ild who has found its mother again.
There were two other women in the car, and they wanted to help, but I
told them it was only my baby back again. We were near 10th Street
at the time and I got her out and brought her here and put her to
bed--Listen! Keep still a moment! That's her step! Yes, thank God, she's
alone! I'm always scared lest he should come with her. Get in there
behind the curtain!"

Martha had lifted the lamp again as she spoke, and was holding it over
the banister, one hand down-stretched toward a woman whose small white
fingers were clutching the mahogany rail, pulling herself up one step at
a time.

"Don't hurry, my child. It's a hard climb, I know. Give me the box. I
began to get worried. Are you tired?"

"A little. It has been a long day." She sighed as she passed into the
room, the nurse following with a large pasteboard box.

"It's good to get back to you," she continued, sinking into a chair near
the mantel and unfastening her cloak. "The stairs seem to grow steeper
every time I come up. Thank you. Just hang it behind the door. And now
my hat, please." She lifted the cheap black straw from her head, freeing
a fluff of light-golden hair, and with her fingers combed it back from
her forehead.

"And please bring me my slippers. I have walked all the way home, and my
poor feet ache."

The nurse stooped for the hat, patted the thin shoulders, and went into
the adjacent room for the slippers, whispering to Carlin on her way back
to keep hidden until she called. He was still standing concealed by
the folds of the calico curtain dividing the apartment, a choke in his
throat as he watched the frail woman, her sharpened knees outlined
under the folds of the black dress and, below it, the edge of a white
petticoat bespattered with mud, the whole figure drooping as if there
were not strength enough along its length to hold the body upright. What
shocked him even more were the deep-sunken eyes and the hollows in
the cheeks and about the brows. All the laugh and sparkle of the once
joyous, beautiful girl he had known were gone. Only the gentle voice was
left.

Martha was now back, kneeling on the floor, untying the shabby shoes,
rubbing the small, delicately shaped feet in her plump hands to rest
and warm them. "There, my lamb, that's better," he heard her say, as she
drew on the heelless slippers. "I'll have tea in a minute. The kettle's
been boiling this hour." Then, as though it were an afterthough