I.

What a month of March it was! And after an unusually mild season, too. Old Winter seemed to have hoarded up all his stock of snow and cold weather, and left it as an inheritance to his wild and rollicking heir, that was expending it with lavish extravagance.

March was a jolly good fellow though, in spite of his bluster and boisterous ways. There was a wealth of sunshine in his honest heart, and he evidently wanted to render everybody happy. He appeared to have entered into a compact with Santa Claus to make it his business to see that the boys and girls should not, in the end, be deprived of their fair share of the season’s merrymaking; that innumerable sleds and toboggans and skates, which had laid idle since Christmas, and been the objects of much sad contemplation, should have their day, after all.

And he was not really inconsiderate of the poor either; for though, very frequently, in a spirit of mischief, he and his chum Jack frost drew caricatures of spring flowers on their window-panes, knocked at their doors only to run away in a trice, and played other pranks upon them, they did not feel the same dread of all this that they would have felt in December. He would make up for it by being on his best and balmiest behavior for some days following; would promise that milder weather, when the need and the price of coal would be less, was surely coming; and that both the wild blossoms of the country fields, and the stray dandelions which struggle into bloom in city yards, would be on time, as usual.

On the special day with which we have to do, however, March was not in “a melting mood.” On the contrary, the temperature was sharp and frosty, the ground white, the clouds heavy with snow. The storm of the night before had only ceased temporarily; it would begin again soon, indeed a few flakes were already floating in the air. At four o’clock in the afternoon the children commenced to troop out of the schools. How pleasant to watch them! to see the great doors swing open and emit, now a throng of bright-eyed, chattering little girls, in gay cloaks and hoods and mittens; or again a crowd of sturdy boys, a few vociferating and disputing, others trudging along discussing games and sports, and others again indulging in a little random snowballing of their comrades, by the way. Half an hour later the snow was falling thick and fast. The boys were in their element. A number of them had gathered in one of the parks or squares for which the garden-like city of E  is noted, and were busy completing a snow-fort. The jingle of sleigh-bells became less frequent, however; people hurried home; it was sure to be a disagreeable evening.

These indications were dolefully noted by one person in particular, to whom they meant more than to others in general. This was the good old Irishwoman who kept the apple and peanut stand at the street corner, and was the centre of attraction to the children on their way to and from school.

“Wisha, this is goin’ to be a wild night, I’m thinkin’!” sighed she, wrapping a faded and much-worn “broshay” shawl more securely about her, and striving to protect both herself and her wares beneath the shelter of a dilapidated umbrella, one of the ribs of which had parted company with the cotton covering, escaped from its moorings, as it were, and stood out independently. “Glory be to God, but what bad luck I’ve had the day!” she continued under her breath, from habit still scanning the faces of the passers-by, though she had now faint hope that any would pause to purchase. “An’ it’s a bigger lot than usual I laid in, too. The peanuts is extry size; an’ them Baldwins look so fine and rosy, I thought it ud make anybody’s mouth water to see them. I counted upon the schoolb’ys to buy them up in a twinklin’, by reason of me markin’ them down to two for a cent. An’ so they would, but they’re so taken up with sportin’ in the snow that they can think of nothin’ else. An’ now that it’s turned so raw, sure I’m afraid it’s cold comfort any one but a lad would think it, settin’ his teeth on edge tryin’ to eat them. I’ll tarry a bit longer; an’ then, if no better fortune comes, I’ll take meself to me little room, even though I’ll have to drink me tea without a tint of milk or a dust of sugar the night, and be thankful for that same.”

Patiently she waited. The clock struck five. As no other customers appeared, the old woman, who was known as Widow Barry, concluded that she would be moving. “Though it is too bad,” she murmured; “an’ this the best stand anywhere hereabouts.”

In reality, the stand consisted of a large basket, a camp-seat, the tiresome privilege of leaning against two feet of stone-wall, and the aforesaid umbrella, which was intended to afford, not only a roof, but an air of dignity to the concern, and was therefore always open, rain or shine.

