A soft rain set in. There was such a tender patter on the leaves that Dil almost laughed in sympathetic joy. Such delightful fragrance everywhere! For a moment she loathed the city, and it seemed as if she could not go back to the crowded rooms and close air. But only for a little while. John Travis would set her on the road to heaven.

It was curious how bits of the hymn came back to her. She could not have repeated the words consecutively-it was like the strain of remembered melody one follows in one's brain, and yet cannot give it voice. She seemed actually to _see_ it.

"O'er all those wide extended plains, Shines one eternal day."

Eternal day! and no night. Forever to be walking about with Bess, when the Lord Jesus had taken her in his arms and made her like other children. Oh, did Sadie Carr know that in heaven she would be straight and nice and beautiful? She must ask Miss Deering to tell her. Then her heart went out with trembling, yearning tenderness toward her mother.

Couldn't the Lord Jesus do something to keep her from drinking gin and going up to the Island? Was little Dan in a happy home like this, with plenty to eat?-boys were always hungry. She used to be before Bess went away, but it seemed as if she should never be hungry again.

The little girls around her were breathing peacefully. They were still well enough to have a good time when beneficent fortune favored. They had run and played and shouted, and were healthily tired. Dil remembered how sleepy she used to be when she was crooning songs to Bess. But since the day at Central Park it had been so different. The nights were all alight with fancies, and she was being whirled along in an air full of music and sweetness.

Toward morning it stopped raining. Oh, how the birds sang at daylight!

She dropped off to sleep then, but presently something startled her. She was back with the boys, and there was breakfast to get. She heard the eager voices, and sprang out of bed, glancing around.

It was only the children chattering as they dressed. Perhaps she looked strange to them, for one little girl uttered a wild cry as Dil slipped down on the floor a soft little heap.

The nurses thought at first that she was dead, it was so long before there was any sign of returning animation, and then it was only to lapse from one faint to another.

"We must have the doctor," said Miss Mary. "And we will take her to my room. There are three children in the Infirmary, one with a fever."

The room was not large, but cheerful in aspect. A tree near by shut out the glare of the sunshine, and sifted it through in soft, changeful shadows.

"She looks like death itself. Poor little girl! And Miss Lawrence was so interested in her. Will you mind staying a bit, Miss Virginia? There are so many things for me to do, and the doctor will be in soon."

Virginia did not mind. She had been keeping a vigil through the night.

She had taken a pride in what she called shaping her life on certain n.o.ble lines. How poor and small and ease-loving to the point of selfishness they looked now! What could there ever be as simply grand and tender as Dilsey Quinn's love for her little sister, and her cheerful patience with the evils of a hard and cruel life?

She had been in the wrong, she knew it well. She had waited for him to make an overture; but he had gone without a word, and that had heightened her anger. Then had come a bitter sense of loss, a tender regret deepening into real and fervent sorrow. Out of it had arisen a n.o.bler repentance, and acceptance of the result of her evil moment. She had hoped some time, and in some unlooked-for way, they would meet.

But since she had given the offence, could she not be brave enough to put her fate to the touch and

"Win or lose it all"?

The words that had always seemed so hard to say came readily enough, as she told the story of the human blighted rose that had brought a new faith to her.

Dil seemed to rally before the doctor came. She opened her eyes, and glanced around with the old bright smile.

"It's all queer an' strange like," she said; "but you'm here, an' it's all right. Did I faint away? 'Cause my head feels light an' wavery as it did that Sunday night."

"Yes, you fainted. But you are better now. And the doctor will give you a tonic to help you get well. We all want you to get well."

"I ain't never been sick, 'cept when I was in the hospital, hurted. I only feel tired, for I ain't got no pain anywhere, an' I'll soon get rested. 'Cause I want to go down home an' see _him_. If I _could_ go over to the Square on Sat'day. I 'most know he'll be waitin' for me."

Should she tell the poor child? Oh, was she sure John Travis would come?

He need not see _her_. She had not asked for herself.

The kindly, middle-aged doctor looked in upon them at this moment, accompanied by Miss Mary. Dil smiled with such cheerful brightness that it almost gave the contradiction to her pale face. He sat down beside her, counted her pulse, talked pleasantly until she no longer felt strange, but answered his questions, sometimes with a shade of diffidence when they reflected on her mother's cruelty, but always with a frank sort of innocence. Then he listened to her breathing, heart and lungs, and the spot where the two ribs were broken, "that hadn't ever felt quite good when you rubbed over it," she admitted. He held up her hand, and seemed to study its curious transparency.

"So you are only a little tired? Well, you have done enough to tire one out, and now you must have a good long rest. Will you stay here content?" he asked kindly.

"Everybody's so good!" and her eyes shone with a glad, grateful light.

"But I'd like to go by Sat'day. There's somethin'-Miss Deerin'

knows"-and an expectant smile parted her lips.

"Well, to-day's Thursday, and there's Friday. We'll see about it. I'd like you to stay in bed and be pretty quiet-not worry-"

"I ain't got nothin' to worry 'bout," with her soft little laugh. "It's all come round right, an' what I wanted to know most of all, I c'n know on Sat'day. I kin look out o' the winder and see the trees 'n' the sunshine, an' hear the birds sing. An' everybody speaks so sweet an'

soft to you, like 's if their voices was makin' music. O no, I don't mind, only the children'll want Miss Deerin', and I want her too."

"Your want is the most needful. She shall stay with you."

The brown quartz eyes irradiated with luminous gleams.

"Very well," he said, with an answering smile.

Miss Deering came out in the hall. He shut the door carefully.

"If she wants anything or anybody, let her have it. Keep her generally quiet, and in bed. Though nothing can hurt her very much. It is too late to help or hinder."

"O surely you do not mean"-Miss Deering turned white to the very lips.

"She's as much worn out as a woman of eighty ought to be. If you could look at her, through her, with the eye of science, you would wonder how the machinery keeps going. It is worn to the last thread, and her poor little heart can hardly do its work. Her cheerfulness is in her favor.

But some moment all will stop. There will be little suffering; it _is_ old age, the utter lack of vitality. And she's hardly a dozen years old."

"She is fifteen-yes, I think she is right, though I could hardly believe it at first."

"That poor little thing! I hope with all my soul there is a heaven where the lost youth is made up to these wronged little ones. She has been doing a woman's work on a child's strength."

"O can nothing save her?" cried Virginia Deering, with longing desire.

"For her life might be so happy. She has found friends-"

"It all comes too late. If you should ever be tempted to reason away heaven, think of her and hundreds like her, and what else shall make amends? I will be in again this afternoon," and he turned away abruptly.

He met Miss Mary in the lower hall, and left her amazed at the intelligence. She came up-stairs and found Virginia with her eyes full of tears.

"And I thought last night she looked so improved. It is so sudden, so unexpected."

"How long?" asked Virginia, with a great tremble in her voice.

"Any time, my dear. A day or two, an hour may be. We must keep it from the children. So many have improved, and no one has died. I can't believe it."

"I want to stay with her," the girl said in a low tone.

"We shall be so grateful to you. You young girls are so good to give up your own pleasures, and help us in our work."

Virginia went back quietly. Dil's face was turned toward the window, and she was listening to the children's voices, as they ran around tumultuously.

"They do be havin' such a good time," she said, with a thrill of satisfaction in her tone.