ntity. 'The poor ye have always with you.'"

"How very clever that is," said Mrs. Gerard.

Mrs. Cedarquist tapped the table with her fan in mild applause.

"Brilliant, brilliant," she murmured, "epigrammatical."

"Honora," said Mrs. Gerard, turning to her daughter, at that moment in
conversation with the languid Lambert, "Honora, entends-tu, ma cherie,
l'esprit de notre jeune Lamartine."

*****

Mrs. Hooven went on, stumbling from street to street, holding Hilda to
her breast. Famine gnawed incessantly at her stomach; walk though she
might, turn upon her tracks up and down the streets, back to the avenue
again, incessantly and relentlessly the torture dug into her vitals.
She was hungry, hungry, and if the want of food harassed and rended
her, full-grown woman that she was, what must it be in the poor, starved
stomach of her little girl? Oh, for some helping hand now, oh, for one
little mouthful, one little nibble! Food, food, all her wrecked body
clamoured for nourishment; anything to numb those gnawing teeth--an
abandoned loaf, hard, mouldered; a half-eaten fruit, yes, even the
refuse of the gutter, even the garbage of the ash heap. On she went,
peering into dark corners, into the areaways, anywhere, everywhere,
watching the silent prowling of cats, the intent rovings of stray
dogs. But she was growing weaker; the pains and cramps in her stomach
returned. Hilda's weight bore her to the pavement. More than once a
great giddiness, a certain wheeling faintness all but overcame her.
Hilda, however, was asleep. To wake her would only mean to revive her to
the consciousness of hunger; yet how to carry her further? Mrs. Hooven
began to fear that she would fall with her child in her arms. The terror
of a collapse upon those cold pavements glistening with fog-damp roused
her; she must make an effort to get through the night. She rallied all
her strength, and pausing a moment to shift the weight of her baby to
the other arm, once more set off through the night. A little while later
she found on the edge of the sidewalk the peeling of a banana. It had
been trodden upon and it was muddy, but joyfully she caught it up.

"Hilda," she cried, "wake oop, leedle girl. See, loog den, dere's
somedings to eat. Look den, hey? Dat's goot, ain't it? Zum bunaner."

But it could not be eaten. Decayed, dirty, all but rotting, the stomach
turned from the refuse, nauseated.

"No, no," cried Hilda, "that's not good. I can't eat it. Oh, Ma