"All right?" inquired the driver, gathering up the reins. "All right," Adams replied; whereat the driver spoke to his horse, turned, and drove back down the squalid street. Adams supported the tottering figure of the man to the door of the house and fumbled for the knob, which, when his fingers found it, turned in his hand and the door swung open. On a table in the room at the end of the narrow, bare, unlighted hallway, stood a lamp, turned low. As he half carried, half led the man into the room, Adams heard footsteps overhead. And as he cast his burden down upon a carpet-covered lounge, pushed back against the wall at the further end of the room, he heard a voice from above call: "Iss dat you?" "Come down," he answered. There was a little frightened, feminine "Oh!" followed by quick, heavy footfalls on the bare stairs. The next instant the short, thick figure of a woman was framed by the doorway. The light of the lamp struck her face which was broad and kindly. "Chon!" she exclaimed. His eyes met hers and he smiled faintly. Then his gaze wandered to the lithograph of the Christ tacked to the wall, and to the couch beneath, and he said: "There's father; I brought him home." The woman uttered a little cry and bent over the prostrate figure. "Ah," she muttered. Then, glancing back over her rounded shoulder, she asked: "Where you git heem?" "Down town," the boy replied, quietly. "So." And the woman sat down again, and as long as her son was with her she kept her eyes upon him, oblivious, seemingly, of the unfeeling body on the couch. "Ven you come in?" she asked. "This morning," he replied. "I played football to-day." "Och, yes," she murmured, nodding. "I heard dee noise. Yes." There ensued a moment's silence that was complete, save for the heavy breathing of the sleeper on the couch. "Chon," the woman said, calmly, "you don't do dat?" And she indicated with a gesture the prone shape on the lounge. The boy laughed forcedly, and shook his head. "No," he said. "Och, yes, no," his mother muttered. "How's Pauline?" he asked. "She's vell; she's to a dance." He shivered as with cold. "Isn't it late?" he asked. "No," his mother replied. "She be home maype a hour; maype two hour." Each seemed conscious of the infinite labor of the conversation. "Well," John said after half an hour, "I guess I'd better be going." "So soon!" his mother exclaimed. "Vy not in de morning? We go to church, you ant me." He shook his head, sadly. "No," he said. "I must go back to-night. The train leaves before long." "All right," she muttered. At the gate in the low fence he turned. His mother's figure was silhouetted against the light of the room at the end of the hall. "Good-bye," he said, "and tell Pauline to take care." "Goot-pye," she called to him softly. She turned back into the house at once and he heard the door shut.