rink to whoever had sunk
low enough to buy it. So now you know all about how these three baby
brothers commenced their lives.

CHAPTER II.

JOHN BIRGE'S OPPORTUNITY.

One day it rained--oh, terribly. Albany is not a pleasant city when it
rains, and Rensselaer Street is not a pleasant street. That was what
John Birge thought as he held his umbrella low to avoid the slanting
drops, and hurried himself down the muddy road, hurried until he came to
a cellar stairs, and then he stopped short in the midst of rain and
wind, such a pitiable sight met his eye, the figure of a human being,
fallen down on that lowest stair in all the abandonment of drunkenness.

"This is awful!" muttered John Birge to himself. "I wonder if the poor
wretch lives here, and if I can't get him in."

Wondering which, he hurried down the stairs, made his way carefully past
the "poor wretch" and knocked at the door. No answer. He knocked louder,
and this time a low "come in" rewarded him, and he promptly obeyed it.
A woman was bending over a pile of straw and rags, and an object lying
on top of them; and a squalid child, curled in one corner, with a wild,
frightened look in his eyes. The woman turned as the door opened, and
John Birge recognized her as his mother's washerwoman.

"Oh, Mr. Birge," she said, eagerly, "I'm too thankful for anything at
seeing you. This woman is going so fast, she is; and what to do I don't
know."

Mr. Birge set down his umbrella and shook himself free of what drops he
could before he approached the straw and rags; then he saw that a woman
lay on them, and on her face the purple shadows of death were gathering.

"What is it?" he asked, awe-struck. "What is the matter?"

"Clear case of murder, I call it. Her man is a drunkard, and a fiend,
too, leastways when he's drunk he is--and he's pitched her down them
there stairs once too often, I reckon. I was goin' to my work early this
morning, and I heard her groaning, so I come in, and I just staid on
ever since. Feelings is feelings, if a body does have to lose a day's
work to pay for 'em. She lies like that for a spell, and then she rouses
up and has an awful turn."

"Turn of what? Is she in pain?"

"No, I reckon not; it's her mind. She knows she's going, and it makes
her wild, like. Maybe you can talk to her some, and do her good--there,
she sees you!"

A pair of stony, rather than wild, eyes were suddenly fixed on Mr.
Birge's face. He bent over her and spo