"It ain't fair to the kid not to. It ain't fair to cart him around like this," he said over and over, defending himself before some dim dissenter. The boy suddenly swung back from his father's arm and looked up in his face. "Will--will there be any supper till morning?" he asked. You might have thought that the man did not hear, he sat so still looking down the wet road-ruts shining under the infrequent lamps. Hunger and cold, darkness and wet and ill-luck--why should he not keep the boy from these? It was not deserting his child; it was giving him into better hands. It did not occur to him that the village might not accept the charge. Anything would be better than what he himself had to give. Hunger and cold and darkness.... "You stay still here a minute, sonny," said the man. "You goin' 'way?" the child demanded. "A minute. You stay still here--right where you are," said the man, and went into the darkness. The little boy sat still. He was wide awake now that he was alone; the walls of the dark seemed suddenly to recede, and instead of merely the church steps there was the whole black, listening world to take account of. He sat alert, trying to warm each hand on the cold wrist of its fellow. Where had his father gone? To find them a place to stay? Suppose he came back and said that he had found them a home; and they should go to it; and it would have a coal stove and a bedstead, and a pantry with cookies and brown sugar in the jars. And a lady would come and cook molasses candy for him.... All this time something was hurting him intolerably. It was the foot, and the biggest toe, and the hole that was "choking" _him_. He fumbled at his shoe laces, but they were wet and the shoes were wet and sodden, and he gave it up. Where had his father gone? How big the world seemed when he was gone, and how _different_ the night was. And when the lady had the molasses candy cooked, like in a story, she would cool it at the window and they would cut it in squares.... As suddenly as he had gone, his father reappeared from the darkness. "Here," he said roughly, and thrust in the child's hands a paper bag. And when he had opened it eagerly there were sugar rolls and cream puffs and a piece of fruit cake and some shelled nuts. Fifteen cents' worth of food, badly enough selected, in all conscience, but--fifteen cents' worth. The fifteen cents which the man had been carrying in his pocket, wrapped in paper. "Now set there," said his father, "an' eat 'em up. An' listen, son. Set there till folks come out from in there. Set there till they come out. An' here's somethin' I'm puttin' in your coat pocket--see? It's a paper. Don't you look at it. But when the folks come out from in there--an' ask you anything--you show 'em that. Remember. Show 'em that." In the prayer-meeting room the reed organ sent out some trembling, throaty chords, and the little group in there sang an old melody. It was strange to the man, as he listened--