at
are all for good," the clergyman's wife responded quickly, "and
personally I would thank God to be able to save even ten--to save even
one--of those Old Paloma girls from a life of shame and suffering. I
wish we had begun before. Mrs. Burgoyne may propose to build them their
own clubhouse entirely herself; but if not, I hope we can all help in
that too, when the time comes."

"Thank you, Mrs. Babcock," said the President coldly. "What do you
think, Miss Pratt?"

"Oh, Mrs. Carew, and Mrs. Brown, and I all feel as Mrs. Burgoyne does,"
admitted Anne Pratt innocently, a little fluttered.

It was Mrs. White's turn to color.

"I didn't know that the matter had been discussed," she said stiffly.

"Only generally; not in reference to the club," Mrs. Burgoyne supplied
quickly.

"I myself will propose an affirmative vote," said Mrs. Apostleman's
rich old voice. Mrs. Apostleman was entirely indifferent to
parliamentary law, and was never in order. "How d'ye do it? The ayes
rise, is that it?"

She pulled herself magnificently erect by the chair-back in front of
her, and with clapping and laughter the entire club rose to its feet.

"This is entirely out of order," said Mrs. White, very rosy. Everyone
sat down suddenly, and the chairman gave two emphatic raps of her gavel.

The President then asked permission to speak, and moved, with great
dignity, that the matter be laid before the board of directors at the
next meeting, and, if approved, submitted in due order to the vote of
the club.

The motion was briskly seconded, and a few minutes later Sidney found
herself freed from the babel of voices and walking home with nervous
rapidity. "Well, that's over!" she said once or twice aloud. "Thank
Heaven, it's over!"

"Is your head better, Mother?" said Joanna, who had been hanging on the
Hall gate waiting for her mother, and who put an affectionate arm about
her as they walked up the path. "You LOOK better."

"Jo," said Mrs. Burgoyne seriously, "there's one sure cure for the
blues in this world. I recommend it to you, for it's safer than
cocaine, and just as sure. Go and do something you don't want to--for
somebody else."

CHAPTER XVI

It was no pleasant prospect of a reunion at the club, or an evening
with his old friends, that had taken Barry Valentine so suddenly to San
Francisco, but a letter from his wife--or, rather, from his wife's
mother, for Hetty herself never wrote--which had stirred a vague
distrus