ther.

"Millie!" the acrobat ejaculated.

The boy had not moved. He was staring at the woman on the stage. A
flush of shame, swiftly departing, had left his face white. Presently
he trembled. His lips twitched--his head drooped. The man laid a
comforting hand on his knee. A tear splashed upon it.

"I didn't know she was here, Dick!" the acrobat whispered. "It's a
shame. But I didn't know. And I--I'm--sorry!"

The boy looked up. He called a smile to his face. It was a brave
pretense. But his face was still wan.

"I think I'd like to go home," he answered, weakly. "It's--time--for
tea."

"Don't feel bad, Dick! It's all right. _She's_ all right."

"If you please," said the boy, still resolutely pretending ignorance,
"I think I'd like to go--now."

The acrobat waited for a blast of harsh music to subside. The boy's
mother began to sing--a voice trivially engaged: raised beyond its
strength. A spasm of distress contorted the boy's face.

"Brace up, Dick!" the man whispered. "Don't take it so hard."

"If you please," the boy protested, "I'll be late for tea if I don't go
now."

The acrobat took his hand--guided him, stumbling, up the aisle: led him
into the fresh air, the cool, clean sunlight, of the street.... There
had been sudden confusion on the stage. The curtain had fallen with a
rush. But it was now lifted, again, and the dismal entertainment was
once more in noisy course.

It was now late in the afternoon. The pavement was thronged. Dazed by
agony, blinded by the bright light of day, the boy was roughly jostled.
The acrobat drew him into an eddy of the stream. There the child
offered his hand--and looked up with a dogged little smile.

"Good-bye," he said. "Thank you."

The acrobat caught the hand in a warm clasp. "You don't know your way
home, do you?" he asked.

"No, sir."

"Where you going?"

The boy looked away. There was a long interval. Into the shuffle and
chatter of the passing crowd crept the muffled blare of the orchestra.
The acrobat still held the boy's hand tight--still anxiously watched
him, his face overcast.

"Box Street?" he asked.

"No, sir."

"Aw, Dick! think again," the acrobat pleaded. "Come, now! Ain't you
going to Box Street?"

"No, sir," the boy answered, low. "I'm going to the curate's house,
near the Church of the Lifted Cross."

They were soon within sight of the trees in the park. The boy's way
was then known to him. Again h