Martha White thrust her handkerchief up her sleeve, cleared her throat, and straightened her wide and rustling apron. "She's been trying to tell me all day that she didn't want Nora to be put in an orphan asylum, and yet there's nobody to take her. All her people are too poor to add another child to their families." She came closer and lowered her voice that it might reach no one but me, and with her shoulders made movement toward the bed, with her hands to the man and woman still close together in tearless silence in the corner. "You know how people like that are. They judge everything by the few cases that come within their knowledge, and--" "Most of us do. What does she know about asylums that prejudices her so?" "Little, except she's come across some girls who came out of them who have gone wrong, and she thinks it's because they were kept too shut off from outside life, and told too little of temptations and real truths and--and things like that. What she means is that she thinks those who manage asylums and homes try to keep the girls innocent through ignorance, and when they're turned out to go to work they don't understand the dangers that are ahead. Some grown-ups forget that young people crave young ways and pretty things and good times, and that they've got to be taught about what they don't understand." "Little Etta--Etta Blake was an orphan. She was like a bird--in a cage. When she--got out-- If only--they had--told her--" The voice from the bed was strangely stronger, and the fingers, still twisted into mine, made feeble pressure. I leaned closer. "Where is she? Where is Etta Blake? Where can I find her?" "You can't find her. It's--too late. We worked--at the same place--once. And I tried--to make-- But she said--it was--too late." The gasping voice trailed wearily and the face, turning from me, lay still upon the pillow. Presently I saw Miss White start and come closer. The short, quick breath had stopped. At Mrs. Mundy's front door Selwyn, holding the sleeping child in his arms, looked at me. "What are you going to do with her?" His voice was uncertain, but in it there was not the disapproval I had expected from the telling of my promise to Mrs. Cotter. "You can't keep her, can you?" I shook my head. "She mustn't stay in town. The doctor says her case is too advanced to be arrested, and the only thing that can be done is to make her as comfortable and happy as possible until she--can go--to her mother. I don't know what is best to be done. I must be near enough to see her every now and then. Mr. Guard will tell me what to do. Whenever I don't know I ask him. He always helps me." "Are you never to ask me to--help you?" Selwyn's voice was low, but from his eyes was no escape, and as the light from the door which I had opened with my latch-key fell upon his face I saw it flush--saw in it what I had never seen before.