ing at. Born on a South Sea island, she
said."

"Ah! Now I can get a perspective. This is her first adventure. She
isn't used to cities."

"But how in the Lord's name was she brought up? There's a queer
story back of this somewhere."

The manager extended his hands at large, as if to deny any
responsibility in the affair. "Never heard of a sing-song girl;
never heard of a geisha! Flower of the Lotus: the sing-song girl
called her that."

"The White Hollyhock would fit her better. There is something
sensual in the thought of lotus flowers. Hollyhocks make one think
of a bright June Sunday and the way to church!"

"Do you suppose that young fool has done anything?"

The doctor shrugged. "I don't know. I shouldn't care to express an
opinion. I ought to stay the night through; but I'm late now for an
operation at the hospital. Good night."

He departed, musing. How plainly he could see the patch of garden
in the summer sunshine and the white hollyhocks nodding above the
picket fence!

* * * * *

Ruth sat waiting for the half hour, subconsciously. Her thoughts
were busy with the possibilities of this break in her journey.
Somebody to depend upon her; somebody to have need of her, if only
for a little while. In all her life no living thing had had to
depend upon her, not even a dog or a cat. All other things were
without weight or consequence before the fact that this poor young
man would have to depend upon her for his life. The amazing tonic
of the thought!

From time to time she laid her hand upon Spurlock's forehead: it
was still cold. But the rise of the chest was quite perceptible
now.

From where had he come, and why? An author! To her he would be no
less interesting because he was unsuccessful. Stories ... love
stories: and to-morrow she would know the joy of reading them! It
was almost unbelievable; it was too good to be true. It filled her
with indefinable fear. Until now none of her prayers had ever been
answered. Why should God give particular attention to such a
prayer, when He had ignored all others? Certainly there was a trap
somewhere.

So, while she watched, distressed and bewildered by her tumbling
thoughts, the packet, Canton bound, ruffled the placid waters of
the Pearl River. In one of the cabins a man sat on the edge of his
narrow bunk. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at
the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait