Chapter IV: Part 4

"I'm tired of deceit," she told herself, as she stepped back in the direction of the door. "I'll not say anything to him that isn't true! ... Nothing can happen to me, anyway," she assured herself. "This is the twentieth century, and I'm Rose-Marie Thompson. This is a civilized country--nothing can hurt me! I'm not afraid--not while God is taking care of me!"

Jim had straightened up. He seemed, suddenly, to tower.

"Well," he growled, "how about it? When'll we be married?"

Rose-Marie raised her head gallantly.

"We won't ever be married, Jim Volsky!" she told him, and even to her own surprise there was not the suggestion of a quaver in her voice. "We won't ever be married. I'm surprised at you for suggesting it!"

The man stared at her, a moment, and his eyes showed clearly that he did not quite understand.

"Yer mean," he stammered at last, "that yer t'rowing me down?"

Rose-Marie's head was still gallantly lifted.

"I mean," she said, "that I won't marry you! Please--we'll let the matter drop, at once!"

The man came a step nearer. The bewilderment was dying from his face.

"Not much, we won't let the matter drop!" he snarled. "What's yer reason fer turnin' me down--huh?"

It was then that Rose-Marie made her mistake. It was then that she ceased to be tactful. But suddenly she was tired, desperately tired, of Jim's persistence. Suddenly she was too tired even to be afraid. The lift of her chin was very proud--proud with some ingrained pride of race, as she answered. Behind her stood a long line of ancestors with gentle blood, ancestors who had known the meaning of chivalry.

Coolly she surveyed him. Dispassionately she noticed the lack of breeding in his face, the marks of early dissipation, the lines that sin had etched. And as she looked she laughed with just the suggestion of hauteur. For the first time in her life Rose-Marie was experiencing a touch of snobbishness, of class distinction.

"We won't discuss my reason," she told him slowly; "it should be quite evident to _any one_!"

Not many weeks before, Rose-Marie had told the Young Doctor--in the presence of the Superintendent--that she loved the people of the slums. She had been so sure of herself then--so certain that she spoke the truth. More recently she had assured the Superintendent that she could cope with any situation. And that very afternoon she had told Ella that they were alike, were just young girls--both of them--with all of life in front of them, with the same hopes and the same fears and the same ambitions.

She had believed the statement that she had made, so emphatically, to the Young Doctor--she had believed it very strongly. She had been utterly sure of herself when she begged the Superintendent to let her know more of life. And, during her talk with Ella, she had felt a real kinship to the whole of the Volsky family! But now that she had come face to face with a crisis--now that she was meeting her big test--she knew that her strong beliefs were weakening and that she was no longer at all sure of herself! And as for being kin to the Volskys--the idea was quite unthinkable.

Always, Rose-Marie had imagined that a proposal of marriage would be the greatest compliment that a man could pay a girl. But the proposal of the man in front of her did not seem in the least complimentary. She realized--with the only feeling of irony she had ever known, that this proposal was her very first. And she was looking upon it as an insult. With a tiny curl of her lips she raised her eyes until they met Jim's eyes.

"It should be quite evident," she repeated, "to any one!"

Jim Volsky's face had turned to a dark mottled red. His slim, well manicured hands were clenched at his sides.

"Y' mean," he questioned, and his voice had an ugly ring, "y' mean I ain't good enough fer yer?"

All at once the snobbishness had slipped, like a worn coat, from the shoulders of the girl. She was Rose-Marie Thompson again--Settlement worker. She was no better, despite the ancestors with gentle blood, than the man in front of her--just more fortunate. She realized that she had been not only unkind, but foolish. She tried, hurriedly--and with a great scare looking out of her wide eyes--to repair the mistake that she had made.

"I don't mean that I am better than you, Jim," she said softly, "not in the matter of family. We are all the children of God--we are all brothers and sisters in His sight."

Jim Volsky interrupted. He came nearer to Rose-Marie--so near that only a few inches of floor space lay between them.

"Don't yer go sayin' over Sunday-school lessons at me," he snarled. "I know what yer meant. Yer think I ain't good enough--t' marry yer. Well"--he laughed shortly, "well, maybe I ain't good enough--t' marry yer! But I guess I'm good enough t' kiss yer--" All at once his hands shot out, closed with the strength of a vise upon her arms, just above her elbows. "I guess I'm good enough t' kiss yer!" he repeated gloatingly.

