“Inside was a smaller, but still prosperous-looking man sitting like a roly-poly behind a desk, and blinking amiably at me with his small eyes.”

Margaretta smiled, and asked, “Young or old?”

“Oh, dear, I don’t know—couldn’t tell his age any more than I could tell the age of a plum-pudding. His face was fat and red, and he had so little hair that it might be either gray or sandy. I’d give him any age between fifteen and fifty.”

“Well, now, I don’t suppose he would be fifteen.”

“He acts like it sometimes,” said Berty, warmly. “Years have not taught him grace and experience, as they have Grandma.”

“What is his name?”

“Jimson—Peter Jimson.”

“Let me see,” murmured Margaretta, “there is a Mrs. Jimson and there are two Misses Jimson who[89] are dying to get into our set. I heard the Everests laughing about them.”

“Same ones, probably—well, he knew enough to stand up when I went in. I said ‘Good morning’ and he looked so amiable that I thought he would give me not only what I wanted, but the whole city besides.

“When we had both sat down, I said, ‘I will not take up your time, sir. I have merely come to ask you to give the children of the East End a park to play in.’

“He lowered his eyes, and began to play with a paper-knife. Then he looked up, and said, ‘May I ask your name?’

“‘My name is Miss Gravely,’ I told him, ‘and I am Mrs. Travers’s granddaughter.’

“‘Oh, indeed,’ he replied, ‘and why are you interested in the children of the East End?’

“‘Because I live there—on River Street. We have lost our money.’

“He looked surprised at the first part of my sentence. I think he knew about the last of it. Then he said, ‘Have the children asked for a park?’

“‘No, sir,’ I said, ‘they haven’t.’

“‘Then why give it to them?’ he inquired, mildly.

“‘Does a good father always wait to have his[90] children demand a necessity before he offers it?’ I replied.

“He smiled, and began to play with the paper-knife again.

“‘The children have nowhere to go, sir,’ I went on. ‘The mothers drive them from the dirty houses, the sailors drive them from the wharves, the truck-men drive them from the streets.’

“‘A park might be a good thing,’ he said, cautiously, ‘but there is no money in the treasury.’

“I felt myself growing hot. ‘No money in the treasury, sir, and you can put up a magnificent building like this? Some of this money has been taken from the children.’

“He said the city had its dignity to maintain.

“‘But there is charity, sir, as well as dignity.’

“He smiled sweetly—his whole attitude was one of indulgent sympathy for a youthful crank, and I began to get more and more stirred up.

“‘Sir,’ I said, ‘I think you must be a stepfather.’

“‘Sometimes step-parents display more wisdom than real parents,’ he said, benevolently.

“I thought of the good stepmother Grandma had when a girl. He was right this time, and I was wrong, but this didn’t make me more comfortable[91] in my mind. ‘There is no need of new pavements on Broadway, sir,’ I blurted out.

“‘We must make the business part of the city attractive,’ he said, ‘or strangers won’t come here.’

“‘Strangers must come,’ I said, bitterly, ‘the children can die.’

“‘There is no place for a park on River Street,’ he went on. ‘Property is held there at a high figure. No one would sell.’

“‘There is Milligan’s Wharf, sir,’ I replied. ‘It is said to be haunted, and no sailors will go there. You could make a lovely fenced-in park.’

“‘But there is no money,’ he said, blandly.

“Something came over me. I wasn’t angry on my own account. I have plenty of fresh air, for I am boating half the time, but dead children’s faces swam before me, and I felt like Isaiah and Jeremiah rolled in one.

“‘Who made you, unkind man?’ I said, pointing a finger at him.

“He wouldn’t tell me, so I told him, ‘God made you, and me, and the little children on River Street. Do you dare to say that you stand higher in His sight than they do?’

“He said no, he wouldn’t, but he was in office to save the city’s money, and he was going to do it.

[92]

“‘Let the city deny itself for the children. You know there are things it could do without. If you don’t, the blood of the children will be on your head.’

“He twisted his shoulders, and said, ‘See here, young lady, I’ve been all through this labour and capital business. Labour is unthrifty and brainless. You’re young and extreme, and don’t understand. I’ve done good turns to many a man, and never had a word of thanks.’

“‘Tell me what you like about grown people,’ I said, wildly, ‘I’ll believe anything, but don’t say a word against the children.’

“He twisted his shoulders again, and slyly looked at his watch.

“I got up. ‘Sir,’ I said, ‘River Street is choked with dust in summer, and buried in mud and snow in winter. The people have neither decency nor comfort in their houses. The citizens put you over the city, and you are neglecting some of them.’

“He just beamed at me, he was so glad I was going. ‘Young lady,’ he said, ‘you have too much heart. I once had, but for years I’ve been trying to educate it out of myself. I’ve nearly succeeded.’

“‘YOU HAVE TOO MUCH HEART’”

“‘There must be a little left,’ I said, ‘just a little bit. I’ll make it my business to find it. Good[93] morning,’ and with this threat I left him and ran, ran for River Street.”

“Good for you,” said Margaretta.

“I swept along like a whirlwind. I gathered up the children and took them down on Milligan’s Wharf.”

“‘Children,’ I said............