arated rural
community where doctors and nurses are scarce, the word "neighbor"
becomes more than a mere honorary title.

In a few moments she had a fire going, water boiling, what few clean
rags she could find sterilized. While she worked she talked, quietly and
cheerfully, watching the girl with experienced eyes. She did not like
her pulse nor her color. She saw that she was going to need help.

"I'll be back in ten minutes," she said presently. "I'm going to the
nearest telephone to get the doctor. Keep up your courage, Mag. Only ten
minutes!"

But the girl was clinging to her, by this time, moaning, begging,
praying as if to God. "No, no--you cain't leave me, you cain't! I been
alone so long. _Don'_ leave me alone! I know I'm bad, but O Gawd, I'm
skeert! Don' leave me to die all alone. You wouldn't leave a dawg die
all alone!"

Mrs. Kildare soothed her with touch and word, wondering what was to be
done. Through the open door she sent her strong voice ringing out across
the twilight fields, again and again. There was nobody to hear. All the
world had gone indoors to supper. Her waiting horse pawed the earth with
a soft, reproachful nicker, to remind her that horses, too, have their
time for supper. It gave her an idea.

"The children will be frightened, but I can't help that. I must have
somebody here," she murmured, and slapped the mare sharply on the flank.
"Home, Clover. Oats! Branmash! Hurry, pet!"

Obediently the startled creature broke into a trot, which presently, as
she realized that she was riderless, became a panic-stricken gallop.
Mrs. Kildare went back to her vigil.

It is a terrible experience to watch, helpless, the agony of a fellow
creature. She knelt beside the dirty pallet, her face as white as the
girl's, beads of sweat on her brow, paralyzed by her utter inability to
render aid--a new sensation to Mrs. Kildare. Maternity as she had known
it was a thing of awe, of dread, a great brooding shadow that had for
its reverse the most exquisite happiness God allows to the earth-born.
But maternity as it came to Mag Henderson! None of the preparations here
that women love to make, no little white-hung cradle, no piles of snowy
flannel, none of the precious small garments sewn with dreams; only
squalor, and shame, and fear unutterable.

Never a religious woman, Mrs. Kildare found herself presently engaged in
one of her rare conversations with the Almighty, explaining to Him how
young, how ignorant