hat if she were Mrs. Volsky--she, too, might be inclined to ask "What's
th' use?" She leaned forward, searching desperately in her mind for
something to say.

"Do you like _me_, Mrs. Volsky?" she questioned at last, "Do you like
me?"

The woman nodded, and again the suggestion of a light flamed up in her
eyes.

"Sure I like you," she said, "you are good to all of us--_an' to Lily_."

"Then," Rose-Marie's voice was quivering with eagerness, "then won't you
try--_for my sake_--to make things here," the sweep of her hand included
every corner of the ugly room, "a little better? I'll help you, very
gladly. I'll make new aprons for you, and I'll"--her brave resolution
faltered, but only for a moment--"I'll wash your hair, and take you to
the free baths with me. And then," she had a sudden inspiration, "then
Lily will love to touch you, you'll be so nice and clean! Then Lily will
be glad that she has you for a mother!"

All at once the shell of stupidity had slipped from Mrs. Volsky's bent
shoulders. All at once she was eager, breathlessly eager.

"Miss," she said, and one thin, dingy hand was laid appealingly upon
Rose-Marie's dress, "Miss, you can do wit' me as you wish to! If you
t'ink dat my bein' clean will make Lily glad"--she made a sudden
impetuous gesture with her hand--"den I will be clean! If you t'ink dat
she will like better dat I should be her mother," the word, on her lips,
was surprisingly sweet, "den I will do--_anyt'ing_!" All at once she
broke into phrases that were foreign to Rose-Marie, phrases spoken
lovingly in some almost forgotten tongue. And the girl knew that she was
quite forgotten--that the drab woman was dreaming over some youthful
hope, was voicing tenderly the promises of a long dead yesterday, and was
making an impassioned pledge to her small daughter and to the future! The
words that she spoke might be in the language of another land--but the
tone was unmistakable, was universal.

Rose-Marie, listening to her, felt a sudden desire to kneel there, on the
dirty tenement floor, and say a little prayer of thanksgiving. Once again
she had proved that she was right--and that the Young Doctor was wrong.

XI

BENNIE COMES TO THE SETTLEMENT HOUSE

It was Bennie who came first to the Settlement House. Shyly, almost, he
slipped through the great doors--as one who seeks something that he does
not quite understand. As he came, a gray kitten, creeping out from the
shadows of the hall, r