another silence.

He slackened the pace and looked at her closely. The sweater and the
sunshine had brought a faint tinge of wild-rose color to the transparency
of her skin. The flippancy and boldness so prominent in her eyes the day
before had disappeared. She looked more as she had when she was asleep in
the moonlight. A wave of kindness and brotherliness swept over him.

"I am going to tell her," he said gently, "that you are a poor little girl
who needs a friend."

"Is that all you will tell her?"

"You may tell her as much or as little of your story as you think you
should."

"You are a good man, but," she added thoughtfully, "the best of men don't
understand women's ways toward each other. If I tell her my sordid little
story, she may not want to help me--at least, not want to keep me up here
in her home. I've not found women very helpful."

"She will help you and keep you, because--" he hesitated, and then
continued earnestly, "before she was married, she was a settlement worker
in a large city and she understood such--"

"As I," she finished. "I know the settlement workers. They write you
up--or down--in a sort of a Rogue Record, and you are classified, indexed,
filed and treated by a system."

"She isn't that kind!" he protested indignantly. "She does her work by her
heart, not by system. Have you ever really tried to reform?"

"Yes," she exclaimed eagerly. "I left Chicago for that purpose. I couldn't
find work. I was cold and hungry; pawned everything they would take and
got shabby like this," looking down disdainfully at herself, "but I didn't
steal, not even food. I would have starved first. Then I was arrested up
here for stealing. I wasn't guilty. Bender had no case, really; but he
wouldn't give me a square deal or listen to anything in my favor, because
my record was against me. You can't live down a record. There is no use
trying."

"Yes, there is!" he declared emphatically. "I have always thought a thief
incurable, but I believe _she_ could perform the miracle."

"How old is she?" demanded Pen suddenly.

"I don't know," he answered vaguely, as if her age had never occurred to
him before. "She has been married ten years."

"Oh! Did she marry the right man?"

"She certainly did. Kingdon is a prince."

"Any children?"

"Three; two little fellows as fine as are made, and a girl."

"I adore children."

"I am glad to hear you say that. Every good woman loves children."

"And you really