,
Peace caught up the battered tin cup from the old hand-organ, and held
it out invitingly. Hand after hand plunged deep into scores of pockets;
coin after coin rattled into the little dipper; the old man played
eagerly, breathlessly; and the children sang again and again in response
to the applause from the street.

How long the impromptu concert might have continued no one knows, but
through a break in the sea of faces surrounding them, Peace caught a
glimpse of Mrs. Sherrar's portly form, and it reminded her suddenly of
where she was and how she came to be there. Breaking off in the midst of
her song, she thrust the heavy cup back into the owner's hands, bowed
to the astonished throng, and cried shrilly, "He's been sick and can't
play as much as he used to could, until he gets strong again; so he
needs all the money he can get. Don't forget him when you go by again."

Grabbing Allee by the arm, she whisked away to where her friends were
waiting, fearful lest they might not approve of her impulsive action; so
before they had a chance to speak a word either of blame or praise, she
began, excusingly, "Just s'posing we all had our eyes punched out so's
we couldn't see, and had to sit on street corners and grind out music
all day long. Wouldn't it be terrible? I--I--thought--maybe it might
help a little if we joined in the music, and it did. He's got a whole
cupful of money, and now maybe he'll go home and rest a bit. He's been
sick."

Tears filled the eyes of the little company of grown-ups, and Frances,
with an understanding heart, drew the childish figures close, saying
tenderly, "For these bonnie little lassies I'd lay me doon and dee."

CHAPTER XIX

HEARTBREAK

It was a wild, stormy, October night. The rain fell fitfully, and the
howling wind raced madly through forest and over farmland, shrieking
down chimneys, rattling windows and doors, whistling through every
conceivable crack and crevice, and rudely buffeting any traveler who
chanced to be abroad. In the brown house three rosy-cheeked little maids
lay fast asleep in their beds in the tiny back chamber, blissfully
unconscious of wind and rain; but in the room below Faith and Hope kept
anxious vigil, awaiting Gail's return from the darkness and the storm.

"I should have gone, too," croaked Faith, in a voice so hoarse she could
scarcely speak above a whisper.

"No, indeed," Hope declared. "You have a dreadful cold now; but I think
she might have