I'm so little proud now that I've sent for you to ask your help."

"Anything--anything!" he said eagerly.

"It's rather a big thing that I'm going to ask, I'm afraid. I want you,"
she spoke slowly, as though to focus his attention, "to take care of my
child--when I am gone."

He stared at her doubtfully.

"But her father? Will he consent?" he asked.

"He is dead. I received the news of his death six months ago. There is
no one--no one who has any claim upon her. And no one upon whom she has
any claim, poor little atom!"--smiling rather bitterly. "Ah! Don't
deny me!"--her thin, eager hands clung to his--"don't deny me--say that
you'll take her!"

"Deny you? But, of course I shan't deny you. I'm only thankful that you
have turned to me at last--that you have not quite forgotten!"

"Forgotten?" Her voice vibrated. "Believe me or not, as you will,
there has never been a day for nine long years when I have not
remembered--never a night when I have not prayed God to bless you----"
She broke off, her mouth working uncontrollably.

Very quietly, very tenderly, he drew her into his arms. There was no
passion in the caress--for was it not eventide, and the lengthening
shadows of night already fallen across her path?--but there was infinite
love, and forgiveness, and understanding. . . .

"And now, may I see her--the little daughter?"

The twilight had gathered about them during that quiet hour of reunion,
wherein old hurts had been healed, old sins forgiven, and now at last
they had come back together out of the past to the recognition of all
that yet remained to do.

There came a sound of running footsteps on the stairs outside--light,
eager steps, buoyant with youth, that evidently found no hardship in the
long ascent from the street level.

"Hark!" The woman paused, her head a little turned to listen. "Here she
comes. No one else on this floor"--with a whimsical smile--"could take
the last flight of those awful stairs at a run."

The door flew open, and the man received an impressionist picture of
which the salient features were a mop of black hair, a scarlet jersey,
and a pair of abnormally long black legs.

Then the door closed with a bang, and the blur of black and scarlet
resolved itself into a thin, eager-faced child of eight, who paused
irresolutely upon perceiving a stranger in the room.

"Come here, kiddy," the woman held out her hand. "This"--and her eyes
sought those of the man as though beseeching