"Oh, my God!" Little red spots of rage flamed in her thin cheeks and she struck her hands together. "Can't they leave me alone? I've told 'em I won't talk any more. I've told 'em my mind's made up for keeps. But they keep at me and _keep_ at me!" Jane stood still. "I know I haven't any right here," she said, distressedly, "and I know you don't want me." The girl scrambled to her feet and went to the bureau where she stood pulling and patting at her hair. "What'd you come for, then?" She muttered it under her breath, but Jane caught the words. "Well, if you know Michael Daragh, you must know that when he asks you to do a thing, even a hard one, you--just do it!" Ethel did not comment or turn her head and Jane found the sense of drama which had borne her so buoyantly up the stairs deserting her. She wanted to go out of that drab room and down those drab stairs and out of that drab house forever, but she resolutely forced herself to cross the room and bent down beside the giddy little red chair. "Why do you call her Billiken?" "Can't you see?" It was curt and sullen, not at all the tone for an Unfortunate Girl to employ toward a young lady anointed with the oil of joy. "She grins just like the Billikens do. Ever since she was a teenty thing." She gave her caller a long, rebellious stare. "You don't look like a nurse or a Do-gooder." "I'm not," said Jane promptly. "I'm merely Michael Daragh's fr----" She broke off, catching herself up. Well, now, was she? His friend, after a few weeks of slenderest acquaintance? She had a feeling that the grave Irishman had obeyed the command to come apart and be separate. Rodney Harrison was a warm and tangible friend, but this stern and single-purposed person--"Michael Daragh asked me to talk with you," she said, sitting down beside the baby. "I'd love to feed her. May I?" "No!" Ethel swooped down on her child, jealously snatching up the bowl. "Not when it's my last chance!" She leveled a spoonful and held it to the widely grinning Billiken. "Come! Gobble--gobble! Eat for poor Muddie!" A wave of self-pity went visibly over her and she held her head down to keep Jane from seeing her tears. "I don't see how you can bear to give her up." "D'you s'pose I want to?" she snarled it, savagely. Here was maternity, parenthood, another breed than that of the Teddy-bear's hot, pink nursery. Jane picked up the baby's stubby little hand and patted it. "Then, why do you?" Ethel's face flamed, but she looked her inquisitor more fully in the eye than she had done at any time before. "Because--Jerry! _Jerry!_ That's why." "Oh ... I see. You care more for him than for your baby?" Now there came into the childish face a look of shrewd and calculating wisdom. "I can--I _could_--have other babies, but I couldn't ever have another--_him_!" Strength here, of a sort, it appeared, in this Weak Sister.