The word acted as a stimulant. “They’d run me in, vagrant, suicide,” she muttered. “What did you stop me for? I’ll get it yet.” Slowly, Tom supporting the woman with his hands under her arms, disgust and anger on his face, while Cis walked behind, occasionally steadying the wavering figure by a hand upon her spine, they reached the confines of the small park. Cis hailed a cab; they bundled the woman into it, and Cis gave the driver his order. “To the House of the Good Shepherd,” she said. Then she added herself to the strange party, and the cab started. “The Sisters won’t thank us, perhaps,” muttered Tom. “Surely they will! There’s no bound to their charity, and no bound to hope, except death,” cried Cis. “She is desperately ill.” “Dissipation, dope, exposure, why wouldn’t she be ill?” growled Tom. “It’s a great combination for you to hitch up to, Cis.” “I don’t know. My guardian angel hitches up to me, and there’s more difference between me and an angel, than between this woman and me. Are you comfortable? Do you hear me speaking to you?” Cis asked. “I hear. I heard. I don’t want to go to the Sisters; I want to die, die, die! I’ve had enough,” the woman aroused herself to say. “Poor soul, I’m sorry!” Cis’s voice was as sweet as Nan’s when she comforted her baby. “I think you’ll be glad that we found you. Why, you’re quite young, and you were pretty!” “Pretty! Yes, that’s so. I’m twenty-eight or nine; I don’t know--” the quavering voice trailed into silence. “Do you remember your name? Will you tell it to me, so I can call you by it?” said Cis. “Lots of names, lots of names; plenty names. Here I’m Pearl Molineaux. Out in ’Frisco I was Carmin Casanova. Giddy Gay--that was somewhere else; I forget. Home in Chicago I was Myrtle Moore; that’s while I was married,” the woman said, speaking slowly. “Chicago!” “Myrtle Moore?” Cicely’s heart gave a great leap, then stood still. Could it be? She was sure that it was! She was sure that it had been given her to save from suicide Rodney’s wife. She bent down over the woman who had sagged low in the seat of the taxicab. “You are the wife of George Rodney Moore?” she asked. “No. Divorced. Rod and I were divorced,” she said. “Oh, God help me!” Cis murmured, and Tom was frightened by the pallor of her face. “Oh, God, I’ll try! Please, help me! Help her; help me to help her!” The cab stopped at the door of that beneficent house wherein stainless women welcome within their consecrated walls the outcasts whose stains of soul their pure hands labor to remove; wherein the virgin servants of the Good Shepherd carry back to Him His lost black sheep. Myrtle Moore was reluctant to enter that portal, but her strength was spent, her will too enfeebled by illness to resist anyone who decided for her and forcibly executed their decisions.