To “shut up shop,” though it meant simply to lower the umbrella, gather up the goods and depart, was to the apple-vender a momentous affair. Every merchant who attempts, as the saying is, to carry his establishment, finds it no easy task; yet this is what the widow was obliged literally to do. To make her way, thus laden, in the midst of a driving snowstorm was indeed a difficult matter. Half a dozen times she faltered in discouragement. The street led over a steep hill; how was she to reach the top? She struggled along; the wind blew through her thin garments and drove her back; the umbrella bobbed wildly about; her hands grew numb; now the basket, again the camp-seat, kept slipping from her grasp. Several persons passed, but no one seemed to think of stopping to assist her. A party of well-dressed boys were coasting down the middle of the street; what cared they for the storm? Several, who were standing awaiting their turn, glanced idly at the grotesque figure.

“What a guy!” cried Ed Brown, with a laugh, sending a well-aimed snowball straight against the umbrella, which it shook with a thud. He was on the point of following up with another.

“Oh, come!” protested a carelessly good-natured companion. “That’s no fun. But here look out for the other double-runner! Now we go, hurray!”

And, presto, they whizzed by, without another thought of the aged creature toiling up the ascent. No one appeared to have time to help her.

Presently, however, she heard a firm, light step behind her. The next moment a pair of merry brown eyes peered under the umbrella; a face as round and ruddy as one of her best Baldwins beamed upon her with the smile of old friendship, and a gay, youthful voice cried out:

“Good afternoon, Missis Barry! It’s hard work getting on to-day, isn’t it?”

A singularly gentle expression lighted up the apple-woman’s weather-beaten features as she recognized the little fellow in the handsome overcoat, who was evidently returning from an errand, as he carried a milk can in one hand while drawing a sled with the other.

“Indade an’ it is, Masther Tom!” she replied, pausing a second.

“Let us see if we can’t manage differently,” he went on, taking her burden and setting it upon the sled. “There, that is better. Now give me your hand.”

She had watched him mechanically; but, thus recalled to herself, she answered hastily:

“Oh, thank ye kindly, sir! It’s too much for ye to be takin’ this trouble; but I can get along very well now, with only the umbrelly to carry.”

“No trouble at all,” said he. “Look, then, follow me; I’ll pick out the best places for you to walk in, the snow is drifting so!”

He trudged on ahead, glancing back occasionally to see if the basket and camp-seat were safe, or to direct her steps, as if all this were the most natural thing in the world for him to do, as in truth it was; for, though he thought it a great joke that she should call him “sir,” will not any one admit that he deserved the title which belongs to a gentleman? He and Widow Barry had been good friends for some time.

“Sure, an’ didn’t he buy out me whole supply one day this last January?” she would say. “His birthday it was, and the dear creature was eleven years old. He spent the big silver dollar his grandfather gave him like a prince, a treatin’ all the b’ys of the neighborhood to apples an’ peanuts, an’ sendin’ me home to take me comfort.”

Tom, moreover, was a regular patron of “the stand.” He always declared that “she knew what suited him to a T.” During the selection he was accustomed to discuss with her many weighty questions, especially Irish politics, in which they both took a deep if not very well-informed interest.

“Guess I’ll have that dark-red one over there. Don’t you think Mr. Gladstone is the greatest statesman of the age, Missis Barry? what? That other one is bigger? Well! and your father knew Daniel O’Connell you say? ah, I tell you that’s a fine fellow!”

Whether he meant the patriot or the pippin it might be difficult to determine. This, however, is but a specimen of their conversation. Then in the end she would produce the ripest and rosiest of her stock which she had been keeping for him all the while, and, leaving a penny in her palm, he would hurry away in order to reach St. Francis’ School before the bell rang.

This particular afternoon, when he had helped her over the worst part of the way, she glanced uneasily at the can which he carried, and said:

“Faith, Masther Tom, it’s afraid I am that they’ll be waitin’ at home for the milk ye were sent for. Sure I wouldn’t want ye to be blamed for not makin’ haste, avick! An’ all because of yer doin’ a kindly turn for a poor old woman.”

“No fear of that, ma’am,” answered Tom, confidently. “There is no hurry; the milk won’t be needed till supper time.”

