prepared for that. It was the
geranium, blooming on the shabby table, that caught her eye; it was the
clean hair-brush, lying on the same table, and the framed picture of a
Madonna, upon the wall, that attracted her. She spoke of them, first, to
the girl who knelt on the floor, packing a cheap suit-case--spoke of
them before she questioned gently:

"You're not going away, are you, Ella?"

Ella glanced up from her packing.

"Yes. I'm going away!" she said, shortly. And then, as if against her
will, she added:

"I got th' flower an' th' picture for Lily. Oh, sure, I know that she
can't see 'em! But I sorter feel that she knows they're here!"

Rose-Marie's voice was very soft, as she spoke again.

"I'm glad that you chose the picture you did," she said, "the picture of
the Christ Child and His Mother!"

Ella wadded a heavy dress into the suit-case.

"I don't hold much with religious pictures," she said, without looking
up; "religion never did much fer me! I only got it 'cause th' Baby had
hair like Lily's hair!"

Rose-Marie crouched down, suddenly, upon the floor beside the girl. She
laid her hand upon the suit-case.

"Where are you going, Ella?" she asked abruptly. "Where are you
going--and when will you be back?"

Ella's lips drew up into the semblance of a smile--a very bitter one--as
she answered.

"It's none of yer business where I'm goin'," she said, "an' I may not
ever come back--see?"

Rose-Marie caught her breath in a kind of sob. It was as she had
guessed--and feared!

"Ella," she asked slowly, "are you going alone?"

The girl's face coloured swiftly, with a glorious wave of crimson. She
tossed her head with a defiant movement.

"No, I ain't goin' alone!" she told Rose-Marie. "You kin betcha life I
ain't goin' alone!"

Rose-Marie--sitting beside her on the floor--asked God, silently, for
help before she spoke again. She felt suddenly powerless, futile.

"_Why_ are you going, dear?" she questioned, at last.

Ella dropped the shoes that she had been about to tuck into the
suit-case. Her eyes were grim.

"Because," she said, "I'm tired of all o' this," Her finger pointed in
the direction of the outer room. "I'm tired o' dirt, and drunken people,
and Jim's rotten talk. I'm tired o' meals et out o' greasy dishes, an'
cheap clothes, and jobs that I hate--an' that I can't nohow seem ter
hold! I'm tired, dog-tired, o' life. All that's ever held me in this
place is Lily. An' sometimes, when I l