e bent above her--easily holding her with his hands. Nothing
that she said could reach him--nothing. She realized why the Young Doctor
had wanted her to leave the Settlement House before any of her dreams had
been shattered, before her faith in mankind had been abused! She realized
why, at times, he had hurt her, and with the realization came the
knowledge that she wanted him, desperately, at that minute--that he, out
of all the people in the world, was the one that her heart was calling to
in her time of need. She wanted his strength, his protection.

Once before, earlier in the afternoon, she had realized that there was
much of the cat in Jim. Now she realized it again, with a new sense of
fear and dislike. For Jim was not claiming the kiss that he wanted, in a
straight-forward way--he was holding her gloatingly, as a cat tortures a
mouse. He was letting her know, without words, that she was utterly
helpless--that he could kiss her when he wanted to, and not until he
wanted to. There was something horribly playful in his attitude. She
struggled again--but more weakly, her strength was going. If there were
only somebody to help--somebody!

And then, all at once, she remembered--with a blinding sense of
relief--what she had been forgetting. She remembered that there was
Somebody--a Somebody Who is always ready to help--a Somebody who watches
over the fate of every little sparrow.

"If you hurt me," she said desperately, to Jim, "God will know! Let go of
me--or I'll--"

Jim interrupted.

"Yer'll scream!" he chuckled, and there was cruel mirth in the chuckle.
"Yer'll scream, an' God will take care o' yer! Well--scream! I don't
believe as God can help yer. God ain't never been in this tenement--as
far as I know!"

Despite her weight of fear and loathing, Rose-Marie was suddenly sorry
for Jim. There was something pitiful--something of which he did not
realize the pathos--in his speech. God had never been in the
tenement--_God had never been in the tenement_! All at once she realized
that Jim's wickedness, that Jim's point of view, was not wholly his
fault. Jim had not been brought up, as she had, in the clean
out-of-doors; he--like many another slum child--had grown to manhood
without his proper heritage of fresh air and sunshine. One could not
entirely blame him for thinking of his home--the only home that he had
ever known--as a Godless place. She stopped struggling and her voice was
suddenly calm and sweet as she