Rose-Marie felt cold fear creeping through her veins. There was something clammy in Jim's touch, something more than menacing in his eyes. She knew that her strength was nothing to be pitted against his--she knew that in any sort of a struggle she would be easily subdued. And yet she knew that she would rather die than feel his lips upon hers. She felt an intense loathing for him--the loathing that some women feel for toads and lizards.

"Jim," she said slowly and distinctly, "let go of me _this instant_!"

The man was bending closer. A thick lock of his heavy hair had shaken down over his forehead, giving him a strangely piratical look.

"Not much I won't," he told her. "_So I ain't good enough_--"

All at once Rose-Marie felt the blindness of rage--unreasoning, deadly anger. Only two things she knew--that she hated Jim and that she would not let him kiss her. She spoke sudden defiant words that surprised even herself.

"No," she told him, and her voice was hysterically high, "no, you're not good enough! You're not good enough for _any_ decent girl! You're bad--too bad to lay your fingers upon me. You're--you're unclean! Let go of me or I'll"--her courage was oozing rapidly away, "or I'll _scream_!"

Jim Volsky's too red lips were on a level with her own. His voice came thickly. "Scream, if you want to, little kid!" he said. "Scream t' beat th' band! There ain't no one t' hear yer. Ma an' Ella an' Bennie are at the hospital--givin' Pa th' once over. An' th' folks in this house are used t' yellin'. They'd oughter be! Scream if yer want to--but I'm a-goin' ter have my kiss!"

Rose-Marie could feel the warmth of his breath upon her face. Knowing the futility--the uselessness of it--she began to struggle. Desperately she tried to twist her arms from the slim, brutal hands that held them--but the hands did not loosen their hold. She told herself, as she struggled, that Jim had spoken the truth--that a scream, more or less, was an every-day occurrence in the tenement.

All at once she realized, with a dazed, sinking feeling, that the Young Doctor had had some foundation of truth in certain of his statements. Some of the slum people were like animals--very like animals! Jim was all animal as he bent above her--easily holding her with his hands. Nothing that she said could reach him--nothing. She realized why the Young Doctor had wanted her to leave the Settlement House before any of her dreams had been shattered, before her faith in mankind had been abused! She realized why, at times, he had hurt her, and with the realization came the knowledge that she wanted him, desperately, at that minute--that he, out of all the people in the world, was the one that her heart was calling to in her time of need. She wanted his strength, his protection.

Once before, earlier in the afternoon, she had realized that there was much of the cat in Jim. Now she realized it again, with a new sense of fear and dislike. For Jim was not claiming the kiss that he wanted, in a straight-forward way--he was holding her gloatingly, as a cat tortures a mouse. He was letting her know, without words, that she was utterly helpless--that he could kiss her when he wanted to, and not until he wanted to. There was something horribly playful in his attitude. She struggled again--but more weakly, her strength was going. If there were only somebody to help--somebody!

And then, all at once, she remembered--with a blinding sense of relief--what she had been forgetting. She remembered that there was Somebody--a Somebody Who is always ready to help--a Somebody who watches over the fate of every little sparrow.

"If you hurt me," she said desperately, to Jim, "God will know! Let go of me--or I'll--"

Jim interrupted.

"Yer'll scream!" he chuckled, and there was cruel mirth in the chuckle. "Yer'll scream, an' God will take care o' yer! Well--scream! I don't believe as God can help yer. God ain't never been in this tenement--as far as I know!"

Despite her weight of fear and loathing, Rose-Marie was suddenly sorry for Jim. There was something pitiful--something of which he did not realize the pathos--in his speech. God had never been in the tenement--_God had never been in the tenement_! All at once she realized that Jim's wickedness, that Jim's point of view, was not wholly his fault. Jim had not been brought up, as she had, in the clean out-of-doors; he--like many another slum child--had grown to manhood without his proper heritage of fresh air and sunshine. One could not entirely blame him for thinking of his home--the only home that he had ever known--as a Godless place. She stopped struggling and her voice was suddenly calm and sweet as she answered Jim's statement.

"God," she said slowly, "_is_ in this tenement. God is everywhere, Jim--everywhere! If I call on Him, He will help me!"

All at once Jim had swung her away from him, until he was holding her at arm's length. He looked at her, from between narrowed lids, and there was bitter sarcasm in his eyes.

