Apron-Strings | Page 4

"I have even paged the
attic!"
Mrs. Milo hastened across the room. "Why, she must be upstairs," she
cried. "I sent her up not an hour ago."
"Well, the villain has just naturally come down."
"Susan! Susan!"--Mrs. Milo was calling into the hall leading to the

upper floors of the Rectory. "Look in the vestibule, Hattie."
"Perhaps she has escaped to the Orphanage." Hattie gave a teasing
laugh over her shoulder as she moved to obey.
Mrs. Milo had abandoned the hall door by now, and was fluttering
toward the library. "Orphanage?" she repeated. "Oh, not without
consulting me. And besides there's so much to be done in this house
before tomorrow.--Susan! Susan!" She went out, calling more
impatiently.
As Hattie disappeared into the vestibule, that door from the passage,
upon which she had kept a watch, was opened, slowly and cautiously,
and the tousled head of a boy was thrust in. Seeing that the
drawing-room was vacant, the boy now threw the door wide, disclosing
nine other small heads, but nine more carefully combed. The ten were
packed in the narrow passage, and did not move forward with the
opening of the door. Their freshly washed faces were eager; but they
contented themselves with rising on tiptoe to peer into the room. About
them, worn over black cassocks, hung their spotless cottas. Choir boys
they were, but on every small countenance was written the indefinable
mark of the orphan-reared.
Now he of the tousled hair stole forward across the sill. And boldly
signaled the others. "St!--Aw, come on!" he cried. "What're you 'fraid
of! Didn't the new minister tell us to wait in here?"
The choir obeyed him, but without argument. As each cotta-clad figure
advanced, eyes were directed toward doors, and hands mutely signed
what tongues feared to utter. One boy came to the sofa and gingerly
smoothed a velvet pillow; whispering and pointing, the others
scattered--to look up at a painting of a bishop of the Anglican Church,
which hung above the mantel, to open the Bible on the small mahogany
table that held the center of the room, to touch the grand piano with
moist and marking finger-tips, and to gaze with awe upon two huge and
branching candlesticks that flanked a marble clock above the hearth.
Now a husky whisper broke the unwonted silence of the choir; and an

excited, finger directed all eyes to the painting of the Bishop: "Oh,
fellers! Fellers!" He rallied his companions with his other arm.
"Look-ee! Look-ee! That's Momsey's father!"
"Momsey's father!" It was the tousled chorister, and he plowed his way
forward through the gathering choir before the hearth. "What're you
talkin' about? Momsey's father wasn't a minister."
But the other was not to be gainsaid. "Yes, he was," he persisted; "and
it's him."
"Aw, that's a Bishop,--or somethin'. There's Momsey's father." Beside
the library door stood a small writing-desk. Atop it, in a wooden frame,
was a photograph. This was now caught up, and went from hand to
hand among the crowding boys. "That's him, and he's been dead twenty
years."
"Let me see!" A shining tow-head wriggled up from under the arms of
taller boys, and a freckled hand captured the picture. "Why, he looks
like Momsey!"
The tousled songster seized the photograph in righteous anger. "Sure!"
he cried, waving it in the face of the tow-headed boy; "you don't think
she takes after her mother, do y'?"
A chorus of protests, all aimed at the tow-head, which was turned
defensively from side to side.
"Y' know what I think?" demanded the tousled one. He motioned the
others to gather round. "I don't believe the old lady is Momsey's mother
at a-a-all!"
"Oo-oo-oo!" The choir gasped and stared.
"No, I don't," persisted the boy. "I believe that years, and years, and
years ago, some nice, poor lady come cree-ee-eepin' through the little
white door, and left Momsey--in the basket!"

Nine small countenances beamed with delight. "You're right!" the choir
clamored. "You're right! You're dead right!" White sleeves were waved
joyously aloft.
Now the heavy door to the library began to swing against the backs of
two or three. The choir did not wait to see who was entering. Smiles
vanished. Eyes grew frightened. Like one, the boys wheeled and fled.
The door into the passage stood wide. They crowded through it, and
halted only when the last cotta was across the sill. Then, like a flock of
scared quail, they faced about, panting, and ready for further flight.
One look, and ten musical throats emitted as many unmusical shouts of
laughter. While the tousle-headed boy, swinging the photograph which
he had failed to restore to its place, again set foot upon the Brussels of
the drawing-room. "Oh! Oh!" he laughed. "Oh, golly, Dora, you scared
me!"
With all the