Part 2 — ONE NIGHT.

BY MRS. W. J. HAYS.

"I'd like to have been Joan of Arc."

"And I, Queen Elizabeth."

"Who would you have chosen, Winnie?"

"The idea of asking a girl who is afraid in the dark!" said a sneering voice.

"It is rather absurd," replied brown-eyed Winnie, though she flushed a little uncomfortably, "but," she continued, "I have told you, Lulu, that I am trying to conquer that."

"What makes you afraid, anyhow?" queried Joan of Arc.

"I really don't know. I suppose somebody must have scared me when I was too little to remember."

"Pshaw! you're afraid of burglars," said Queen Elizabeth.

"Yes, she goes poking under her bed every night with a cane," said the sneering voice.

"I don't," said Winnie, indignantly.

"Well, who would you like to have been, Winnie?"

"Nobody."

"Oh, what a fib! Now don't get mad, Winnie, sweetie;" and Joan of Arc put her arm around her.

"I am not mad, but I just will not tell you who I admire most: tortures sha'n't get it out of me."

"Try her!" "Try her!" was shouted in chorus; and one seized her inkstand, another her pile of books, and a third was about to eat up her luncheon, when a tap of the bell announced that recess was over.

A week after this incident, one warm day in May, the teacher stopped the class as it was filing out, and said, "Who can go see why Jennie Jessup does not come to school?"

No one answered. It had been so tiresome a day, and all were eager to get home, Winnie especially, as she had been promised a little outing—a pleasant sail to Staten Island, an evening with friends, and a glimpse of blue waters and green fields. At the same time she thought to herself, "I pass the house she lives in. Perhaps I might just take time to stop."

The teacher seemed to divine her thoughts. "I wish you would go, Winnie. You're not afraid?"

"Afraid of what?"

"Well, she may be sick, and sometimes girls don't like to go to strange houses."

"I am not afraid. I'll go," said Winnie, just a little proudly, as the girl passed her who had twitted her with being afraid in the dark.

Winnie picked up her books and trudged off. "How nice it will be to get out of the hot city!" she thought; "and what lovely lilacs I shall bring home! I wonder if their roses are out yet, and the syringas! And what nice teas Mrs. Graham always has!—so much better than a dinner such a day as this! And perhaps Rob will take us out sailing. Anyway, the trip up and down the bay will be delightful."

So she went on anticipating, until she came to Jennie Jessup's house. It was one of a block which had seen better days, but which now was degenerating from contact with the crowding business of the city.

She knocked at a door. No one replied. The occupants had gone to their daily duties, and had not returned. She mounted another pair of stairs. A partly open door had a small card tacked on it, upon which was the name "Jessup." She knocked. No answer. Again she tried. This time a far-away "Who is it?" was whispered.

"Can I come in?" asked Winnie, pushing the door gently before her.

"If you're not afraid," was the reply. It fairly stung Winnie.

"What should I be afraid of?"

"Why, of me," said Joan of Arc, in muffled accents. "Hush! don't wake mother; she's just tired out, and here am I sick in bed. Perhaps you had better not come in."

"I will, though," said Winnie; "that is, if it is right. I don't want to catch anything, and take it home to the children."

"I don't think it is catching. My head ached awfully, and the doctor was thinking it might turn out to be something contagious; but that fear is over. Oh, Winnie, is it not dreadful to be sick?"

Poor Joan of Arc was lying in a small, dark room, and in a large chair beside her was a pale-faced woman asleep. On an easel was an unfinished crayon head; here and there were sketches, scraps of pictures, as if done to test a color or a method. The afternoon sun was pouring a dusty flood of light on the faded carpet.

Winnie turned as if to go—were not Bob and Mary Graham waiting for her? she could fairly hear the splash of the water against the side of the boat. Joan of Arc turned a pale, longing face toward her.

"Oh, don't go, Winnie!"

"Do you want me?"

"Oh, so much! Mother is really ill herself. She has nursed me night and day, and tried to finish that crayon too—it is an order; but she is worn out—poor mother!"

