. and Jest
wanted to take these to her, that's all.
But these are faded.
They'll be bright to her.
He saw her gentle face change strange
ly. You wait; my daughter Is always
buying flowers or they are sent her.
There must be some In the house better
than those. Wait; I'll see."
Still clinging to the dying Mowers. but
watching the stairs with hungry. hopeful
eyes, he waited. When she returned his
heart went cold, for her hands were
empty. She was smiling. however
MY daughter has some for you, ana
she wants You to come up and get them.
But. Mrs. Lane. my clothes
Never mind, come on.
He followed her through rooms that
seemed to have a friendly air into room
where stood two persons with happy
faces. He wondered If 1t was home
Of happiness. One Of them was a stur-
Oily built fellow with curly dark hair and
manly face; the other beaut1ui slrl,
whose eyes, as they looked into his. SEEM
ed to have a language all their own:
Something in them made him think OF
the eyes of the Madonna pictured In his
church.
IT have some flowers for you she said.
SO simply and so quietly that he felt I'M
mediately at ease: and she held out to
him a great bunch of sweet peas-his
wife's favorite flowers. her dream How
He cried out for them and thrust Tor
ward his grimy hands with trembling