CHAPTER XXIII.

Teddy loses and finds his home.

An hour later, Teddy, leaving behind him the books, papers, pictures, every thing that Mr. Burroughs had given him, and taking only the few articles of his clothing which happened to be at the office, crept out of the door and down the stairs with the look of a veritable thief.

Choosing the least-frequented streets, and avoiding the recognition of such of his acquaintance as chanced to meet him, he slunk homeward, feeling a little less wretched, but infinitely more degraded, than he had done before his confession.

Burroughs knew, his mother knew, the police-officials knew,—­how could he tell who did not know?-of his shame and guilt.  Every pair of eyes seemed to accuse him; every step seemed to pursue him; every distant voice seemed to summon him to receive the punishment of his misdoing; and it was as to a refuge that he at last hurried in at the door and up the stairs of the tenement-house.

At the upper landing, however, he paused.  His mother!-oh the sorrow and the shame that he had brought upon her in payment for all her love and effort, and the constant sacrifices she had made, ever since he could remember, to enable him to rise above his natural station, and to appear as well as his future associates!  It came back to him now,—­not a new thought, but one intensified by the more immediate suffering of the last two hours.  He leaned for a moment against the wall, and wiped his clammy brow, feeling that any sudden death, any strange chance that could befall him, would be welcome, so that it swallowed up the coming moment, and spared him the sight of the misery he had wrought.

Only a moment.  Then the desperate courage that had carried him through his confession to his master gave him strength to open the door and enter.

The ironing-table was spread, and upon a half-finished shirt lay a little pile of money.  Teddy knew that it was the wages owing him since the last payment, and turned away his eyes with loathing.

Mrs. Ginniss was lying upon the bed, her face buried in the pillow, sobbing heavily and wearily, as if exhausted by excessive emotion.

Teddy closed the door softly, and stood looking at her, uncertain whether she had heard him enter.  In the room below, the little child of the new tenants sung, at her play, an air that Cherry had often sung.

Teddy listened, and, when the little song was done, cried out,—­

“O mother! haven’t you a word for me?  I believe I’ll go mad next.”

“Don’t be spakin’ to me, you bowld, bad b’y!  It’s niver a word I have for yees, or wants from yees!” sobbed Mrs. Ginniss.

Teddy looked at her drearily for a moment; then softly seated himself, his hands folded listlessly in his lap, his eyes wandering idly about the familiar room, and his mind journeying on and on in the weary, mechanical manner of a mind over-wrought and stunned by long-continued or excessive suffering.