sons such as you don't do things like
that. I'll go to work at once and prove it to you. The first thing to
do is to go to that Home where you were and get the clothes you wore the
night you were left there. I know that they are required to save those
things carefully. We can find out almost all there is to know about your
mother from them. Did you ever see them?"

"Yis," he replied.

"Freckles! Were they white?" she cried.

"Maybe they were once. They're all yellow with laying, and brown with
blood-stains now" said Freckles, the old note of bitterness creeping in.
"You can't be telling anything at all by them, Angel!"

"Well, but I just can!" said the Angel positively. "I can see from the
quality what kind of goods your mother could afford to buy. I can see
from the cut whether she had good taste. I can see from the care she
took in making them how much she loved and wanted you."

"But how? Angel, tell me how!" implored Freckles with trembling
eagerness.

"Why, easily enough," said the Angel. "I thought you'd understand.
People that can afford anything at all, always buy white for little new
babies--linen and lace, and the very finest things to be had. There's a
young woman living near us who cut up her wedding clothes to have fine
things for her baby. Mothers who love and want their babies don't buy
little rough, ready-made things, and they don't run up what they make on
an old sewing machine. They make fine seams, and tucks, and put on lace
and trimming by hand. They sit and stitch, and stitch--little, even
stitches, every one just as careful. Their eyes shine and their faces
glow. When they have to quit to do something else, they look sorry, and
fold up their work so particularly. There isn't much worth knowing about
your mother that those little clothes won't tell. I can see her putting
the little stitches into them and smiling with shining eyes over your
coming. Freckles, I'll wager you a dollar those little clothes of yours
are just alive with the dearest, tiny handmade stitches."

A new light dawned in Freckles' eyes. A tinge of warm color swept into
his face. Renewed strength was noticeable in his grip of her hands.

"Oh Angel! Will you go now? Will you be hurrying?" he cried.

"Right away," said the Angel. "I won't stop for a thing, and I'll hurry
with all my might."

She smoothed his pillow, straightened the cover, gave him one steady
look in the eyes, and went quietly from the room.

Outside th