“Oh, my God!” cried Lena; “I was singin’ in that--in there--to-night. They’re always after me to sing ’em into damnation.” “Lena,” said Bayard in a thrilling tone, “look into my face!” She obeyed him. High above her short stature Bayard’s delicate countenance looked down at the girl. All the loathing, all the horror, all the repulsion that was in him for the sin he suffered the sinner to see for the first time. His tender face darkened and quivered, shrinking like some live thing that she tormented. “Oh,” wailed Lena, “am I like _that_--to you? Is it as bad as _that_?” “It is as bad as that,” answered the minister solemnly. “Then I’ll go drown,” said Lena dully; “I might as well.” “No,” he said quietly. “You will not drown. You will live, and make yourself a girl whom I can respect.” “Would you _ever_ respect me--_respect_ ME, if I was to be--if I was to do what you say?” asked Lena in a low, controlled tone. “I should respect you from my soul,” said Bayard. “Would you--would you be willing to--would you feel ashamed to shake hands with me, Mr. Bayard,--if I was a different girl?” “I will shake hands with you now,” returned the minister quietly, “if you will give me your word of honor that you will never, from this hour”-- “I will never, from this hour, so help me God!” said Lena solemnly. “So help her, God!” echoed Bayard. He lifted his hand above her head, as if in prayer and blessing; then gently extended it. The girl’s cold, purple fingers shook as he touched them. She held her bare hand up in the moonlight, as if to bathe it in whiteness. “Mr. Bayard, sir,” she said in her ordinary voice, “it is a bargain.” Bayard winced, in spite of himself, at the words; but he looked at Lena’s face, and when he saw its expression he felt ashamed of his own recoil. “Very well,” he answered, adopting her business-like tone, “so it is. Now, then, Lena! What next? What are you going to do? Have you any home--any friends--anywhere to turn?” “I have no friend on all God’s earth but you, sir,” said Lena drearily, “but I guess I’ll manage, somehow. I can mostly do what I set out to.” “Your mother?” asked Bayard gently. “She died when my baby was born, sir. She died of the shame of it. I was fifteen year old.” “_Oh!_ and the--the man? The father of your child?” “He was a gentleman. He was a married man. I worked for him, in a shop. _He_ ain’t dead. But I’d sooner go to hell than look to him.” “I’d about as soon you would”--the minister said in his heart. But his lips answered only,--“You poor girl! You poor, poor, miserable girl!” Then, for the first time, Lena broke down, and began to cry, there, on the streets, in the sight of every one. “I must find you work--shelter--home--with some lady. I will do whatever _can_ be done. Rely on me!” cried Bayard helplessly.