When she had finished at the sink and tidied the room, she took the lamp and went into the small hall at the rear, and mounted the steep stairs. At the top she paused and fitted a key and entered a low room. She put down the lamp and crossed to the door on the other side--and listened. The sound of low breathing came lightly to her, and her face relaxed. She came back to the bureau, looking down thoughtfully at the coarse towel that covered it, and the brush and comb and tray of matches. There was nothing else on the bureau. But on a little bracket at the side the picture of a young girl, with loose, full lips and bright eyes, looked out from a great halo of pompadour--with the half-wistful look of youth. The mother’s eyes returned to the picture and her keen face softened.... She must save Mollie--and the child in the next room--she must save them both.... She listened to the child again, breathing beyond the open door. She looked again at the picture, with hungry eyes. Her own child--her Mollie--had never had a chance--she had loved gay things--and there was no money--always hard work and wet feet and rough, pushing cars.... No wonder she had gone wrong! But she would come back now. There would be money enough--and they would go away--together. Twenty-five thousand dollars. She looked long at the pitiful, weak, pictured face and blew out the light and crept into bed.... And in the next room the child’s even breathing came and went... and, at intervals, across it in the darkness, another sound--the woman’s quick, indrawn breath that could not rest. XXX ASLEEP In the morning the woman was up with the first light. And as the men came grumbling in to breakfast, the round face wore its placid smile. They joked her and ate hastily and departed for the open field. It was part of a steady policy--to be always in the open, busy, hard-working men who could not afford to lose an hour. The excursion had been a quick, restless revolt--against weeks of weeding and planting and digging.... But they had had their lesson. They were not likely to stir from their strip of market garden on the plain--not till the time was up. As the woman went about her work, she listened, and stopped and went to the door--for some sound from upstairs. Presently she went up and opened the door... and looked in. The child lay with one hand thrown above her head--a drawn look in the softly arched brow and half-parted lips. The woman bent over her, listening--and placed her hand on the small wrist and counted--waiting. The eyes flashed open--and looked at her. “I thought you were Nono,” said the child. A wistful look filled her face and her lip quivered a little--out of it--and steadied itself. “You are Mrs. Seabury,” she said quietly. “Yes,” said the woman cheerfully. “Time to get up, dearie.” She turned away and busied herself with the clothes hanging from their hooks. The child’s eyes followed her--dully. “I don’t think I care to get up,” she said at last.