andridge Heath. You have something you want to
say to me. Tell me what it is."

Her head made backward, twisting movement as if for breath, then her
eyes held mine, and in them was the cry eternal of all motherhood.
"My little girl! My little girl! If only--I could take--her with
me! Who's going to--tell her how--not to go--wrong? She won't be
safe--on earth. Promise me--promise me!"

"Promise you what?" I leaned still farther over the bed. The fire
of a tortured soul was burning in the eyes before me, and out of them
had gone dull glaze and ghastly stare; into them had come appeal,
both piteous and passionate, and fear that defied death. "What must
I promise?" My eyes held hers lest words should wander.

"Tell me what I must do?"

"Don't let them put her in--an orphan home. The ones who--manage
it--don't know themselves--how life--treats girls. They mean
kind--but they don't teach them--what might happen. Little
Etta--little Etta Blake lived in an orphan home. And now--now--"

The hands in mine were dropped, amazement for the moment making me
forget all else. I leaned yet closer. "Where is she? Where is Etta
Blake? Where can I find her?"

As if groping, the eyes looking into mine made effort to understand,
then turned away. "You can't find her--now. It's--too late. She
was let go--to work--and she--didn't know. She come--from a little
town--to a big one. And nobody--told her--what might happen. My
little Nora--who's going to tell her?"

With violent effort, the figure on the bed attempted to sit up, and
the twitching hands were flung one on either side, then again they
clutched mine. "Why don't God--let me--take her--with me? Promise
me--you won't forget--my little Nora! Won't let them--put her--in an
orphan home. Promise me--you'll watch--"

Gaspingly she lay back on the pillows, but her eyes held mine.
"Promise--"

"I promise I will not--forget." Before God and a dying woman I was
pledging protection for a homeless child. My voice broke and then
steadied. "I promise--and I will watch."

As if that which held had snapped, the tossing head lay quiet, and
out of the face fear faded, and into it, as softly as widens dawn at
break of day, came peace. The sobbing in the corner of the room had
ceased, and through the thin walls I could hear Selwyn's low tones as
he told stumblingly to the child a story that was keeping her quiet,
and I knew he, too, was on new thresholds; he, to