Then, noticing that she was tired and panting for breath, he took out the stopper and held the can toward her, saying impulsively,

“Have a drink, Missis Barry, yes, it will do you good.”

A suspicious moisture dimmed the widow’s faded eyes for a moment, and her heart gave a throb of grateful surprise at the child’s ingenuous friendliness; but she drew back with a deprecating gesture, saying,

“Well, well, Masther Tom, ye’re the thoughtfullest young gentleman that ever I see! An’ I’m sure I thank ye kindly. It isn’t for the likes of me to be tellin’ ye what is right an’ proper, but what would yer mother say to yer not bringin’ the milk home just as ye got it from the store, an’ to ye givin’ a poor creature like me a drink out of the can?”

“Oh, she wouldn’t care!” replied Tom. “Didn’t she say you were welcome at the house any time, to have a cup of tea and get warm by the kitchen fire? Do you think she’d grudge you a sup of milk?”

“It isn’t that; for I know she wouldn’t, God bless her!” said the apple-woman, heartily. “Still, asthore, take heed of what I say. Never meddle with what’s trusted to ye, but carry it safe an’ whole to the person it’s meant for, or the place ye are told to fetch it to. It’s the best plan, dear.”

“I suppose it is, Missis Barry, generally,” agreed Tom. “I remember once Ed Brown and I made away with half of a big package of raisins that mother sent me for, and she scolded me about it. But that was different, you know. Pshaw! I didn’t mean to tell you it was Ed. Here we are at your door, ma’am. I’ll put your things inside oh, no! Never mind. I was glad to come. Really I oughtn’t to take it. Well, thank you. Good-bye!”

And Tom scampered off with an especially toothsome-looking apple, which the woman forced into his hand.

“Ah, but he’s the dear, blithe, generous-hearted b’y!” she exclaimed, with a warmth of affectionate admiration, as she stood looking after him. “There’s not a bit of worldly pride or meanness about him. May the Lord keep him so! The only thing I’d be afraid of is that, like many such, he’d be easily led. There’s that Ed Brown now, Heaven forgive me, but somehow I don’t like that lad. Though he’s the son of the richest man in the neighborhood, an’ his people live in grand style, he’s no fit companion for Masther Tom Norris, I’m thinkin’.”

II.

Tom lost no time now in getting home. A little later he had entered a spacious brick house on Florence Street, deposited the milk can on the kitchen table, set the cook a laughing by some droll speech, and, passing on, sought his mother in her cheerful sitting-room.

“Why, my son, what delayed you so long?” she inquired, folding away her sewing; for it was becoming too dark to work.

“Oh, I went home with Missis Barry!” he answered, with the matter-of-fact air with which he might have said that he had been escorting some particular friend of the family.

Mrs. Norris smiled and drew nearer to the bright fire which burned in the grate. Tom slipped into a seat beside her upon the wide, old-fashioned sofa, which was just the place for one of those cosy twilight chats with mother, which boys especially love so much, and the memory of which gleams, star-like, through the mists of years, exerting even far greater influence than she dreams of upon their lives. Tom considered this quiet half hour the pleasantest of the day. Mrs. Norris, with a gentle wisdom worthy of wider imitation, encouraged him to talk to her about whatever interested him. She was seldom too tired or too preoccupied at this time to hear of the mechanism of the steam-engine, the mysteries of the printing-press, or the feats that may be performed with a bicycle, of which “taking a header,” or the method by which the rider learns to fly off the machine head foremost into a ditch with impunity, appeared to be the most desirable. Her patience in this respect was rewarded by that most precious possession to a mother, a son’s confidence.

Tom liked to tell her of various things that happened during the day; to compare notes, and get her opinions of matters in general; at the same time giving his own, which were often quaint and entertaining.

“Really, mother, Missis Barry knows a lot!” he now exclaimed, abruptly, clasping his knee and staring at the fire in a meditative manner.

