Glory's walk and heavy burden had exhausted her and, almost unconsciously, she let Bonny Angel slip from her arms to the door-step where she stood. There the child lay, flushed and motionless, in a sleep which nothing disturbed, though hitherto she had wakened at any call. Now, though in remorse at her own carelessness, Take-a-Stitch bent over the little one and begged her pardon most earnestly, the baby gave no sign of hearing and slumbered on with her face growing a deeper red and her breath beginning to come in a way that recalled the old captain's snores. "What shall I do now?" cried poor Glory, aloud, looking around over the wide country, so unlike the crowded Lane, and seeing no shelter anywhere at which she dared again apply. Some buildings there were, behind and removed from the cottage; but they were so like that inhospitable structure in color and design that she felt their indwellers would also be the same. "Oh, I wish I hadn't come all that way over the grass," said poor Glory. "If we'd stayed by them car-rails, likely we'd have come somewhere that there was houses--different. And, Bonny Angel, sweetest, preciousest, darlingest one, do please, please, wake up and walk yourself just a little, teeny, tiny bit. Then, when I get rested a mite, I'll carry you again, 'cause we've got to go, you see. That Timothy was mistook an' his sister's husband's cousin won't let us in." Yet even while her back was toward it, as she contemplated the landscape pondering which way lay her road, the door again suddenly opened and Mary Fogarty announced, shrilly, but not unkindly: "There's the wagon-house. You can rest there a spell, seein' you was simple enough to lug that hefty young one clear across the meadder. It's that third one, where the big door stands open an' the stone-boat is." Glory faced about, her face at once radiant with gratitude, and its effect upon the cottage mistress was to further soften her asperity, so that though she again ejaculated that contemptuous "Huh!" it was in a milder tone; and, with something like interest she demanded, "How long 's that baby been that feverish she is now? She looks 's if she was comin' down with somethin' catchin'. Best get her home, soon 's you can, sissy. She ain't fit to be runnin' round loose." Poor little Bonny Angel didn't look much like "running loose" at present, and as for "home," the word brought an intolerable feeling to Glory's heart, making the sunny fields before her to seem like prison walls that yet had a curious sort of wobble to them, as if they were dancing up and down in a wild way. But that was because she regarded them now through a mist of tears she could not repress, while visions of a shadowy Lane, whose very gloom would have been precious to her on that hot day, obtruded themselves upon the scene.