The matron bridled a little. She was a pallid, tired woman with skeptical eyes. "Well, I'm sure that's very kind of her but I'm afraid it's no use. I've just come down from talking to her, nearly all her noon hour. She wouldn't go to the table. She's turned sullen, now. She won't take any interest in the Christmas preparations; wouldn't help the girls a bit." She sighed and looked at a table cluttered with paper paraphernalia for holiday decorations. In her world of bleak realities the tinsel trimmings for _fete_ days left her cold. "I declare, Mr. Daragh, I believe we've worried with her long enough. I've about made up my mind that we'd better tell the young man ourselves and have done with it. I believe it's our duty." "It's her right," said Michael Daragh. "But, if she won't? They're planning to be married Monday, and Irene's coming to-day to take Billiken away with her." "Let Jane Vail be trying her hand. Will you come up to her now?" He strode out of the room and Jane followed him, smiling back at Mrs. Richards with a deprecatory shake of her head. She wished the matron could know how much of an intruder she felt. But once out of the severe little office, mounting the stairs after Michael Daragh, her usual vivid sense of drama came back to her. This was, after all, what she had left the snug harbor for and put out to sea. This was better than tea with Sarah Farraday in the "studio"--than "little gatherings of the young people,"--than walking home with Marty Wetherby--than laughing painstakingly at the jokes of Teddy-bear's father. This was life more abundantly. It didn't even matter that the grave Irishman took so for granted her dedication to this obscure girl's need. That had been very nice ... about the oil of joy. "Here's where she'll be," he said, pausing at a closed door, "feeding her child." "I'll do what I can," said Jane, lifting a look of girded resolve. "I know that, surely," said Michael Daragh, knocking for her. CHAPTER VI "Going for eighteen," he had said, but even that had not prepared Jane for the poignant youth of the girl. She looked a child, in her shrunken middy blouse, her fair hair hanging about her eyes. She was sitting on the floor, urging bread and milk on a fat and gurgling baby in a little red chair. She did not look up at first, but went on speaking to the child. "Please, Billiken, eat for Muddie! Billiken--when it's the last time Muddie'll ever have to feed you? Take it quick or Muddie'll give it to the kitty-cat!" "Ethel?" Jane closed the door softly and came toward her. The other eyed her defensively and she tried to tidy her hair with hands that shook. On the left was a tiny, pinhead solitaire. "I am Michael Daragh's friend, Ethel. He asked me to talk with you."