Winnie moved about uneasily, thinking of lilacs and roses and syringas and the boat, but after a while she tore a slip from a copy-book and wrote a little note to her grandmother, telling the good old lady where she was. Then she turned to poor pale little Joan, bathed her, smoothed her pillows, and gave her the medicine which was to be taken.

Slowly the hours went by; no going to Staten Island this time. The clock ticked away, the jangling bells and whistles quieted down, doors opened and shut, people had their dinners and teas. The street grew quiet, and little pale-faced Joan slept softly and restfully, with one hand in Winnie's. Ten, eleven, twelve o'clock struck. Winnie must have dozed, but now she was wakened by little Joan's arousing.

"Oh, Winnie, I am so thirsty!"

"Yes, dear; here is some water."

"But I would so like to have some milk."

"Where is it, Jennie?"

"Down-stairs we have a closet under the stoop, and there's an ice-box there. A lump of ice in the milk would be so delicious!"

"So it would. Shall I get it?"

"Yes, only— Oh dear! Winnie, you don't like going down in the dark."

No, indeed, she didn't; but what was to be done?—waken poor Mrs. Jessup, and undo all the good that had been done? On the other hand rose visions of horror—bats, rats, meeting midnight prowlers, all sorts of indescribable fears without really any cause, the echoes of a frightened childhood, when some foolish nurse had used the rod of fear to control a sensitive nervous little one who could easily have been led by love.

"Where is the key, Jennie, and the pitcher?"

"The key is just here in this little drawer, and you will find a pitcher down there. But don't go if you are afraid, Winnie. I will try to wait till morning."

"Now or never," thought Winnie, and she plunged out into the darkness. The effort gave her courage. Down, down, down she went. The candle flared and flickered; she was sure it would go out, but she had put a match or two in her pocket. She reached the door, unlocked it, poured the milk, and cracked the ice, when with a chill of horror a hoarse laugh broke the midnight stillness.

It seemed close beside her, above her, around her. For an instant she stood as if paralyzed; then she would have sped like the wind, but a voice said, "Can't you let me in?"

Winnie looked up; there was a little grating over the heavy outer door. A face, young, handsome, but shadowed with the marks of ill-doing, was watching her curiously. Winnie shook her head.

"Who are you, anyhow, and what are you doing in my mother's closet?"

Winnie's voice shook. "I am a friend of Jennie's. She is sick. I am taking care of her. Do you live here?"

"Sometimes. It's a pretty time of night for a fellow to be out, isn't it? Well, if Jen's sick, I'll stay away. Here, give her this;" and between the narrow grating was slipped a bill.

Winnie picked it up. The face disappeared: ah! what a sorry tale it had told! She forgot her fears, but her heart ached for the toiling mother and sick little sister when son and brother was of this sort. Upstairs she went, seeing nothing alarming now in the darkness; all her visionary fears had fled. But little Joan saw her white face and wide-open eyes. Drinking the milk eagerly, she sank back on the pillow with a sigh of satisfaction. Winnie said nothing, and Joan slept like a baby.

When morning came, Mrs. Jessup arose rested, refreshed, and so grateful to Winnie that she felt repaid for the little sacrifice she had made; and then she told Mrs. Jessup of the night's occurrence, and gave her the money.

"My poor boy!" was all the mother said, as tears rolled down her face—"my poor boy!" but it told of sorrow, disappointment, and grief which even Winnie could hardly understand.

When Joan kissed Winnie good-by that morning, she whispered, "I know who you are like, and whom you would rather be than all the queens in the world."

"Who, Jennie?"

"Florence Nightingale."

"Yes, you have guessed rightly," answered Winnie, who not for one moment regretted her postponed jaunt, her sleepless night, nor anything she had done.

Once having conquered, she had now no more trouble with fears in the dark.

And the jaunt came in due time, and little Joan's room was made sweet and bright with roses and syringas that Florence Nightingale brought from her excursion.

But she never forgot that night.