"Call on Him, then," he taunted, "call on Him! Lotta good it'll do yer!" The very tone of his voice was a sacrilege, as he said it.

Rose-Marie's eyes were blurred with tears as she spoke her answer to his challenge. She was remembering the prayers that she had said back home--in the little town. She was remembering how her aunts had taught her, when she was a wee girl, to talk with God--to call upon Him in times of deep perplexity. She had called upon Him, often, but she had never really needed Him as she did now. "Help me, God!" she said softly, "_Help me, God_!"

The Volsky flat was still, for a moment. And then, with surprising quickness, the door to the inner room swung open. Jim, who was standing with his back to the door, did not see the tiny, golden-haired figure that stood in the opening, but Rose-Marie caught her breath in a kind of a sob.

"I had forgotten Lily--" she murmured, almost to herself.

Jim, hearing her words, glanced quickly back over his shoulder. And then he laughed, and there was an added brutality in the tone of his laughter.

"Oh--Lily!" he laughed. "Lily! She won't help yer--not much! I was sort of expectin' this God that yer talk about--" The laughter died out of his face and he jerked her suddenly close--so close that she lay trembling in his arms. "Lily can't hear," he exulted, "'r see, 'r speak. _I'll take my kiss--now_!"

It was then that Rose-Marie, forgetting herself in the panic of the moment, screamed. She screamed lustily, twisting her face away from his lips. And as she screamed Lily, as silently as a little wraith, started across the room. She might almost have heard, so straight she came. She might almost have known what was happening, so directly she ran to the spot where Rose-Marie was struggling in the arms of Jim. All at once her thin little hands had fastened themselves upon the man's trouser leg, all at once she was pulling at him, with every bit of her feeble strength.

Rose-Marie, still struggling, felt an added weight of apprehension. Not only her own safety was at stake--Lily, who was so weak, was in danger of being hurt. She jerked back, with another cry.

"Oh, God help me!" she cried, "God help _us_!"

Silently, but with a curious persistence, the child clung to the man's trouser leg. With an oath he looked back again over his shoulder.

"Leave go of me," he mouthed. "Leave go o' me--y' little brat! 'r I'll--"

And "Let go of him, Lily," sobbed Rose-Marie, forgetting that the child could not hear. "Let go of him, or he'll hurt you!"

The child lifted her sightless blue eyes wistfully to the faces above her--the faces that she could not see. And she clung the closer.

Jim was swearing, steadily--swearing with a dogged, horrible regularity. Of a sudden he raised his heavy foot and kicked viciously at the child who clung so tenaciously to his other leg. Rose-Marie, powerless to help, closed her eyes--and opened them again almost spasmodically.

"You brute," she screamed, "_you utter brute_!"

Lily, who had never, in all of her broken little life, felt an unkind touch, wavered, as the man's boot touched her slight body. Her sightless eyes clouded, all at once, with tears. And then, with a sudden piercing shriek, she crumpled up--in a white little heap--upon the floor.

XVIII

AND A MIRACLE

For a moment Rose-Marie was stunned by the child's unexpected cry. She hung speechless, filled with wonderment, in Jim's arms. And then, with a wrench, she was free--was running across the floor to the little huddled bundle that was Lily.

"You beast," she flung back, over her shoulder, as she ran. "You beast! You've killed her!"

Jim did not attempt to follow--or to answer. He had wheeled about, and his face was very pale.

"God!" he said, in a tense whisper, "_God_!" It was the first time that the word, upon his lips, was neither mocking nor profane.

Rose-Marie, with tender hands, gathered the child up from the hard floor. She was not thinking of the miracle that had taken place--she was not thinking of the sound that had come, so unexpectedly, from dumb lips. She only knew that the child was unconscious, perhaps dying. Her trembling fingers felt of the slim wrist; felt almost with apprehension. She was surprised to feel that the pulse was still beating, though faintly.

"Get somebody," she said, tersely, to Jim. "Get somebody who knows--something!"

Jim's face was still the colour of ashes. He did not stir--did not seem to have the power to stir.

"Did yer hear her?" he mouthed thickly. "She _yelled_. I heard her. Did yer hear--"

Rose-Marie was holding Lily close to her breast. Her stern young eyes looked across the drooping golden head into the scared face of the man.

"It was God, speaking through her," she said. "It was God. And you--you had denied Him--_you beast_!"

