Nothing was to be seen of them; but, just turning the corner, came Teddy, his straw-hat pushed back upon his forehead, and his steps slow and undecided.  He was thinking wearily, as he often thought of late, that the time had come when he could no longer withhold his little sister from the friends to whom she really belonged; and it was not alone the heat of the August night that brought the great drops of perspiration to the boy’s forehead, or drew the white line around his mouth.

“It’s quicker nor that you’ll stip, my b’y, whin you hear the little sisther’s not in yit, an’ it’s wid Jovarny she is,” muttered Mrs. Ginniss; and, half dreading the entrance of her son, she applied herself so diligently to making a fire in preparation for supper, that she did not appear to notice him.

“Good-evening, mother.  Where’s Cherry?” asked Teddy, throwing himself wearily into a chair just inside the door.

“An’ is it yersilf, gossoon?  An’ it’s the big hate is in it intirely.”

“Yes:  it’s hot enough.  Where’s Cherry?”

“Takin’ a little walk, honey.  You wouldn’t be shuttin’ the poor child into the house this wedder, sure?”

“Taking a walk!-what, alone!” exclaimed Teddy, sitting upright very suddenly.

“Of coorse not.  Misther Jovarny was perlite enough to ax her; an’ she wor that wild to go, I couldn’t say her no.”

“I wish you had said no, mother.  I hate to let her be with that fellow, anyway.  I’d have taken her to walk myself, if I was twice as tired.  How long have they been gone?”

And Teddy, in his turn, looked anxiously out at the window, but saw nothing more than the squalid street weltering in the last rays of the August sun; a knot of children fighting in the gutter over the body of a dead cat; an old-clothes man sauntering wearily along the pavement, and a dog, with lolling tongue and blood-shot eyes, following close at his heels.

“How long have they been out? asked Teddy again, as he drew in his head, and looked full at his mother, whose confusion struck him with a sudden dismay.

“O mother!” cried he, “what is it?  There’s more than you’re telling me amiss.  How long is she gone?”

“Sure an’ I didn’t mind the clock whin they wint,” said Mrs. Ginniss, still struggling to avoid the shock she felt approaching.

“No, no; but you can tell!  O mother! do speak out, for the love of God!  I can see how scared you are, though you won’t say it.  Tell me right out all there is to tell.”

“An’ it’s no great there is to till, Teddy darlint; on’y this mornin’, whin I was sint for to Ann Dolan (an’ she that bad it’s dead we thought she wor one spell, but for Docther Wintworth), Jovarny kim up, an’ axed might the child go for a walk to the Gardens wid him; an’ I jist puttin’ on me shawl to go out, an’ not wantin’ to take the little crather in wid a sick woman, nor yet to lock the door on her, an’ lave her to fret.  So I says she might go wid him; and, whin she coom home, I tould Jovarny to open the door wid the kay an’ let her in, an’ showed her the dinner on the shelf by:  an’ if it’s harm that’s coom to her, it’s harder on me than on yersilf it’ll fall; an’ my heart is bruck, is bruck intirely.”