ts went out in the street where the
Bogans lived; at last there was no other lamp than theirs, in a window
that lighted the outer stairs. Sometimes a woman's shadow passed
across the curtain and waited there, drawing it away from the panes a
moment as if to listen the better for a footstep that did not come.
Poor Biddy had waited many a night before this. Her husband was far
from well, the doctor said that his heart was not working right, and
that he must be very careful, but the truth was that Mike's heart was
almost broken by grief. Dan was going the downhill road, he had been
drinking harder and harder, and spending a great deal of money. He had
smashed more than one carriage and lamed more than one horse from the
livery stables, and he had kept the lowest company in vilest dens. Now
he threatened to go to New York, and it had come at last to being the
only possible joy that he should come home at any time of night rather
than disappear no one knew where. He had laughed in Father Miles's
face when the good old man, after pleading with him, had tried to
threaten him.

Biddy was in an agony of suspense as the night wore on. She dozed a
little only to wake with a start, and listen for some welcome sound
out in the cold night. Was her boy freezing to death somewhere? Other
mothers only scolded if their sons were wild, but this was killing her
and Mike, they had set their hopes so high. Mike was groaning
dreadfully in his sleep to-night--the fire was burning low, and she
did not dare to stir it. She took her worn rosary again and tried to
tell its beads. "Mother of Pity, pray for us!" she said, wearily
dropping the beads in her lap.

There was a sound in the street at last, but it was not of one man's
stumbling feet, but of many. She was stiff with cold, she had slept
long, and it was almost day. She rushed with strange apprehension to
the doorway and stood with the flaring lamp in her hand at the top of
the stairs. The voices were suddenly hushed. "Go for Father Miles!"
said somebody in a hoarse voice, and she heard the words. They were
carrying a burden, they brought it tip to the mother who waited. In
their arms lay her son stone dead; he had been stabbed in a fight, he
had struck a man down who had sprung back at him like a tiger. Dan,
little Dan, was dead, the luck of the Bogans, the end was here, and a
wail that pierced the night, and chilled the hearts that heard it, was
the first message of sorrow to the poor fa