All at once Jim was down upon the floor beside her. The mask of passion had slipped from his face--his shoulders seemed suddenly more narrow--his cruel hands almost futile. Rose-Marie wondered, subconsciously, how she had ever feared him.

"She yelled," he reiterated, "_did yer hear her--_"

Rose-Marie clutched the child tighter in her arms.

"Get some one, at once," she ordered, "if you don't want her to die--if you don't want to be a murderer!"

But Jim had not heard her voice. He was sobbing, gustily.

"I'm t'rough," he was sobbing, "t'rough! Oh--God, fergive--"

It was then that the door opened. And Rose-Marie, raising eyes abrim with relief, saw that Ella and Mrs. Volsky and Bennie stood upon the threshold.

"What's a-matter?" questioned Mrs. Volsky--her voice sodden with grief. "What's been a-happenin'?" But Ella ran across the space between them, and knelt in front of Rose-Marie.

"Give 'er t' me!" she breathed fiercely; "she's my sister. Give 'er t' me!"

Silently Rose-Marie handed over the light little figure. But as Ella pillowed the dishevelled head upon her shoulder, she spoke directly to Bennie.

"Run to the Settlement House, as fast as ever you can!" she told him. "And bring Dr. Blanchard back with you. Hurry, dear--it may mean Lily's life!" And Bennie, with his grimy face tear-streaked, was out of the door and clattering down the stairs before she had finished.

Ella, her mouth agonized and drawn, was the first to speak after Bennie left the room. When she did speak she asked a question.

"Who done this t' her?" she questioned. "_Who done it_?"

Rose-Marie hesitated. She could feel the eyes of Mrs. Volsky, dumb with suffering, upon her--she could feel Jim's rat-like gaze fixed, with a certain appeal, on her face. At last she spoke.

"Jim will tell you!" she said.

If she had expected the man to evade the issue--if she had expected a downright falsehood from him--she was surprised. For Jim's head came up, suddenly, and his eyes met the burning dark ones of his sister.

"I done it," he said, simply, and he scrambled up from the floor, as he spoke. "I kicked her. She come in when I was tryin' t' kiss"--his finger indicated Rose-Marie, "_her_. Lily got in th' way. So I kicked out hard--then--she," he gulped back a shudder, "she _yelled_!"

Ella was suddenly galvanized into action. She was on her feet, with one lithe, pantherlike movement--the child held tight in her arms.

"Yer kicked her," she said softly--and the gentleness of her voice was ominous. "Yer kicked her! An' she yelled--" For the first time the full significance of it struck her. "_She yelled_?" she questioned, whirling to Rose-Marie; "yer don't mean as she made a _sound_?"

Rose-Marie nodded dumbly. It was Jim's voice that went on with the story.

"She ain't dead," he told Ella, piteously. "She ain't dead. An'--I promise yer true--I'll never do such a thing again. I promise yer true!"

Ella took a step toward him. Her face was suddenly lined, and old. "If she dies," she told him, "_if she dies_..." she hesitated, and then--"Much yer promises mean," she shrilled, "much yer promises--"

Rose-Marie had been watching Jim's face. Almost without meaning to she interrupted Ella's flow of speech.

"I think that he means what he says," she told Ella slowly. "I think that he means ... what he says."

For she had seen the birth of something--_that might have been soul_--in Jim's haggard eyes.

The child in Ella's arms stirred, weakly, and was still again. But the movement, slight as it was, made the girl forget her brother. Her dark head bent above the fair one.

"Honey," she whispered, "yer goin' ter get well fer Ella--ain't yer? Yer goin' ter get well--"

The door swung open with a startling suddenness, and Rose-Marie sprang forward, her hands outstretched. Framed in the battered wood stood Bennie--the tears streaking his face--and behind him was the Young Doctor. So tall he seemed, so capable, so strong, standing there, that Rose-Marie felt as if her troubles had been lifted, magically, from her shoulders. All at once she ceased to be afraid--ceased to question the ways of the Almighty. All at once she felt that Lily would get better--that the Volskys would be saved to a better life. And all at once she knew something else. And the consciousness of it looked from her wide eyes.

"You!" she breathed. "_You_!"

And, though she had sent for him, herself, she felt a glad sort of surprise surging through her heart.

The Young Doctor's glance, in her direction, was eloquent. But as his eyes saw the child in Ella's arms his expression became impersonal, again, concentrated, and alert. With one stride he reached Ella's side, and took the tiny figure from her arms.

