essenger to make
special arrangements for conveyance, in case you should desire this."

"Major Henry, I forgot. I cannot; I have no money."

"Ah, but you can and must. It is arranged."

"And I do not know the way. I was never from the Basin."

"I am going with you. In my country high ladies travel with a servant,
thus. Get what rest you can and be ready at four. They will take good
care of little Gurd while you are gone."

"Some time," said Vesty, on the morrow, "when Gurd is a little older,
and I can take him away somewhere where I can earn wages, I can pay
you, Major Henry. They want me now--his mother wants me, somehow, I
know."

"You are safe to think that."

"My clothes are not like theirs," said Vesty quietly, when we came at
night more and more into the throngs of civilized life. "Do you mind?
I knew that I should not be dressed like them."

"In my country high ladies wear what they will."

She gave a low, perplexed laugh, looking at me with curious sorrow for
my hallucinations.

"But I am only Vesty."

"Surely. But you remind me so of a lady."

At least Vesty travelled as a princess might. I brought her the long
and devious journey swiftly, with as little fatigue as possible: but it
was late at night when we mounted the steps of the Garrison town
residence; the house was all alight.

Mrs. Garrison brushed past the servant at the door.

"Vesty Rafe! I knew it was you. I knew you would come, somehow,
child." She drew her in, and fell on her neck, weeping.

"He is dying?" murmured Vesty then, with cold lips.

"He has not spoken since the shock. He does not know us; but it may be
he will know you! Come!"

Servants from the doorways of the wide, rich hall were staring
strangely at Vesty and at me. Vesty turned to me now, to consider me.

I gave her the warning look. "I came to show Vesty the way," I said in
simple Basin speech. "I will go to my hotel. I will call."

The girl's sad eyes looked reproach at me, but she obeyed me.

"Wait," she said then; "I want to speak with Major Henry." She came to
me in the door.

"When will you come back?" she murmured, low.

"I will call in the morning."

"You will come?" A strange abandoned distress was in her eyes, as of a
child lost in crowded city ways.

"Vesty!"

She turned, chidden, but with a sort of wilful content.

My heart bounded as I limped down the steps. I smiled to myself, safe
in the dark, sardonically. Make w