Let's Kiss and Part

2

It was a chilly November day, three children could be almost heard in the neighborhood, "Sister Angelina, I am so hungry. Please give me some bread!" sobbed the little child, clinging to the skirts of his cousin, a dark-eyed girl of sixteen. "Am hungry, too. I want my breakfast!" sobbed a still younger child, petulantly, and for answer Angelina stooped down and gathered both the little boys into her arms, crying tremulously:

"Wait a little while, my darlings, and your sister will go and try to get you some bread!".

fireless room and the pinched faces and hollow eyes of the three children, the girl of sixteen, the boys of six and four, respectively and they had not tasted food for twenty-four hours, and the cupboard was empty of the smallest crust, but the small stove was fireless, though their thin, ragged garments were insufficient to keep out the biting cold.

Angelina kissed the tear-wet faces of her hungry little brothers, then stood up again and looked around the room to see if there was anything left worthy the attention of the old pawnbroker on the corner.

A choking sob escaped the girl's lips:

"There is nothing but trash! The little purse is empty, and the rent is unpaid for two months. What shall we do?"

A loud rap on the door gave her a violent start, and she sprang to open it,

She was confronted by a medium-sized young man, good-looking in a coarse style with red cheeks, keen, black eyes, and close-cropped, black hair, dressed flashily, with a long, gold watch chain dangling across his chest.

Staring curiously into the room and at the girl, he demanded:

"Is Hadden Jennings at home?"

"He is not."

"Where is his wife, then, hey?"

A sob came from all three of the children, but no reply until, the motherly looking woman suddenly pushed past the young man into the room, exclaiming:

"Now, how dare ye break the hearts of those children, by your impedance, their mother is dead of six months ago!".

"Ah, and the father?"

"They took him to the hospital, a month ago, hurt by an accident, and he died there but yesterday. I just came in to take the children to get the last look at his dead face before they bury him at the city's expense."

"Ah, very sorry, I'm sure, but, of course, now the rent will never be paid, and I was sent here to bring a dispossess warrant, so I may as well read it for the benefit of the children."

And he coolly proceeded to do so, apparently unmoved by the sad story of death and disaster he had just heard.

Then he ordered two rough-looking men who had been standing in the hallway and at a motion of the hand from the dispossess officer, they began at once to move the few shabby household effects into the street.

Painful sobs burst from the hapless orphans, but the old Irishwoman, with the calmness, said to them gently:

"You see, dears, you are turned into the street. Do you have any friends to take in?"

Angelina answered forlornly:

"We have an aunt, a dressmaker, in a distant part of the city. She was papa's sister, but he would never let her know that we were so poor after he lost his steady job, saying she had troubled enough of her own."

"of course, she will help, when she knows about your troubles, poor things, so now come to my room and have a little snack before we go to the hospital," said Mrs. Ryan tenderly, marching the orphans past the dispossess agent, who remarked insinuatingly:

"The oldest girl's big enough to go out and earn her own living, and if her aunt won't take her to keep, I know of a situation she can get as parlor maid with a very nice lady."

"Thank you kindly, but I hope she won't need it," returned Mrs. Ryan, as she led the little ones to her own poor apartment where she fed them on the best she could afford, tea, baker's stale bread, and a bit of cheese, but a feast to the famishing orphans whose thanks brought tears to her kind eyes.

Afterward, she took them to look their last time, on the face of their dead father before he was consigned to his grave among the city's pauper dead, poor soul, the victim of misfortune. Then she led them weeping away to their aunt, Mrs. Bardot, who heard with the grief of her poor brother's death and looked with pity on his orphan children.

She said plaintively:

"I'm alone widow with a sick daughter and no support but my needle, but, of course, I cannot turn Hadden's children out into the cold world. I'll take Mark and Willie and do the best I can buy them, but as for Angelina, she is old enough to go out and work for herself. Besides, she has no claim on me, as she was not my brother's child!"

"No!" almost shrieked Angelina, in her astonishment, and Mrs. Bardot, looking ready to faint under the burden of her new responsibilities, replied:

"You were only the niece of my brother's wife, though she brought you up as her own child, and loved you just as well."

Mrs. Ryan questioned eagerly:

"Are Angelina's own parents living?"

"The Lord only knows," was the answer, and, seeing the anxiety on their faces, Mrs. Bardot continued:

"You see, it was this way: Angelina's father and mother were divorced when they hadn't been married more than seven months or so, and afterward their child was born, and when it was a few years old the father in a fit of rage stole Angelina away from her mother and brought her to his sister to raise as her own. He went away and for years sent money to keep and educate the child, but at last letters and money both stopped suddenly, it was rumored that he was dead the Jennings kept Angelina all the same and did the best they could, but misfortunes began to come and death followed—so everything came to this situation. I'll say it for Ange, she's a good child, but I'm too poor to keep her, so she will have to look for a situation."

"I've heard of one already, so I will take her back and try to get it for her. Bid your little brothers good-by, dear," said Mrs. Ryan gently, in her pity for the forlorn girl, who now turned to Mrs. Bardot, faltering:

"Maybe you can tell me where to find my mother?"

"I can't, my dear, for now, I remember I never heard her name, nor your pa's, neither. You always went by the name of Jenning and were considered their child, so you will have to go on calling yourself Jenning tills you find out better. Maybe your mother wasn't a good woman, anyway, or she wouldn't have to be divorced.".

Cruel was the parting between Angelina and the little ones, but with kisses and tears, and promises to come again, the desolate girl has hurried away to her fate—every link is broken between her and the past, her heart aching, her future chaos that no hope could pierce.

"If I could only find my mother!" she sighed to Mrs. Ryan.

"My darling, don't fix your heart on her, for she must have been a bad woman indeed, or your father wouldn't have stolen you away and put you in his sister's care, now, I'm thinking of what the dispossess agent said about knowing of a good place for you to stay as a parlor maid. And good luck to you, darling there he is in front of the house now, having the old sticks of your furniture moved, bad to his eyes! But then again, 'thars not his fault. He was sent by the landlord to do it, and can't help himself, so why should we be hard on him", we reached the office and she tapped on his shoulder and said :

"If you please, sir, we would like to have the address of the good lady as you said would take Angelina for a parlor maid."

The agent's face beamed with surprise and delight, and, hastily drawing a card from his pocket, he presented it, saying:

"There's the address, and just tell the lady I sent you, and I know she will give Miss Jenning the place," beaming on the girl in a way that made her shrink and shudder.

"Why 'this the old fortune-teller in the next street," said Mrs. Ryan, surveying the dingy card that read:

"Know your fame and fortune, Consult Madame Levine "

she read the address" scientific palmist No. 16A West Twenty-third Street. Hours between ten and four dailies. Fee one dollar."