especially after little Sheila came to bless them.

When the declaration of war in Europe upset business conditions in
America, Patrick lost his "job" and all summer long he walked the
streets, working for a day now and then, but never securing a permanent
position, and always growing weaker and less able to work because he
was underfed. The little three-room flat that had been such a joy to
them, had long been given up and they lived and ate and slept in one
room, and thanked their stars that they had a landlord who did not
insist on being paid regularly, as did some they knew about who put
their tenants out on the street if the rent was not forthcoming
promptly.

"Somehow it's the sudden things that happens to me," said Moya to Mrs.
Emerson. She was sitting on the latticed back porch of the Emersons'
house, her fingers busy shelling peas for Kate, the old cook who had
lived with Mrs. Emerson ever since she was married. "Patrick was
crossing the street--'tis only six weeks ago, but it seems years! An
automobile with one of the shrieking horns screamed at him. 'Twas the
policeman on the crossing told me. Patrick was light on his feet
always, but that was when he had enough to eat ivery day. He thried to
jump back and his foot slipped and he fell under the car and it killed
him."

She sobbed and Mrs. Emerson and Kate wiped their eyes.

"Two days it was before I knew it; there was nothing on his clothes to
tell who he was, and I only found out when he didn't come home and I
went to the police and they took me to the Morgue and there he lay.
They gave me twenty dollars--the policemen did. They collected it