'll be to be doing it!" and a ghost of a smile fluttered her
lips.

Outside of the bedroom door Mrs. Emerson asked for an explanation and
the others for her advice.

"I don't see how we can tell what we can do until we pull her through
this trouble and find out what the poor soul wants to do herself."

"She said she came out from New York to look for work in the country."

"Then we must find her work in the country. But the first thing for us
to attend to is to get her poor body into such a condition that she can
work. She's a sweet looking young woman. I'm glad you brought her
home, Father," and between Mr. and Mrs. Emerson there passed a smile of
such understanding as makes beautiful the lives of people long and
happily married.

CHAPTER III

THE FARMHOUSE

It took a long time to bring Moya Murphy and little Sheila back to
health and strength, but it was only a day or two before Moya was able
to tell her story to Mrs. Emerson.

She was twenty-five, she said, and she had come to America with her
father and mother five years before. The New World had not given a
warm welcome to the new arrivals, for both of the parents had fallen
ill with pneumonia only a few weeks after they landed, and both died
within a few days of each other.

Moya, left alone and grieving, had soon after married Patrick Murphy, a
lad she had known in the old country. A happy life they led,
especially after little Sheila came to bless them.

When the declaration of war in Europe upset business conditions in
America, Patrick lost his "job" and all summer long he walked the
streets, working for a day now and then, but never securing a permanent
position, and always growing weaker and less able to work because he
was underfed. The little three-room flat that had been such a joy to
them, had long been given up and they lived and ate and slept in one
room, and thanked their stars that they had a landlord who did not
insist on being paid regularly, as did some they knew about who put
their tenants out on the street if the rent was not forthcoming
promptly.

"Somehow it's the sudden things that happens to me," said Moya to Mrs.
Emerson. She was sitting on the latticed back porch of the Emersons'
house, her fingers busy shelling peas for Kate, the old cook who had
lived with Mrs. Emerson ever since she was married. "Patrick was
crossing the street--'tis only six weeks ago, but it seems years! An
automobile with one of the shrie