“Why, easily enough,” said the Angel. “I thought you'd understand. People that can afford anything at all, always buy white for little new babies--linen and lace, and the very finest things to be had. There's a young woman living near us who cut up her wedding clothes to have fine things for her baby. Mothers who love and want their babies don't buy little rough, ready-made things, and they don't run up what they make on an old sewing machine. They make fine seams, and tucks, and put on lace and trimming by hand. They sit and stitch, and stitch--little, even stitches, every one just as careful. Their eyes shine and their faces glow. When they have to quit to do something else, they look sorry, and fold up their work so particularly. There isn't much worth knowing about your mother that those little clothes won't tell. I can see her putting the little stitches into them and smiling with shining eyes over your coming. Freckles, I'll wager you a dollar those little clothes of yours are just alive with the dearest, tiny handmade stitches.” A new light dawned in Freckles' eyes. A tinge of warm color swept into his face. Renewed strength was noticeable in his grip of her hands. “Oh Angel! Will you go now? Will you be hurrying?” he cried. “Right away,” said the Angel. “I won't stop for a thing, and I'll hurry with all my might.” She smoothed his pillow, straightened the cover, gave him one steady look in the eyes, and went quietly from the room. Outside the door, McLean and the surgeon anxiously awaited her. McLean caught her shoulders. “Angel, what have you done?” he demanded. The Angel smiled defiance into his eyes. “'What have I done?'” she repeated. “I've tried to save Freckles.” “What will your father say?” groaned McLean. “It strikes me,” said the Angel, “that what Freckles said would be to the point.” “Freckles!” exclaimed McLean. “What could he say?” “He seemed to be able to say several things,” answered the Angel sweetly. “I fancy the one that concerns you most at present was, that if my father should offer me to him he would not have me.” “And no one knows why better than I do,” cried McLean. “Every day he must astonish me with some new fineness.” He turned to the surgeon. “Save him!” he commanded. “Save him!” he implored. “He is too fine to be sacrificed.” “His salvation lies here,” said the surgeon, stroking the Angel's sunshiny hair, “and I can read in the face of her that she knows how she is going to work it out. Don't trouble for the boy. She will save him!” The Angel laughingly sped down the hall, and into the street, just as she was. “I have come,” she said to the matron of the Home, “to ask if you will allow me to examine, or, better yet, to take with me, the little clothes that a boy you called Freckles, discharged last fall, wore the night he was left here.” The woman looked at her in greater astonishment than the occasion demanded.