n the dry lips in a tone unfamiliar to Lynda's ears. She bent
close.

"What, little Ann?" she whispered.

The big, burning eyes looked puzzled. Then: "Take me to--to the
Hollow--to Miss Lois Ann!"

"Sh!" panted Lynda, every nerve tingling. "See, little Ann--don't you
know me?"

The child seemed to half understand and moaned plaintively:

"I'm lost! I'm lost!"

Lynda took her in her arms and the sick fancy passed, but from that hour
there was a new tie between the two--a deeper dependence.

There was one day when they all felt little Ann was slipping from them.
Dr. McPherson had come as near giving up hope as he ever, outwardly,
permitted himself to do.

"You had better stay at home," he said to Conning; "children are
skittish little craft. The best of them haul up anchor sometimes when
you least expect it."

So Truedale remained at home and, wandering through the quiet house,
wondered at the intensity of his suffering as he contemplated the time
on ahead without the child who had so recently come into his life from
he knew not where. He attributed it all to Ann's remarkable
characteristics.

Late in the afternoon of the anxious day he went into the sick room and
leaned over the bed. Ann opened her eyes and smiled up at him, weakly.

"Make a light, father," she whispered, and with a fear-filled heart
Truedale touched the electric button. The room was already filled with
sunlight, for it faced the west; but for Ann it was cold and dark.

Then, as if setting the last pitiful scene for her own departure, she
turned to Lynda: "Make a mother-lap for Ann," she said. Lynda tenderly
lifted the thin form from the bed and held it close.

"I--I taught you how to be a mother, didn't I, mommy-Lyn?" she had never
called Lynda simply "mother," while "father" had fallen naturally from
her lips.

"Yes, yes, little Ann." Lynda's eyes were filled with tears and in that
moment she realized how much the child meant to her. She had done her
duty, had exceeded it at times, in her determination not to fall short.
She had humoured Ann, often taking sides against Conning in her fear of
being unjust. But oh! there had always been something lacking; and now,
too late, she felt that, for all her struggle, she had not been true to
the vow she had made to Nella-Rose!

But Ann was gazing up at her with a strange, penetrating look.

"It's the comfiest lap in the world," she faltered, "for little, tired
girls."

"I--I love her!" Ly