Mrs. Norris looked amused, but she did not venture to question the apple-vender’s wisdom. One or two kindly inquiries about the old woman, however, prompted him to speak of her further, of his meeting her as she struggled along with her burden, his drawing it on the sled, and last of her refusal of the drink he offered.

“You would not have minded, would you, mother?” he asked.

“No, not for the sake of the milk, certainly,” responded Mrs. Norris, laughing; “but ” then she hesitated. How could she hamper the mind of this ingenuous little lad of hers with false and finical ideas of refinement and delicacy! Why should she suggest to him that it is at least not customary to go about giving the poor to drink out of our own especial milk cans? There came to her mind the noble lines which but frame as with jewels the simple Christian precept, the words spoken to Sir Launfal when, weary, poverty-stricken, and disheartened, the knight returns from his fruitless search for the Holy Grail; when humbly he shares his cup and crust with the leper at the gate, the leper who straightway stands before him glorified, a vision of Our Lord, and tells him that true love of our neighbor consists in,

“Not what we give, but what we share;
For the gift without the giver is bare.”

And then the mother’s hands rested lovingly a moment upon Tom’s head, as again she repeated more softly: “No, certainly.”

As Widow Barry had surmised, the keynote of Tom’s nature was that he was easily led, and therein rested the possibilities of great good or evil. The little confidential chats with his mother were a strong safeguard to him, and laid the foundation of the true principles by which he should be guided; but, as he mingled more with other boys, he was not always steadfast in acting up to his knowledge of what was right, and was apt to be more influenced by his companions than his best friends cared to see him. At present he was inclined to make a chum of Ed Brown, who, though only a year older, was so precociously shrewd, and what the world calls “smart,” that, according to good Widow Barry’s opinion, “he could buy and sell Masther Tom any day.”

The old woman had, indeed, many opportunities for observation; for is not sometimes so simple a transaction as the buying of an apple a real test of character? If a boy or man is tricky or mean or unjust in his business dealings, is it likely that we shall find him upright and honorable in other things? Though Mrs. Norris was not as well posted as the apple-vender, one or two occurrences had caused her to positively forbid Tom to have any more to do with Ed, a command which he grumbled a good deal about, and, alas! occasionally disobeyed.

But to continue our story. The following Saturday morning the skies were blue, the sun shone bright, the gladness of spring was in the air, all promised a long, pleasant holiday. The apple stand at the corner had a prosperous aspect. The umbrella, though shabbier and more rakish-looking than ever, wore a cheery, hail-fellow-well-met appearance. Widow Barry had, as she told a neighbor, “spruced up her old bonnet a bit,” an evidence of the approach of spring, which the boys recognized and appreciated. Now she was engaged in polishing up her apples, and arranging the peanuts as invitingly as possible; a number of pennies already jingled in the small bag attached to her apron-string, in which she kept her money.

“Ah, here comes Masther Tom!” she exclaimed, presently. “An’ right glad I am; for he always brings me a good hansel.”

“Hello, Missis Barry!” cried he. “How’s trade to-day? Too early to tell yet? Well, see if I can’t boom it a little. Give me a dozen apples, and one yes, two quarts of nuts.”

Pleased and flustered at this stroke of fortune, she busied herself in getting out two of the largest of her paper bags, and filling the munificent order. But Tom was not like himself this morning. He had plenty to say, to be sure; but he talked away with a kind of reckless gaiety that appeared a trifle forced, and he was eager to be off.

The old woman paused a second, as if suddenly impressed by the difference in his manner; then, by a shake of the head, she strove to banish the thought, which she reproached herself for as an unworthy suspicion, and smiled as if to reassure herself. With a pleasant word she put the well-filled bags into Tom’s hands, and received the silver he offered in payment three bright new dimes. At that moment she caught a glimpse of Ed Brown lurking in the area way of a house at the other end of the block. The sight filled her with a vague misgiving which she could not have explained. She glanced again at Tom; he was nervous and excited.

“Wait a bit,” said she, laying a restraining hand upon his arm.

“What is the matter? Didn’t I give you just the price?” he inquired, somewhat impatiently.

