ding to the third floor of the tenement, he came to the room
where lived the Mexican Sword Swallower: whom he persuaded to return
with him to Mr. Poddle's bedside.

They paused at the door. The woman drew back.

"Aw, Dick," she simpered, "I hate to!"

"Just this once!" the boy pleaded.

"Just to say it!"

The reply was a bashful giggle.

"You don't have to _mean_ it," the boy argued. "Just _say_ it--that's
all!"

They entered. Mr. Poddle was muttering the boy's name--in a vain
effort to lift his voice. His hands were both at the
coverlet--picking, searching: both restless in the advancing sunshine.
With a sob of self-reproach the boy ran quickly to the bedside, took
one of the wandering hands, pressed it to his lips. And Mr. Poddle
sighed, and lay quiet again.

"Mr. Poddle," the boy whispered, "she's come at last."

There was no response.

"She's come!" the boy repeated. He gave the hand he held to the woman.
Then he put his lips close to the dying man's ear. "Don't you hear me?
She's come!"

Mr. Poddle opened his eyes. "Her--massive--proportions!" he faltered.

"Quick!" said the boy.

"Poddle," the woman lied, "I love you!"

Then came the Dog-faced Man's one brief flash of ecstasy--expressed in
a wondrous glance of joy and devotion: but a swiftly fading fire.

"She loves me!" he muttered.

"I do, Poddle!" the woman sobbed, willing, now, for the grotesque
deception. "Yes, I do!"

"'Beauty,'" Mr. Poddle gasped, "'and the Beast!'"

They listened intently. He said no more.... Soon the sunbeam
glorified the smiling face....

[Illustration: Tailpiece to _Mr. Poddle's Finale_]

[Illustration: Headpiece to _His Mother_]

_HIS MOTHER_

While he waited for his mother to come--seeking relief from the
melancholy and deep mystification of this death--the boy went into the
street. The day was well disposed, the crowded world in an amiable
mood; he perceived no menace--felt no warning of catastrophe. He
wandered far, unobservant, forgetful: the real world out of mind. And
it chanced that he lost his way; and he came, at last, to that loud,
seething place, thronged with unquiet faces, where, even in the
sunshine, sin and poverty walked abroad, unashamed.... Rush, crash,
joyless laughter, swollen flesh, red eyes, shouting, rags, disease:
flung into the midst of it--transported from the sweet feeling and
quiet gloom of the Church of the Lifted Gross--he was confused and
frighte