"Come here. I will not hurt you. No one shall hurt you." Either the words, or actual necessity, compelled obedience: the branches parted and out crawled a human figure covered by a coarse horse blanket over the dingy uniform of St. Michael’s. For a moment Jo was not sure whether the stranger were a boy or girl, for a rough boyish cap rested on the head, but when the form rose stiffly, tremblingly she saw it was that of a girl. She was pale and thin, with long braids of hair known as tow-colour, a faintly freckled face, and marvellous eyes. ’Twas the eyes that had caught and held Jo from the start, yellow eyes they were and black fringed. They were like pools in a wintry landscape; pools in which the sunlight was reflected. "I—I am starving to death," said the girl advancing cautiously, slowly. "Sit down and eat, then," commanded Jo, and her throat contracted as it always did when she witnessed suffering. "After you’ve had enough, tell me about yourself." For a few minutes it seemed as if there were not enough food to satisfy the hungry child. She ate, not greedily or disgustingly, but tragically. At last, after a gulp of milk, she leaned back against a tree and gave Jo a grateful, pitiful smile. "And now," said Jo, "where did you come from?" "Over there," a denuded chicken bone pointed toward the Home. "You live there?" "I used to. I ran away last night. I’ve run away many times. They always caught me before." The words were spoken in good, plain English. For this Jo was thankful. French, or the composite, always hampered her. "Where were you last night?" she asked. "Here in the woods." Remembering the manner of night it was, Jo shivered and her face hardened. "Were they cruel to you over there?" she said gruffly. "Do you mean, did they beat me? No, they didn’t beat my body, but they beat something else, something inside of me, all out of shape. They tried to make me into something I am not, something I do not want to be. They, they flattened me out. They were always teaching me, teaching me." There was a comical fierceness in the words. Jo Morey recognized the spirit back of it and set her jaw. "I never saw you at the Home," she said; "I’ve often been there." "They only show the good ones—the ones they can be sure of. I took care of the babies when I wasn’t being punished, locked up, you know. You see, I learned and could teach." "They locked you up?" Mam’selle and the child were being drawn close by ties that neither understood. "Yes, to keep me from running away. You’re not going to tell them about me, are you?" The wonderful eyes seemed searching Jo’s very soul. "No. But where are you going?" "I’m, I’m looking for someone." As she spoke the light vanished from the yellow eyes, a blankness spread over the pale, thin face. "Looking for whom?" "I do not know." "What is your name?" Jo was struck by the change in the girl, she had become listless, dull.