ith my own young ones."

"Does angels eat bread and milk, Mrs. Dempsey?" Peter asked the question
in all sincerity. He had often wondered about angels and he really
wanted to know.

"Oh, I guess they does," replied the good woman absently, too busy with
her cooking to pay much heed to what Peter was saying. "Goin', Peter?
Wish ye could stay and have a bite yerself, but I suppose if that
precious father of your'n come home and his supper warn't ready he'd
make it pretty hot for you, poor child. Well, good-night, Peter. Bring
the baby back in the morning."

"By the way, Peter," she called after him just as he was closing the
door. "To-morrow's Christmas day ye know. Don't forget to drop into the
church on yer way home and hear Mass, like a good boy."

Peter's ideas on the subject of religion were very vague. Mrs. Dempsey
had told him he must always attend Mass on Sunday and reminded him of
the fact every Saturday night when he would come to claim the baby.
Perhaps Christmas was another sort of Sunday, thought Peter. To him
Christmas had always meant a time when other boys and girls talked of
nothing but Christmas trees and turkey and wonderful presents they had
received. No one had ever given Peter anything. He wondered if Mrs.
Dempsey would. He had not known Mrs. Dempsey last Christmas; she came to
the alley only a few months ago. Life had been somewhat easier for Peter
since her coming for she helped so much in caring for baby while he was
out. He wished Mrs. Dempsey would give baby something for Christmas. He
had hoped to do so himself, but somehow he never could find a cent for
anything except the absolute necessities of life. Sometimes he could do
no more than provide bread and milk for the baby and go hungry himself.
That was when father would beat him and take away the few pennies he was
saving to buy food for the little sister and himself.

With baby held carefully in his arms, Peter descended the two flights of
stairs to his home in the cellar. As he pushed open the door of the
room which served as kitchen and living room in the daytime and as
sleeping apartment for himself and baby at night, the damp chill of the
place struck him as it never had done before. Groping his way to the
table he lighted the candle upon it. Then, after wrapping baby in his
mother's old shawl and depositing her upon their bed in the corner, he
proceeded to make a fire in the cracked and rusty stove. Peter was only
eleven, but the c