"I did," Mr. Poddle replied. "Much to my regrets I did. I writ. Worked up a beautiful piece out of 'The Lightning Letter-writer for Lovers.' 'Oh, beauteous Sword-Swallower,' I writ, 'pet of the public, pride of the sideshow, bright particular star in the constellation of natural phenomenons! One who is not unknown to fame is dazzled by your charms. He dares to lift his stricken eyes, to give vent to the tumultuous beatings of his manly bosom, to send you, in fact, this note. And if you want to know who done it, wear a red rose to-night.' Well," Mr. Poddle continued, "she seen me give it to the peanut-boy. And knowin' who it come from, she writ back. She writ," Mr. Poddle dramatically repeated, "right back." The pause was so long, so painful, that the boy was moved to inquire concerning the answer. "It stabs me," said Mr. Poddle. "I think I'd like to know," said the boy. "'Are you much give,' says she, 'to barkin' in your sleep?'" A very real tear left the eye of Mr. Poddle, ran down the hair of his cheek, changed its course to the eyebrow, and there hung glistening.... It was apparent that the Dog-faced Man's thoughts must immediately be diverted into more cheerful channels. "Won't you please read to me, Mr. Poddle," said the boy, "what it says in the paper about my mother?" The ruse was effective. Mr. Poddle looked up with a start. "Eh?" he ejaculated. "Won't you?" the boy begged. "I been talkin' so much, Richard," Mr. Poddle stammered, turning hoarse all at once, "that I gone and lost my voice." He decamped to his room across the hall without another word. [Illustration: Headpiece to _At Midnight_] _AT MIDNIGHT_ At midnight the boy had long been sound asleep in bed. The lamp was turned low. It was very quiet in the room--quiet and shadowy in all the tenement.... And the stair creaked; and footfalls shuffled along the hall--and hesitated at the door of the place where the child lay quietly sleeping; and there ceased. There was the rumble of a man's voice, deep, insistent, imperfectly restrained. A woman protested. The door was softly opened; and the boy's mother stepped in, moving on tiptoe, and swiftly turned to bar entrance with her arm. "Hist!" she whispered, angrily. "Don't speak so loud. You'll wake the boy." "Let me in, Millie," the man insisted. "Aw, come on, now!" "I can't, Jim. You know I can't. Go on home now. Stop that! I won't marry you. Let go my arm. You'll wake the boy, I tell you!" There was a short scuffle: at the end of which, the woman's arm still barred the door. "Here I ain't seen you in three year," the man complained. "And you won't let me in. That ain't right, Millie. It ain't kind to an old friend like me. You didn't used to be that way." "No," the woman whispered, abstractedly; "there's been a change. I ain't the same as I used to be." "You ain't changed for the better, Millie. No, you ain't."