"Steve! Here’s a kind gentleman come to see you. Dry your hands, dearie, and come and thank him." A grey-eyed child appeared—one of those slender little shapes, graceful in every unconscious movement of head and limbs. She was drying her thin red fingers on a bit of rag as she came forward, the steam of the wash-boiler still rising from her bare arms. A loud, continuous noise arose in the further room, as though it were full of birds and animals fighting. For a moment the tension of inquiry and embarrassment between the three endured in silence; then an odd, hot flush seemed to envelop the heart of Cleland Senior—and something tense within his brain loosened, flooding his entire being with infinite relief. The man had been starving for a child; that was all. He had suddenly found her. But he didn’t realize it even now. There was a shaky chair in the exceedingly clean but wretchedly furnished room. Cleland Senior went over and seated himself gingerly. "Well, Steve?" he said with a pleasant, humourous smile. But his voice was not quite steady. "Thank the good, kind gentleman!" burst out Mrs. Schmidt, beginning to sob again, and to swab the welling tears with the mottled backs of both fists. "You’re going to stay with us, dearie. They ain’t no policeman coming to take you to no institoot for orphan little girls! The good, kind gentleman has give the money for it. Go down onto your knees and thank him, Steve——!" "Are you really going to _keep_ me?" faltered the child. "Is it _true_?" "Yes, it’s true, dearie. Don’t go a-kissing me! Go and thank the good, kind——" "Let me talk to the child alone," interrupted Cleland drily. "And shut the door, please!"—glancing into the farther room where a clothes-boiler steamed, onions were frying, five yelling children swarmed over every inch of furniture, a baby made apocryphal remarks from a home-made cradle, and a canary bird sang shrilly and incessantly. Mrs. Schmidt retired, sobbing, extolling the goodness and kindness of John Cleland, who endured it with patience until the closed door shut out eulogies, yells, canary and onions. Then he said: "Steve, you need not thank me. Just shake hands with me. Will you? I—I like children." The little girl, whose head was still turned toward the closed door behind which had disappeared the only woman who had ever been consistently kind to her, now looked around at this large, strange man in his fur-lined coat, who sat there smiling at her in such friendly fashion. And slowly, timidly, over the child’s face the faintest of smiles crept in delicate response to his advances. Yet still in the wonderful grey eyes there remained that heart-rending expression of fearful inquiry which haunts the gaze of children who have been cruelly used. "Is your name Stephanie?" "Yes, sir." "Stephanie Quest?" "Yes, sir." "What shall I call you? Steve?" "Yes, sir," winningly grave. "All right, then. Steve, will you shake hands?"