The old woman bent forward and peered anxiously into his face; her kind but searching eyes seemed to look down into his very soul, as, in a voice trembling with emotion, she replied: “Yes: but tell me, asthore, where did ye get the money?”

Tom’s countenance changed; he tried to put her off, saying, “Pshaw! Why do you want to ask a fellow such a question? Haven’t I bought more than this of you before?”

“Troth an’ ye have, dear; but not in this way, I’m thinkin’,” she answered.

“It’s all right. Do let me go, Missis Barry!” cried he, vexed and beginning to feel decidedly frightened.

“Hi, Tom, come on!” called Ed Brown, emerging from the area.

“Look here, Masther Tom, darlin’! You’ll not move a step with them things, an’ I’ll not put up that money till I know where it came from.”

“Well, then,” said Tom, doggedly, seeing that escape was impossible, “I got it at home, off the mantel in the sitting-room.”

“Oh, yes!” ejaculated Mrs. Barry, raising her eyes toward heaven, as if praying for the pardon of the offence.

“Why, that’s nothing!” he went on. “Ed Brown says lots of boys do it. Some take the change out of their father’s pockets even, if they get a chance. His father don’t mind a bit. He always has plenty of cash, Ed has.”

“Ah, yes, that ne’er-do-well, Ed Brown!” said the old woman, shaking her fist at the distant Ed, who, realizing that Tom had got into trouble, disappeared in a twinkling.

“An’ his father don’t mind! Then it’s because he knows nothin’ about it. They’ll come a day of reckonin’ for him. An’ you

“Oh, the folks at home won’t care!” persisted Tom, thoroughly ashamed, but still anxious to excuse himself. “Mother always says that everything in the house is for the use of the family. If we children should make a raid on the pantry, and carry off a pie or cake, she might punish us for the disobedience, but she wouldn’t call it stealing.” He blushed as he uttered the ugly word.

“Yes, but to take money is different, ye know,” continued his relentless mentor, whose heart, however, was sorrowing over him with the tenderness of a mother for her child.

Tom was silent; he did know, had really known from the first, though now his fault stood before him in its unsightliness; all the pretexts by which he had attempted to palliate it fell from it like a veil, and showed the hateful thing it was. He could not bring himself to acknowledge it, however. Sullenly he set down the apples and peanuts, murmuring, “I never did it before, anyhow!”

“No, nor never will again, I’m sure, avick! This’ll be a lifelong lesson to ye,” returned the old woman, with agitation, as she put the dimes back into his hand. “Go right home with them now, an’ tell yer father all about it.”

“My father!” faltered Tom, doubtful of the consequences of such a confession.

“Well, yer mother, then. She’ll be gentle with ye, never fear, if ye are really sorry.”

“Indeed I am, Missis Barry,” declared Tom, quite breaking down at last.

“I’m certain ye are, asthore!” continued the good creature, heartily. “An’, whisper, when ye get home go to yer own little room, an’ there on yer bended knees ask God to forgive ye. Make up yer mind to shun bad company for the future; an’ never, from this hour, will we speak another word about this either ye to me or I to ye, save an’ except ye may come an’ say: ’I’ve done as ye bid me, Missis Barry. It’s all hunkey dory!’”

The old woman smiled with grim humor as she found herself quoting the boy’s favorite slang expression.

Tom laughed in spite of himself, so droll did it sound from her lips; but at the same time he drew his jacket sleeve across his eyes, which had grown strangely dim, and said:

“I will, Missis Barry. You may trust me: I will.”

And Tom did. From that day he and the honest old apple-woman were better friends than ever. Meanwhile her trade improved so much that before long she was able to set up a more pretentious establishment, a genuine stand, with an awning to replace the faithful umbrella, which was forthwith honorably retired from service. Here she carried on a thriving business for several years, Tom, though now a student at St. Jerome’s College, often bought apples and peanuts of her.

“You see that old woman?” said he to a comrade one day. “Don’t look much like an angel, does she?”

His friend, glancing at the queer figure and plain, ordinary features, was amused at the comparison.

“And yet,” continued Tom, earnestly, “she proved a second Guardian Angel to me once, and I’ll bless her all my life for it.”