anging from the doors, so many
place every day--the poor young folks with life ahead and much to live
for even down here--they are poison and they do not know! Oh, _le bon
Dieu_! Boil dem dam' devil in hell in the water they have sell to the
poor!" He stopped, shocked by these words he heard coming from his
mouth, and crossed himself contritely. "But I look at her--I hear what
the docteur say--I talk and I cannot help!" He staggered into the room
where the child lay, and sat down in a chair and held his face in his
hands.

It was an aged and somewhat unctuous physician whom Farr brought. The
doctor pursed his lips and puckered his eyebrows above the little wraith
who minded him not at all, lying with eyes half closed, plucking with
finger and thumb at the bedclothing.

"With a bit stronger constitution--if she were a little older--Take the
case of an adult--"

"Say it short," growled Farr, clenching his fists as if he wanted to
beat indulgence for the child out of the hide of the world. "I'm paying
you for her life."

"I have nothing to sell you in this case--therefore there can be no
pay." He leaned over the bed and smoothed the moist, tangled hair away
from the child's brow. "I can only _give_ you something, my friend. I
give you all my sympathy. This baby is departing on a long journey, and
I'm Christian enough to believe that the way will be made very smooth
for the feet of little children. That's the faith of an old man."

There were both earnestness and tenderness in his tones--the smugness of
the physician was gone. He shook Farr's hand and went out of the room,
treading softly.

And the next day Rosemarie's tiny fingers stopped their flutterings and
she went away--somewhere!

XI

THE LORDS OF THE CITY

Walker Farr would not allow the tiny body of Rosemarie to be carried
away in the white hearse. In his grief he had not been able as yet to
dissociate the identity of the child from the poor little tenement in
which her spirit had dwelt for the few barren years of her life; it
seemed to him that she would be very lonely in the white hearse. He rode
to the cemetery, holding the tiny casket across his knees. There was
only the one carriage--it was sufficient to carry the friends of little
Rosemarie: one Walker Farr and old Etienne and play-mamma Zelie Dionne.

The rack-tender sat opposite Farr and nursed a bundle on his knees. He
had wrapped it surreptitiously.

The two men sent Zelie Dionne back