It was the day before Christmas in the year 189-.
Snow was falling heavily in the streets of Boston,
but the crowd of shoppers seemed undiminished. As
the storm increased, groups gathered at the corners
and in sheltering doorways to wait for belated cars;
but the holiday cheer was in the air, and there was
no grumbling. Mothers dragging tired children
through the slush of the streets; pretty girls
hurrying home for the holidays; here and there a
harassed-looking man with perhaps a single package
which he had taken a whole morning to select--all
had the same spirit of tolerant good-humor.
"School Street! School Street!" called the conductor
of an electric
car. A group of young people at the farther end of
the car started to their feet. One of them, a young
man wearing a heavy fur-trimmed coat, addressed the
conductor angrily.
"I said, 'Music Hall,' didn't I?" he demanded. "Now
we've got to walk back in the snow because of your
stupidity!"
"Oh, never mind, Frank!" one of the girls
interposed. "We ought to have been looking out
ourselves! Six of us, and we went by without a
thought! It is all Mrs. Tirrell's fault! She
shouldn't have been so
entertaining!"
The young matron dimpled and blushed. "That's
charming of you, Maidie," she said, gathering up her
silk skirts as she prepared to step down into the
pond before her. "The compliment makes up for the
blame. But how it snows!"
"It doesn't matter. We all have gaiters on,"
returned Maidie Williams, undisturbed.
"Fares, please!" said the conductor stolidly.
Frank Armstrong thrust his gloved hand deep into his
pocket with angry vehemence. "There's your money,"
he said, "and be quick about the change, will you?
We've lost time enough!"
The man counted out the change with stiff, red
fingers, closed his lips firmly as if to keep back
an obvious rejoinder, rang up the six fares with
careful accuracy, and gave the signal to go ahead.
The car went on into the drifting storm.
Armstrong laughed shortly as he rapidly counted the
bits of silver
lying in his open palm. He turned instinctively, but
two or three cars
were already between him and the one he was looking
for.
"The fellow must be an imbecile," he said, rejoining
the group on the crossing. "He's given me back a
dollar and twenty cents, and I handed him a dollar
bill."
"Oh, can't you stop him?" cried Maidie Williams,
with a backward step into the wet street.
The Harvard junior, who was carrying her umbrella,
protested: "What's the use. Miss Williams? He'll
make it up before he gets to Scollay Square, you may
be sure. Those chaps don't lose anything. Why, the
other day, I gave one a quarter and he went off as
cool as you please.
'Where's my change?' said I. 'You gave me a nickel,'
said he. And there wasn't anybody to swear that I
didn't except myself, and I didn't count."
"But that doesn't make any difference," insisted the
girl warmly.
"Because one conductor was dishonest, we needn't be.
I beg your pardon, Frank, but it does seem to me
just stealing."
"Oh, come along!" said her cousin, with an easy
laugh. "I guess the West End Corporation won't go
without their dinners to-morrow. Here, Maidie,
here's the ill-gotten fifty cents. _I_ think you
ought to treat us all after the concert; still, I
won't urge you. I wash my hands of all
responsibility. But I do wish you hadn't such an
unpleasant conscience."
Maidie flushed under the sting of his cousinly
rudeness, but she went
on quietly with the rest. It was evident that any
attempt to overtake
the car was out of the question.
"Did you notice his number, Frank?" she asked,
suddenly.
"No, I never thought of it" said Frank, stopping
short. "However, I
probably shouldn't make any complaint if I had. I
shall forget all
about it tomorrow. I find it's never safe to let the
sun go down on my wrath. It's very likely not to be
there the next day."
"I wasn't thinking of making a complaint," said
Maidie; but the two
young men were enjoying the small joke too much to
notice what she said.
The great doorway of Music Hall was just ahead. In a
moment the party were within its friendly shelter,
stamping off the snow. The girls were adjusting
veils and hats with adroit feminine touches; the
pretty chaperon was beaming approval upon them, and
the young men were taking off their wet overcoats,
when Maidie turned again in sudden desperation.
"Mr. Harris," she said, rather faintly, for she did
not like to make
herself disagreeable, "do you suppose that car comes
right back from Scollay Square?"
"What car?" asked Walter Harris, blankly. "Oh, the
one we came in? Yes, I suppose it does. They're
running all the time, anyway. Why, you are not sick,
are you, Miss Williams?"
