"I--would go back to--my man!"

"You mean that--as truly as G.o.d hears you?--you mean that, Nella-Rose?"

"Yes. But lil' Ann?"

Now that she had made the great decision about Truedale, there was still "lil' Ann."

Lynda fought for mastery over the dread thing that was forcing its way into her consciousness. Then something Nella-Rose was saying caught her fevered thought.

"When I was a lil' child I used to dream that some day I would do a mighty big thing--maybe this is it. I don't want to hurt his life and--yours; I couldn't hurt my man and--and--the babies waiting back there for me. But--lil' Ann!"

The name came like a sob. And somehow Lynda thought of Burke Lawson!

Burke, who had done his strong best, and still could not keep himself in control because of--lil' Ann! The helpless baby was--oh! yes, yes--it was Truedale's responsibility. If she, Lynda, were to keep her life--her sacred love--she, too, must do a "big thing"--perhaps the biggest a woman is ever called upon to do--to prove her faith.

For another moment she struggled; then, like a blind woman, she stretched out her hands and laid them upon the child.

"Nella-Rose, will you give--_me_ little Ann?"

"Give her--to--you?" There was anguish, doubt, but hope, in the words.

"I want--the child! She shall have her father--her father's home--his love, G.o.d willing! And I, Nella-Rose, as I hope for G.o.d's mercy, I will do my duty by little Ann."

And now Lynda was on the floor beside the shabby pair, shielding them as best she could from the last wrench and renunciation.

"Are you doing this for--for your man?" whispered Nella-Rose.

"Yes. For my--man!" They looked long into each other's eyes. Then solemnly, slowly, Nella-Rose relinquished her hold of the child.

"I--give you--lil' Ann." So might she have spoken if, in religious fervour, she had been resigning her child to death. "I--I--give you lil'

Ann." Gently she kissed the sleeping face and laid her burden in the aching, strained arms that had still to learn their tender lesson of bearing. Ann opened her eyes, her lips quivered, and she turned to her mother.

"Take--lil' Ann!" she pleaded. Then Nella-Rose drank deep of the bitter cup, but she smiled--and spoke one of the lies over which angels have wept forgivingly since the world began.

"Lil' Ann, the kind lady is going to keep yo' right safe and happy 'til mother makes things straight back there with--with yo'--father, in the hills. Jes' yo' show the lady how sweet and pretty yo' can be 'til mother comes fo' yo'! Will yo'--lil' Ann?"

"How long?"

"A mighty lil' while."

All her life the child had given up--shrunk from that which she feared but did not understand; and now she accepted it all in the dull, hopeless way in which timid children do. She received her mother's kiss--gave a kiss in return; then she looked gloomily, distrustingly, at Lynda. After that she seemed complacent and obeyed, almost stupidly, whatever she was told to do.

Lynda took Nella-Rose to the station, saw to her every comfort, put a sum of money in her hand with the words:

"You must take it, Nella-Rose--to prove your trust in me; and it will buy some--some things for--the other babies. But"--and here she went close to Nella-Rose, realizing for the first time that the most difficult part, for her, was yet to come--"how will it be with--with your man--when he knows?"

Nella-Rose looked up bravely and something crept into her eyes--the look of power that only a woman who recognizes her hold on a man ever shows.

"He'll bear it--right grateful--and it'll wipe away the hate for Jed Martin. He'll do the forgiving--since I've given up lil' Ann; and if he doubts--there's Miss Lois Ann. She's mighty powerful with men--when it's women that matters."

"It's very wonderful!" murmured Lynda. "More wonderful than I can understand." And yet as she spoke she knew that she _did_ understand.

Between her and Burke Lawson, a man she was never to know, there was a common tie--a deep comprehension.

Late that afternoon Lynda drove to Betty's with little Ann sitting rigidly on the seat beside her. The child had not spoken since she had seen the train move out of the station bearing her mother away. She had not cried or murmured. She had gone afterward, holding Lynda's hand, through amazing experiences. She had seen her shabby garments discarded in dazzling shops, and fine apparel replace them. Once she had caught a glimpse of her small, transformed self in a long mirror and her dark eyes had widened. That was all. Lynda had watched her feverishly. She had hoped that with the change of clothing the startling likeness would lessen, but it did not. Robed in the trappings of her father's world, little Ann seemed to become more wholly his.

"Do you like yourself, little Ann?" Lynda had asked when, at last, a charming hat was placed upon the dark curls.

There was no word of reply--only the wide, helpless stare--and, to cover her confusion, Lynda hurried away to Betty.

The maid who admitted her said that "Mrs. Kendall was upstairs in the nursery with the baby."

Lynda paused on the stairs and asked blankly: "The baby? What baby?"

The maid was a trusted one and close to Betty.

"The little boy from the Home, Mrs. Truedale," she replied, "and already the house is cheerfuller."

Lynda felt a distinct disappointment. She had hoped that Betty would care for little Ann for a few days, but how could she ask it of her now?

In the sunny room upstairs Betty sat in a low rocker, crooning away to a restless bundle in her arms.

"You, Lyn?" Lynda stood in the doorway; Betty's back was to her.

"Yes, Betty."

"Come and see my red-headed boy--my Bobilink! He's going to be Robert Kendall."

Then Lynda drew near with Ann. Betty stopped rocking and confronted the two with her far-reaching, strangely penetrating gaze.

"What a beautiful little girl," she whispered.

"Is she beautiful, Betty?"

"She's--lovely. Come here, dear, and see my baby." Betty put forth a welcoming hand to the child, but Ann shrank away and her long silence was broken.

"I jes' naturally hate babies!" she whispered, in the soft drawl that betrayed her.

"Lyn, who is she? Why--what is the matter?"

Lynda came close and her words did not reach past Betty's strained hearing. "I--I'm going to--adopt her. I--I must prepare, Con. I hoped you'd keep her for a few days."

"Of course I will, Lyn. I'm ready--but Lyn, tell me!"

"Betty, look at her! She has come out of--of Con's past. He doesn't know, he mustn't know--not now! She belongs to--to the future. Can you--can you understand? I never suspected until to-day. I've got to get used to it!" Then, fiercely: "But I'm going to do it, Betty! Con's road is my road; his duty my duty; it's all right--only just at first--I've got to--steady my nerves!"

Without a word Betty rose and laid the now-sleeping baby in a crib; then she came back to the low chair and opened her arms to little Ann with the heaven-given gesture that no child resists--especially a suffering, lonely child.

"Come here, little girl, to--to Aunt Betty," she said.

Fascinated, Ann walked to the shelter offered.