He may not have understood much else, but he knew the word “police.” He stiffened in alarm and muttered something unpleasant in Italian. Then he turned on his heel and hurried from the room. Sarah stepped out of the way just in time to avoid being run over. He hardly spared her a glance.

“Mrs. Brandt,” Mrs. Wells exclaimed in surprise. They both winced as Donato slammed the door behind him. Then Mrs. Wells managed a small smile. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“It’s no wonder,” Sarah said, coming into the room. “You were otherwise engaged. Are you all right?”

“Yes, of course,” she said, although she did look a bit pale. “That was Emilia’s father. He’s naturally upset. It seems he inquired about her body at the city morgue and was told she’d be put in a pauper’s grave unless he claimed the body.”

“I gather he can’t afford to bury her himself.”

“No, and he just wouldn’t accept the fact that the mission doesn’t have money for that sort of thing, either.” Mrs. Wells sighed and sat down in one of the chairs. Obviously, the encounter had upset her more than she wanted to admit. “I’d like nothing better than to give Emilia a Christian burial, but it just isn’t possible.”

“Funerals are more for the living, I’ve always believed,” Sarah said by way of comfort. “The dead certainly don’t need them, but it helps the mourners accept the loss better.”

“We did have a memorial service for her with the other girls,” Mrs. Wells said. “That was all I could do, since her family is Catholic and wouldn’t attend a service here anyway.”

“Then you mustn’t feel guilty,” Sarah said. “You’ve done what you could.”

“Thank you for your encouragement, Mrs. Brandt.” Mrs. Wells smiled her sweet smile. “Now, was there some reason you stopped by or were you just sent by an angel to rescue me from Mr. Donato?”

Sarah began to tell her about the twin babies and their family, but even as she spoke, she was thinking about Emilia being buried in a pauper’s grave. Sarah didn’t want that either, and she was certain she could figure out some way to help her family.

SARAH HOPED MR. DONATO HAD RETURNED TO HIS home after his encounter with Mrs. Wells. If not, she’d have no idea how to locate him. Searching the saloons in the neighborhood would probably be fruitful, but that was a task Sarah wasn’t prepared to handle.

Mulberry Street was crowded with men returning home after their day’s work. The street vendors were doing their last rush of business, selling what remained of their foodstuffs for the evening meals. Housewives bartered in loud voices for the best deal, and children ran and shouted, glad for a few more moments of freedom before being called in for the evening.

Sarah took the winding alley that led to the rear tenement where the Donatos lived. She looked up, trying to find their windows and judge whether anyone could be at home. It wasn’t dark enough yet for anyone to be wasting a candle or gaslight, so she had no clue. Her only option was to trudge up the stairs and find out for herself. She only hoped Mrs. Donato wasn’t there alone. She wasn’t quite sure what her welcome would be under those circumstances.

When she reached the third-floor landing, she could hear two men arguing in Italian. One of the voices sounded like it might be Mr. Donato’s. Sarah crept up more quietly, in case she decided she didn’t want the men to see her. But when she reached the top of the stairs, she saw that Mr. Donato was arguing with his son, Georgio.

Georgio’s organ rested on the kitchen table, and he sat in one of the chairs, his crutches on the floor beside him. Mr. Donato was pacing the small kitchen, gesturing angrily. Mrs. Donato was nowhere in sight. Sarah took a deep breath, walked up to the open doorway, and knocked loudly on the door frame.

Donato broke off in mid-sentence, and both men turned to her in surprise.

“Excuse me for intruding,” she said with the polite smile her mother had taught her years ago. “I’m Mrs. Brandt, and I was a friend of Emilia’s.”

Both men recognized her from their earlier encounters and pointed, shouting accusations she couldn’t understand. She clutched her medical bag in front of her and kept smiling until they paused for breath.

“I understand you’d like to give Emilia a decent burial,” she said into the first moment of silence. “I thought perhaps I could help.”

“Why you want to help?” Georgio asked suspiciously.

“I told you, I met Emilia at the mission. I was also… well, the police asked me to identify her body.” Sarah’s voice caught at the memory, but she forced herself to go on. “I can’t forget how she looked, lying there, and I’d like to see her put to rest properly.”

“Mission lady no pay,” Mr. Donato reported. “You pay?”

“I’ll certainly help as much as I can. Have you spoken with anyone about making arrangements?”

Mr. Donato exploded into a babble of furious Italian punctuated by violent hand motions. Sarah listened with a frown, trying to pick up a word here and there that might give her a clue as to what had made him so angry, but when he was finished, she was as baffled as ever. She looked at Georgio questioningly.

“Mama go to priest,” he said. He said the word “priest” as if it left a bad taste in his mouth.

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Sarah said. “Maybe the church can help.”

Donato said something in Italian and spit on the floor.

Sarah jumped, unable to check her reaction. This time she looked at Georgio in wide-eyed amazement.

“Priest no bury a Dago whore,” he explained bitterly.

“But Emilia had changed. She wasn’t – ”

“No,” Georgio interrupted her impatiently. “Priest no care. No bury Dago. Hate Dago.”

This didn’t seem right to Sarah. “But you’re Catholics, aren’t you? Wouldn’t the priest do something for you, if not for Emilia?”

“No, he hate Dagos,” Georgio repeated angrily.

“Then why don’t you go to another church?” she asked, horrified.

“All priests Irish. All hate Dagos,” Georgio explained impatiently. “You understand now?”

Sarah was afraid she did, only too well. “Would the priest bury Emilia if he was paid?”

Georgio shrugged. “She still whore,” he reminded her.

“Whore,” his father spat, then muttered something in Italian.

His son’s face grew scarlet with fury, and he lunged to his feet, nearly forgetting he couldn’t support himself. Grasping the table to keep from falling, he shouted something about his mother.

Donato grabbed his head with both hands, babbling something and howling in anguish. His face was almost purple.

“Mr. Donato, you must calm down,” Sarah cried in alarm.

Neither man even seemed aware of her presence. Donato was frantically trying to explain something to his furious son, who was screaming invectives at him. Then, as Sarah had feared, Donato made a strangled sound and pitched over. Georgio instinctively reached out to grab him, but with only one foot to balance him, he merely succeeded in breaking his father’s fall as they both collapsed onto the floor.

Sarah was beside them in an instant, rolling Mr. Donato on his back and helping Georgio untangle himself from his father.

“What is wrong?” Georgio demanded as Sarah checked the older man’s pulse.

“I don’t know yet. It could be anything.” She threw open her medical bag and dragged out the stethoscope.

“What is that?” Georgio demanded, but Sarah didn’t take time to explain.

She fitted in the ear pieces and pressed the bell to Donato’s chest. Miraculously, his heartbeat was strong and regular, although much too rapid. “His heart seems fine,” she reported, then lifted his eyelids to check his eyes. Before she could do more, he moaned and his eyes fluttered open.

“Papa?” Georgio asked, leaning closer from where he knelt beside Sarah.