The Fatal Glove | Page 2

Just like names in a storybook. I know some
elegant people by the name of Trevlyn. But they live in a big house,
and have flowers enough of their own. So they can't be your folks, can
they?"
"No, they're not my folks," replied the boy, with a touch of bitterness in
his voice.
"Well, Archer when you get home, you wash your face, do! It's so
dirty!"
The boy flushed hotly. If one of his companions had said that to him,
he would have knocked him down instantly. But he forgave everything
this little girl said, because she was so beautiful and so kind.

"I am a street-sweeper, miss."
"Oh, that accounts for it, then. It's very muddy to-day, and you must be
tired. Hark! there's Florine calling me. Good-by, Archer."
She vanished, and a moment later the boy saw her disappear within the
glittering carriage, which, loaded down with fragrant blossoms, was
driven slowly away. He stood a little while looking after it, then,
pulling his cap down over his eyes, and grasping the stems of her
flowers tightly in his little purple hand, he started for home.
Home! It could hardly be called so, and yet it was home to Archer. His
mother was there--the dear mother who was all the world to him. It was
in a poor part of the city--an old, tumble-down wooden house,
swarming with tenants, teeming with misery, filth, and crime.
Up a crazy flight of steps, and turning to the right, Arch saw that the
door of his mother's room was half-way open, and the storm had beaten
in on the floor. It was all damp and dismal, and such an indescribable
air of desolation over anything! Archer's heart beat a little slower as he
went in. His mother sat in an arm-chair by the window, an uncovered
box in her lap, and a miniature locket clasped in her hand.
"Oh, mother! mother dearest!" cried Arch, holding up the flowers,
"only see what I have got! An angel gave them to me! A very angel,
with hair like the sunshine, and a blue frock, all real silk! And I have
got my pocket full of pennies, and you shall have an orange, mother,
and ever so many nice things besides. See, mother dear!"
He displayed a handful of coin, but she did not notice him. He looked
at her through the gloom of the twilight, and a feeling of terrible awe
stole over him. He crept to her side, and touched her cheek with his
finger. It was cold as ice. A mortal pallor overspread his face; the
pennies and the flowers rolled unheeded to the floor.
"Dead! dead! My mother is dead!" he cried.
He did not display any of the passionate grief which is natural to

childhood--there were no tears in his feverish eyes. He took her cold
hand in his own, and stood there all night long, smoothing back the
beautiful hair, and talking to her as one would talk to a sick child.
It was thus that Mat Miller found him the next morning. Mat was a
little older than himself--a street-sweeper also. She and Arch had
always been good friends; they sympathized with each other when bad
luck was on them, and they cheered lustily when fortune smiled.
"Hurrah, Arch!" cried Mat, as she burst into the room; "it rains again,
and we shall get a harvest! Good gracious, Arch!
is--your--mother--dead?"
"Hush!" said the boy, putting down the cold hand; "I have been trying
to warm her all night, but it is no use. Only just feel how like ice my
hands are. I wish I was as cold all over, and then they would let me stay
with my mother."
"Oh, Arch!" cried the girl, sinking down beside him on the desolate
hearth, "it's a hard world to live in! I wonder, if, when folks be dead,
they have to sweep crossings, and be kicked and cuffed round by old
grandmas when they don't get no pennies? If they don't then I wish I
was dead, too, Arch!"
"I suppose it's wicked, Mat. She used to say so. She told me never to
get tired of waiting for God's own time--her very words, Mat. Well,
now her time has come, and I am all alone--all alone! Oh,
mother--mother!" He threw himself down before the dead woman, and
his form shook with emotion, but not a tear came to his eyes. Only that
hard, stony look of hopeless despair. Mat crept up to him and took his
head in her lap, smoothing softly the matted chestnut hair.
"Don't take on so, Arch! don't!" she cried the tears running down over
her sunburnt face. "I'll be a mother to ye, Arch! I will indeed! I know
I'm a little