"What's the matter here?" he questioned sharply.

Rose-Marie was not conscious of the words that she used as she described Lily's accident. She glossed over Jim's part in it as lightly as possible; she told, as quickly as she could, the history of the child. And as she told it, the doctor's lean capable hands were passing, with practiced skill, over the little relaxed body. When she told of the child's deaf and dumb condition she was conscious of his absolute attention--though he did not for a moment stop his work--when she spoke of the scream she saw his start of surprise. But his only words were in the nature of commands. "Bring water"--he ordered, "clean water, in a basin. A _clean_ basin. Bring a sponge"--he corrected himself--"a clean rag will do--only it must be _clean_"--this to Mrs. Volsky, "you _understand?_ Where," his eyes were on Ella's face, "can we lay the child? Is there a _clean_ bed, anywhere?"

Ella was shaking with nervousness as she opened the door of the inner room that she and Lily shared. Mrs. Volsky, carrying the basin of water, was sobbing. Jim, standing in the center of the room, was like a statue--only his haunted eyes were alive. The Young Doctor, glancing from face to face, spoke suddenly to Rose-Marie.

"I hate to ask you," he said simply, "but you seem to be the only one who hasn't gone to pieces. Will you come in here with me?"

Rose-Marie nodded, and she spoke, very softly. "Then you think that I'll be able--to help?" she questioned.

The Young Doctor was remembering--or forgetting--many things.

"I know that you will!" he said, and he spoke as softly as she had done. "I know that you will!"

They went, together, with Lily, into the inner room. And as the Young Doctor closed the door, Rose-Marie knew a very real throb of triumph. For he had admitted that her help was to be desired--that she could really do something!

But, the moment that the door closed, she forgot her feeling of victory, for, of a sudden, she saw Dr. Blanchard in a new light. She saw him lay the little figure upon the bed--she saw him pull off his coat. And then, while she held the basin of water, she saw him get to work. And as she watched him her last feeling of doubt was swept away.

"He may say that he's not interested in people," she told herself joyously, "but he is. He may think that he doesn't care for religion--but he does. There's love of people in every move of his hands! There's something religious in the very way his fingers touch Lily!"

Yes, she was seeing the Young Doctor in a new light. As she watched him she knew that he had quite forgotten her presence--had quite forgotten the little quarrels that had all but ruined their chance at friendship. She knew that his mind was only on the child who lay so still under his hands--she knew that all the intensity of his nature was concentrated upon Lily. As she watched him, deftly obeying His simple directions, she gloried in his skill--in his surety.

And then, at last, Lily opened her eyes. She might have been waking from a deep slumber as she opened them--she might have been dreaming a pleasant dream as she smiled faintly. Rose-Marie had a sudden feeling--a feeling that she had experienced before--that the child was seeing visions, with her great sightless eyes, that other, normal folk could not see. All at once a great dread clutched at her soul.

"She's not dying--?" she whispered, gaspingly. "Her smile is so very--wonderful. She's not dying?"

The Young Doctor turned swiftly from the bed. All at once he looked like a knight to Rose-Marie--an armourless, modern knight who fought an endless fight against the dragons of disease and pain.

"Bless your heart, no!" he answered. "She isn't dying! We'll bring her around in a few minutes. And now"--a great tenderness shone out of his eyes, "tell me all about it. You were very sketchy," his gesture indicated the other room, "out there! How did the child really get hurt--and how did you come to be here? How--Why, Rose-Marie.... _Sweetheart_!"

For Rose-Marie had fainted very quietly--and for the first time in all of her strong young life.

XIX

AND THE HAPPY ENDING

They were sitting together at the luncheon table--the Superintendent, Rose-Marie, and the Young Doctor. The noontime sunshine slanted across the table--dancing on the silver, touching softly Rose-Marie's curls, finding an answering sparkle in the Young Doctor's smile. And silence--the warm silence of happiness--lay over them all.

It was the Young Doctor who spoke first.

"Just about a month ago, it was," he said reflectively, "that I saw Lily for the first time. And now"--he paused teasingly--"and now--"

Rose-Marie laid down the bit of roll that she was buttering. Her face was glowing with eagerness.

"They've come to some decision," she whispered, in a question that was little more than a breath of sound, "the doctors at the hospital have come to some decision?"

