There was little doubt now in Mam’selle’s mind but that the fantastic conclusions she had drawn during the strenuous hours of illness were mere figments and not to be relied upon. They could all be easily explained, no doubt. Poor Jo! But, no matter what she was to hear, and undoubtedly it would be most prosaic, she meant to keep the girl even if she had to threaten in order to do so! She, plain, unlovable Jo Morey, had developed a sudden and violent fancy for the girl she had rescued. Jo was almost ashamed of her emotions, but she could not, inwardly, control them. Outwardly, she might scowl and glower, but her heart beat quick at the touch of the girl’s hands, her colour rose at the tones of the low voice; some women are thus moved by little children. Jo, repressed and suppressed, was like a delicate instrument upon which her own starved maternal instinct now played riotously. She was led to the bare little reception room of the Home and left to her own devices while a small maid scurried away to summon the Sister in charge. Alone, Jo sat on the edge of a hard chair and tried to believe that she was prepared for anything—or nothing, but all the time she was getting more and more agitated. When things were at the tensest she always looked the sternest, so when Sister Angela entered the room, she was rather taken aback by the face Mam’selle turned toward her soft greeting. Sister Angela was the older of the two nuns who had questioned Jo while the lost girl lay hidden under the straw in the cart that first day. "Ah, it’s Mam’selle Morey! A good day to you, Mam’selle." "Have you found that girl yet?" bluntly spoke Jo. The manner and question took the Sister off her guard. "Oh! the girl! I remember, Mam’selle. We met you while we were looking for her. The child is quite safe, thank you. We have long wanted to find a good home for her." "So you found her?" Mam’selle was struggling with the fragments of French at her command and making poor work with them. The Sister pretended not to understand. "The girl," Jo was losing what little control she had, "is over at my house; she’s been terribly ill." Sister Angela’s face grew ashy and she drew her chair close. "And now?" she whispered. "She’s going to get well." Jo settled back. "And—and she has talked? She had an illness here once, the physician told us another shock might restore her memory. That sometimes does happen. Mam’selle, the girl has remembered and—talked?" "She’s talked, yes!" Jo was groping along. "I want her story, Sister." "What is there to tell, Mam’selle?" Sister Angela took a chance. "We always give the sinning mothers an hour in which to consider whether they will keep their children or not. We try to make them see their duty, if they will not, we assume it. And the past is dead. You know our way here, we do the best we can for the children. ’Tis wiser to forget—much." "Sister Angela, I said the girl talked and she remembered!"