Apron-Strings | Page 6

the Church right
now. You see, he's borrowed on account of his won-der-ful voice.
Momsey says Ikey's got a song-bird in his throat."
Once more the group stirred, murmuring its assent. It was the testimony
of a choir to its finest songster--a testimony strong with pride.
At that same moment, sounding from beyond the heavy door that gave
to the Church, came a long-drawn howl of mingled rage and woe.
"Wa-ah!"--it was the voice of a boy; "oh, wa-a-a-ah!"
Bobbie lifted a finger to point. "That," said he proudly, "is Ikey now."
He motioned the choir into the bay-window, and Hattie followed.
The wails increased in volume. The door at the end of the passage
swung open; and into sight, amid loud boo-hoos, pressed a squirming
trio. There were two torn and dirty boys, their faces streaked with tears,
their hands vainly trying to grapple. And between the two, holding to
each by a handful of cassock, and by turns scolding and beseeching the
quarreling pair, came Sue Milo.
Strangers saw Sue Milo as an attractive, middle-aged woman, tall, and
full-figured, whose face was expressive and inclined toward a high
color, whose shining brown hair was well grayed at the temples, and
whose eyes, blue-gray, and dark-lashed, were wide and kindly.

Strangers marked her for a capable, dependable woman, too; and found
suited to her the adjective "motherly." This for the same reason which
moved new acquaintances instinctively to address her as "Mrs." For
Sue Milo, at forty-five, bore none of the marks of the so-called typical
spinster.
But a curious change of attitude toward her was the experience of that
man or woman who came to know her even casually. Though at a first
meeting she seemed to be all of her age, with better acquaintance she
appeared to grow rapidly younger. So that it was not strange to hear her
referred to as "the Milo girl," and not infrequently she was included at
gatherings of people who were still in their twenties. In just what her
youthfulness lay it was hard to define. At times an expression of the
eye, a trick of straight-looking, or perhaps the lifting and turning of the
chin, or a quick bringing together of the hands,--all these were girlish.
There was that about her which made her seem as simple and
unaffected as a child.
Yet capable and dependable she was--as any crisis at Rectory or
Orphanage had proven repeatedly. And when quick decisions were
demanded, all turned as if with one accord to Sue. And she was as
quick to execute. Or if that was beyond her power, she roused others to
action. It was a rector of St. Giles who once applied to her a description
that was singularly fitting: "She is," he said, "like a ship under full sail."
Just now she was a ship in a storm.
"Aw, you did said it!" cried the wailing Ikey, pointing at his adversary
a forefinger wrapped in a handkerchief. "You did! You did! I heard you
said it!"
"I never! I never!" denied his opponent. "It ain't so! Boo-hoo!"
Sue gave them an impartial shake. "That will do!" she declared, trying
hard to speak with force, while her eyes twinkled. "--Ikey, do you hear
me?--Put down that fist, Clarence!--Now, be still and listen to me!"
With another shake, she quieted them; whereupon, holding each at
arm's length, she surveyed them by turns. "Oh, my soul, such little

heathen!" she pronounced. "Now what do you think I am? A fight
umpire? Do you want to damage each other for life?"
Clarence was all sniffles, and rubbed at the injured arm. But Ikey had
no mind to be blamed undeservedly. He squared about upon Sue with
flashing eye. "But, Momsey, he did said it!" he repeated.
Sue tightened her grip on his cassock. "And, oh, my soul, such
grammar!" she mourned. "'He did said it!' You mean, He do said--he do
say--he done--oh, now you've got me twisted!"
"Just de same, he called it to me," asserted Ikey.
"I never, I tell you! I never!"
"Ah! Ah!" Once more Sue struggled to hold them apart. "And what, Mr.
Ikey, did he call you?"
"He calls me," cried the insulted Ikey, "--he calls me a
pie-faces!--Ach!"
"And what did you call him?"
"I didn't call him not'ing!" answered Ikey, beginning to wail again at
the very thought of his failure to do himself justice; "not--von--t'ing!"
"But"--with a wisdom born of long choir experience--"you must have
said something."
"All I says," chanted Ikey, "--all I says is, 'You can't sing. What you do
is----'" And lowering and raising his head, he emitted a long, lifelike
bray.
"Yah!" burst forth the enraged Clarence, struggling to clutch his hated
fellow.
"Wa-a-a-ah!" wept Ikey, who had struck out and hurt his