The Superintendent was leaning forward and her kind soul shone out of her tired eyes. "Tell us at once, Billy Blanchard!" she ordered, "_At once_!"

Quite after the maddening fashion of men the Young Doctor did not answer--not until he had consumed, and appreciatively, the bit of roll that he had been buttering. And then--"The other doctors agree with my diagnosis," he told them simply. "It's an extraordinary case, they say; but a not incurable one. The shock--when Jim kicked her--was a blessing in disguise. Not, of course, that I'd prescribe kicks for crippled children! But"--the term that he used was long and technical--"but such things have happened. Not often, of course. The doctors agree with me that, if her voice comes back--as I believe it will--there may be a very real hope for her hearing. And her eyes "--his voice was suddenly tender--"well--thousands of slum kiddies are blind--and thousands of them have been cured. If Lily is, some day, a normal child--if she can some day speak and see, and hear, it will be--"

The Superintendent's voice was soft--

"It is already a miracle!" she said simply. "It is already a miracle. Look at Jim--working for a small salary, _and liking it_! Look at Bennie--he was the head of his class in school, this month, he told me. And Ella--"

The Young Doctor interrupted.

"Ella and her mother went to church with us last Sunday," he said. "Rose-Marie and I were starting out, together, and they asked if they might go along. I tell you"--his eyes were looking deep, _deep_, into the eyes of Rose-Marie and he spoke directly to her, "I tell you, dear--I've learned a great many lessons in the last few weeks. Jim isn't the only one--or Bennie. Lily isn't the only nearly incurable case that has found new strength...."

Rose-Marie was blushing. The Superintendent, watching the waves of colour sweep over her face, spoke suddenly--reminiscently.

"Child," she said--and laughter, tremulous laughter, was in her voice, "your face is ever so _pink_! I believe," she was quoting, "'that you have a best beau'!"

The Young Doctor was laughing, too. Strangely enough his laughter had just the suggestion of a tremor in it.

"I'll say that she has!" he replied, and his words, though slangy, were very tender. "I'll say that she has!" And then--"Are _we_ going back to the little town, Rose-Marie," he questioned. "Are _we_ going back to the little town to be married?"

The blush had died from Rose-Marie's face, leaving it just faintly flushed. The eyes that she raised to the Young Doctor's eyes were like warm stars.

"No," she told him, "we're not! I've thought it all out. We're going to be married here--here in the Settlement House. I'll write for my aunts to come on--and for my old pastor! I couldn't be married without my aunts.... And my pastor; he christened me, and he welcomed me into the church, and"--all at once she started up from the table, "I'm going up-stairs to write, now," she managed. "I want to tell them that we're going to start our home here"--her voice broke, "here, on our own Island...." Like a flash she was out of the door.

The Young Doctor was on his feet. Luncheon was quite forgotten.

"I think," he said softly, and his face was like a light, "I think that I'll go with her--and help her with the letter!" The door closed, sharply, upon his hurrying back.

* * * * *

The Superintendent, left alone at the table, rang for the maid. Her voice was carefully calm as she ordered the evening meal. But her eyes were just a bit misty as she looked into the maid's dull face.

"Mrs. Volsky," she said suddenly, "love must have its way! And love is--"

The maid looked at her blankly. Obviously she did not understand. But, seeing her neat apron, her clean hands, her carefully combed hair, one could forgive her vague expression.

"What say?" she questioned.

The Superintendent laughed wearily, "Anyway," she remarked, "Ella likes her work, doesn't she? And Jim? And Bennie is going to be a great man, some day--isn't he? And Lily may be made well--quite well! You should be a glad woman, Mrs. Volsky!"

Pride flamed up, suddenly, in the maid's face--blotting out the dullness.

"God," she said simply and--marvel of marvels--her usually toneless voice was athrob with love--"God is good!" She went out, with a tray full of dishes.

Her chin in the palm of her hand, the Superintendent stared off into space. If she was thinking of a little blond child--lying in a hospital bed--if she was thinking of a man with sleek hair, trying to make a new start--if she was thinking of a girl with dark, flashing eyes, and a small, grubby-fingered boy, her expression did not mirror her thought. Only once she spoke, as she was folding her napkin. And then--

"They're both very young," she murmured, a shade wistfully. Perhaps she was remembering the springtime of her own youth.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Island of Faith, by Margaret E. Sangster