,
and then I can't talk to you no more. I can't say no word to you from
the grave--when the time she dreads has come. Listen to me!" His
voice rose. He was breathing in gasps. There was a light in his eyes.
"It is your mother. There ain't a better woman in all the world.
Listen to me! Don't you forget her. She loves you. You're all she's
got. Her poor heart is hungry for you. Don't you forget her. There
ain't a better woman nowhere. There ain't a woman more fit for heaven.
Don't you go back on her! Don't you let no black-and-white curick
teach you no different!"

"I'll not forget!" said the boy.

Mr. Poddle laid a hand on his head. "God bless you, Richard!" said he.

The boy kissed him, unafraid of his monstrous countenance--and then
fled to his mother....

For a long time the Dog-faced Man lay alone, listening to the voices
across the hall: himself smiling to know that the woman had her son
again; not selfishly reluctant to be thus abandoned. The door was
ajar. Joyous sounds drifted in--chatter, soft laughter, the rattle of
dishes.... Presently, silence: broken by the creaking of the
rocking-chair, and by low singing.... By and by, voices, speaking
gravely--in intimate converse: this for a long, long time, while the
muttering of the tenement ceased, and quiet fell.... A plea and an
imploring protest. She was wanting him to go to bed. There followed
the familiar indications that the child was being disrobed: shoes
striking the floor, yawns, sleepy talk, crooning encouragement....
Then a strange silence--puzzling to the listener: not accountable by
his recollection of similar occasions.

There was a quick step in the hall.

"Poddle!"

The Dog-faced Man started. There was alarm in the voice--despair,
resentment. On the threshold stood the woman--distraught: one hand
against the door-post, the other on her heart.

"Poddle, he's----"

Mr. Poddle, thrown into a paroxysm of fright by the pause, struggled to
his elbow, but fell back, gasping.

"What's he doin'?" he managed to whisper.

"Prayin'!" she answered, hoarsely.

Mr. Poddle was utterly nonplussed. The situation was unprecedented:
not to be dealt with on the basis of past experience.

"'Religion In Haste,'" he sighed, sadly confounded. "'Repent At
Leisure.'"

"Prayin'!" she repeated, entering on tiptoe. "He's down on his
knees--_prayin'_!" She began to pace the floor--wringing her hands: a
tragic figure. "It's come, Podd