The Burglar and the Fair-Haired Rosalie

The Tale of a Conversion That Didn't Stay Converted

BERTRAM BLOCH

ONCE upon a time there was a a great deal and therefore was well informed about life. His name was Wallace Southey. He was married, and was the father of one small female child, with golden curls.

One mid-winter night he was awakened from a deep sleep by the murmur of his child's voice.

"Rosalie is calling," he growled to himself. "I think one of us had better get up and see what she wants."

It was a bitter cold night, so he woke his wife.

"Listen," he said. "Rosalie."

They listened.

His wife sat up with a suddenness that exposed him to the chilly air.

"She's talking to some one, Wallace. What can it mean?"

Undoubtedly the child was talking to some one.

"She's delirious," cried the mother in sudden alarm; and she sprangoutof bed, drawing most of the covers after her. Since he was already cold, Mr. Southey followed her.

But as they approached the door of Rosalie's room, his wife stopped and drew back.

"Listen," she said, in a frightened whisper.

HE listened. Answering Rosalie's high, childish treble, he could now distinguish the hoarse, subdued mutterings of a man.

"For the love of Mike, kid," the man was saying, "shut your trap!"

"A burglar!" breathed Mrs. Southey, her hand at her throat. Southey nodded.

"For Gawd's sake, shut up," the burglar was saying.

"Is it morning?" asked little Rosalie, unperturbed by his gruff manner.

"No, it's not morning. It's night —time to be asleep."

"I wish it were morning," sighed the child.

"Shut up! Do you want 'em to catch me!"

"Who's 'em?"

"The cops!"

"What's cops?"

"Shut up, I tell ye."

"What's cops?"

"If you shut up and go to sleep, I'll give you something pretty."

"What'll you give me?"

"This here."

Southey peeped and saw the burglar hold out a silver coin.

"He's giving her a half dollar," Southey whispered to his wife.

"Thank you," said Rosalie, as she clutched the money.

"Isn't it sweet of her to remember to say that?" whispered her mother, beaming.

"Now will you go to sleep, kid?"

"If you'll sing me three songs."

"I don't know any songs," said the burglar, mopping his brow.

"Everyone knows songs. My mother knows songs, my daddy knows songs, cook knows songs."

"All right, all right," cried the burglar, and broke into a hymn.

SOUTHEY and his wife listened. The burglar was singing in a low, rumbling voice. Southey took advantage of the sound and opened the door an imperceptible space. Rosalie was smiling up at the unshaven face leaning over her, and the unshaven face was smiling back.

"Thank you," said Rosalie, as the first song was ended. "Next."

"You're a great kid," murmured the burglar, as he began the second song. He patted her hand.

When he finished, she thanked him again and kissed his fingers.

"Gawd!" said the burglar, hoarsely. "You've sure got me goin', kid." He sniffled vigorously to choke back a sob; but before he could begin the last song, he had to wipe his eyes.

"Come," said Southey to his wife. "A soul is in the process of being saved. We must not risk disturbing it."

In reverent silence, they tip-toed a few yards down the hall, and waited.

When they felt that it was safe, they returned. Southey opened the door cautiously. His little daughter, her chubby fingers clutching the fiftycent piece, was fast asleep. The moonlight stole into the room and kissed her curls.

The Southeys followed the example of the moonlight and went back to bed.

In the morning, all the silver plate was gone, except the coffee percolator. That was broken.