The latter examined the bottle they had been trying to persuade little Doris to accept. It was modern and extremely sanitary. Mollie inspected it and put it contemptuously aside. "She knowed it wa'n't hern," she remarked, with great dignity. "I reckon she wanted this'n," and to Harris Wayne's horror she took from out its newspaper wrappings the corn liquor relic, partially filled with a lacteal fluid evidently procured by some kindly policeman from the open can of a delicatessen store, and, after first testing the milk herself, placed the improvised rubber top of the bottle in his child's mouth. The baby accepted it with gurgles of joy. The child's nurse cried out in horror. Mollie sniffed. "She doan know nawthin' 'bout babies," she remarked, of the nurse. "She hain't hed th' sperience I've hed." Neither Wayne nor Mollie knew that down at police headquarters, securely locked in the safe, were papers that told of Mollie's family and the fortune, rightfully hers, that was invested through his own bank and remitted in monthly sums, supposedly for her education and maintenance, through the medium of a woman connected with a fashionable private school. Mollie's story had been corroborated. Bailey's sister had confessed. CHAPTER XXIX REUNION "Our soul is escaped as a bird out of the snare of the fowlers; the snare is broken and we are delivered."--Ps. cxxiv, 7 Mollie had been up all of the night previous preparing for that hazardous day through which she and the children had just passed. She had eaten scarcely anything until she arrived at the police station where the kind policeman had sent to a restaurant and had food brought in for them all. Never in their recollection had the children seen so much food at one time. They ate ravenously and were already dozing in their chairs before the matron came to take them to their beds. But Mollie had fought off sleep, or it may have been that sheer excitement kept her awake, until after her arrival at the Wayne home. There, sitting in a comfortable chair, for the first time in her recollection, with little Doris dropping contentedly to sleep in her arms, Mollie found her own head nodding every now and then, and her eyes closing in spite of her efforts to keep them open. She was only a child, herself, yet she had performed a feat of heroism that day which was the culmination of long years of daily sacrifice of her own comfort that little children might be succored and comforted. Now, tired nature was beginning to assert itself by demanding rest and sleep. As Harris Wayne sat watching the ragged, lonely little girl who had so nobly and unhesitatingly risked her life to save his baby daughter his heart smote him with the realization of his own selfishness. The thought that sickened him--made him feel mean and small--was that he, with all his wealth and education was, little better than Grimes.