There was genuine concern in his tone. This girl,
with her sweet,
vibrant voice, her clear gray eyes, seemed very
charming to him. She wasn't beautiful, perhaps, but
she was the kind of girl he liked. There was a
steady earnestness in the gray eyes that made him
think of his mother.
"No," said Maidie, slowly. "I'm all right, thank
you. But I wish I
could find that man again. I know sometimes they
have to make it up if their accounts are wrong, and
I couldn't--we couldn't feel very
comfortable--"
Frank Armstrong interrupted her. "Maidie," he said,
with the studied
calmness with which one speaks to an unreasonable
child, "you are perfectly absurd. Here it is within
five minutes of the tune for the concert to begin.
It is impossible to tell when that car is coming
back. You are making us all very uncomfortable. Mrs.
Tirrell, won't you please tell her not to spoil our
afternoon?"
"I think he's right, Maidie," said Mrs. Tirrell.
"It's very nice of you
to feel so sorry for the poor man, but he really was
very careless. It
was all his own fault. And just think how far he
made us walk! My feet are quite damp. We ought to go
in directly or we shall all take cold, and I'm sure
you wouldn't like that, my dear."
She led the way as she spoke, the two girls and
young Armstrong
following. Maidie hesitated. It was so easy to go
in, to forget
everything in the light and warmth and excitement.
"No," said she, very firmly, and as much to herself
as to the young man who stood waiting for her. "I
must go back and try to make it right. I'm so sorry,
Mr. Harris, but if you will tell them--"
"Why, I'm going with you, of course" said the young
fellow,
impulsively. "If I'd only looked once at the man I'd
go alone, but I
shouldn't know him from Adam."
Maidie laughed. "Oh, I don't want to lose the whole
concert, Mr.
Harris, and Frank, has all the tickets. You must go
after them and try to make my peace. I'll come just
as soon as I can. Don't wait for me, please. If
you'll come and look for me here the first number,
and not let them scold me too much--" She ended with
an imploring little catch in her breath that was
almost a sob.
"They sha'n't say a word, Miss Williams!" cried
Walter Harris, with
honest admiration in his eyes.
But she was gone already, and conscious that further
delay was only making matters worse, he went on into
the hall.
Meanwhile, the car swung heavily along the wet rails
on its way to the turning-point. It was nearly empty
now. An old gentleman and his nurse were the only
occupants. Jim Stevens, the conductor, had stepped
inside the car.
"Too bad I forgot those young people wanted to get
off at Music Hall," he was thinking to himself. "I
don't see how I came to do it. That chap looked as
if he wanted to complain of me, and I don't know as
I blame him. I'd have said I was sorry if he hadn't
been so sharp with his tongue. I hope he won't
complain just now. 'Twould be a pretty bad time for
me to get into trouble, with Mary and the baby both
sick. I'm too sleepy to be good for much, that's a
fact. Sitting up three nights running takes hold of
a fellow somehow when he's at work all day. The
rent's paid, that's one thing, if it hasn't left me
but half a dollar to my name. Hullo!" He was struck
by a sudden distinct recollection of the coins he
had returned. "Why, I gave him fifty cents too
much!"
He glanced up at the dial which indicated the fares
and began to count the change in his pocket. He knew
exactly how much money he had had at the beginning
of the trip. He counted carefully. Then he plunged
his hand into the heavy canvas pocket of his coat.
Perhaps he had half a dollar there. No, it was
empty!
He faced the fact reluctantly. Fifty cents short,
ten fares! Gone into
the pocket of the young gentleman with the fur
collar! The conductor's hand shook as he put the
money back in his pocket. It meant--what did it
mean? He drew a long breath.
Christmas Eve! A dark dreary little room upstairs in
a noisy tenement house. A pale, thin woman on a
shabby lounge vainly trying to quiet a fretful
child. The child is thin and pale, too, with a hard,
racking
cough. There is a small fire in the stove, a very
small fire; coal is
so high. The medicine stands on the shelf. "Medicine
won't do much good," the doctor had said; "he needs
beef and cream."
Jim's heart sank at the thought. He could almost
hear the baby asking; "Isn't papa coming soon? Isn't
he, mamma?"
