“Oh, Lois,” said Dosia, half weeping. “Oh, Lois, what can _you_ do? There, you’ve waked the baby—he’s crying.” “Get me the waist to this skirt and my walking-jacket. No, give me the baby first; he’s hungry.” She spoke collectedly, bending over the child as she held him to her, and straightening the folds of the little garments. “There, there, dear little heart, dear little heart, mother’s comfort—oh, my comfort, my blessing! Get my things out of the closet now, Dosia, and my gloves from that drawer, the top one. Oh, and bring me baby’s cloak and cap, too. I forgot that I couldn’t leave him. I must take him with me.” She had sunk her voice to a low murmur, so as not to disturb the child. “Where are you going?” asked Dosia. “To Eugene Larue.” “Mr. Larue!” “Yes. He’ll let me have the money—he’ll understand. He wouldn’t let Justin have it, but he’ll give it to me—if I’m not too proud to ask for it; and I’m not too proud.” She spoke in a tone the more thrilling for its enforced calm. “There are things a man will do for a woman, when he won’t for a man because then he has to be businesslike; but he doesn’t have to be businesslike to a woman—he can lend to her just because she needs it.” “Lois!” “Oh, there’s many a woman—like me—who always knows, even though she never acts on the knowledge, that there is some man she could go to for help, and get it, just because she was _herself_—a woman and in trouble—just for that! Dosia, if I go to Eugene Larue myself in trouble—_such_ trouble——” “But he’s out at Collingswood!” said Dosia, bewildered. “Yes, I know. The train leaves here at seven-thirty, it connects at Haledon. It only takes three quarters of an hour to get to the place; I’ve looked it up in the time-table. I’ll be back here again by ten o’clock. I——” She stopped with a sudden intense motion of listening, then put the child from her and ran across the hall to the opposite room. When she came back, pale and collected, it was to say: “Justin’s gone to sleep now. The doctor says he will be under the influence of the anodynes until morning. Mrs. Bently is in there—I sent for her; she says she’ll stay until I get back.” Mrs. Bently was a woman of the plainer class, half nurse, half friend, capable and kind. “If the children wake up they won’t be afraid with her; but you’ll be here, anyway.” “Leave the baby with me,” implored Dosia. “No, I can’t—suppose I were detained? _Then_ I’d go crazy! He won’t be any bother, he’s so little and so light.” “Very well, then; I’ll go, too,” stated Dosia in desperation. “I am not needed here. You must have some one with you if you have baby! Let me go, Lois! You _must!_” “Oh, very well, if you like,” responded Lois indifferently. But that the suggestion was an unconscious relief to her she showed the next moment, as she gave some directions to Dosia, who put a few necessaries and some biscuits in a little hand-bag, and an extra blanket for the baby if it grew chilly.