"Poor little kid!" Jim said, softly, under his
breath. "And I shan't
have a thing to take home to him; nor Mary's
violets, either. It'll be
the first Christmas that ever happened. I suppose
that chap would think it was ridiculous for me to be
buying violets. He wouldn't understand what the
flowers mean to Mary. Perhaps he didn't notice I
gave him too much. That kind don't know how much
they have. They just pull it out as if it was
newspaper."
The conductor went out into the snow to help the
nurse, who was
assisting the old gentleman to the ground. Then the
car swung on again. Jim turned up the collar of his
coat about his ears and stamped his feet. There was
the florist's shop where he had meant to buy the
violets, and the toy-shop was just around the
corner.
A thought flashed across his tired brain. "Plenty of
men would do it; they do it every day. Nobody ever
would be the poorer for it. This car will be crowded
going home. I needn't ring in every fare; nobody
could tell. But Mary! She wouldn't touch those
violets if she knew. And she'd know. I'd have to
tell her. I couldn't keep it from her, she's that
quick."
He jumped off to adjust the trolley with a curious
sense of unreality. It couldn't be that he was
really going home this Christmas Eve with empty
hands. Well, they must all suffer together for his
carelessness. It was his own fault, but it was hard.
And he was so tired!
To his amazement he found his eyes were blurred as
be watched the people crowding into the car. What?
Was he going to cry like a
baby--he, a great burly man of thirty years?
"It's no use," he thought. "I couldn't do it. The
first time I gave
Mary violets was the night she said she'd marry me.
I told her then I'd do my best to make her proud of
me. I guess she wouldn't be very proud of a man who
could cheat. She'd rather starve than have a ribbon
she couldn't pay for."
He rang up a dozen fares with a steady hand. The
temptation was over. Six more strokes--then nine
without a falter. He even imagined the bell rang
more distinctly than usual, even encouragingly. The
car stopped. Jim flung the door open with a
triumphant sweep of his arm. He felt ready to face
the world. But the baby--his arm dropped. It was
hard.
He turned to help the young girl who was waiting at
the step. Through the whirling snow he saw her eager
face, with a quick recognition lighting the steady
eyes, and wondered dimly, as he stood with his hand
on the signal-strap, where he could have seen her
before.
He knew immediately.
"There was a mistake," she said, with a shy tremor
in her voice. "You gave us too much change and here
it is." She held out to Jim the piece of silver
which had given him such an unhappy quarter of an
hour.
He took it like one dazed. Would the young lady
think he was crazy to care so much about so small a
coin? He must say something. "Thank you, miss," he
stammered as well as he could. "You see, I thought
it was gone--and there's the baby--and it's
Christmas Eve--and my wife's sick--and you can't
understand--"
It certainly was not remarkable that she couldn't.
"But I do," she said, simply. "I was afraid of that.
And I thought
perhaps there was a baby, so I brought my Christmas
present for her," and something else dropped into
Jim's cold hand.
"What you waiting for?" shouted the motorman from
the front platform.
The girl had disappeared in the snow.
Jim rang the bell to go ahead, and gazed again at
the two shining half dollars in his hand.
"I didn't have a chance to tell her," he explained
to his wife late in
the evening, as he sat in a tiny rocking-chair
several sizes too small for him, "that the baby
wasn't a her at all, though if I thought he'd grow
up into such a lovely one as she is, I don't know
but I almost wish he was."
"Poor Jim!" said Mary, with a little laugh as she
put up her hand to
stroke his rough cheek. "I guess you're tired."
"And I should say," he added, stretching out his
long legs toward the few red sparks in the bottom of
the grate, "I should say she had tears in her eyes,
too, but I was that near crying myself I couldn't be
sure."
The little room was sweet with the odor of English
violets. Asleep in the bed lay the boy, a toy horse
clasped close to his breast.
"Bless her heart!" said Mary, softly.
"Well, Miss Williams," said Walter Harris, as he
sprang to meet a
snow-covered figure coming swiftly along the
sidewalk. "I can see that you found him. You've lost
the first number, but they won't scold you--not this
time."
The girl turned a radiant face upon him. "Thank
you," she said, shaking the snowy crystals from her
skirt. "I don't care now if they do. I should have
lost more than that if I had stayed."
