as she clasped Deanie's thin little
form closer, and the meagre small arms went round her neck. "Sister'll
find a way. You go on to the mill to-night, and sister'll find somebody
to help her, and she'll come there and get you before morning."

When the pitiful little figure had lagged away down the twilight street,
holding to Lissy's hand, limping on sore feet, Johnnie stood long on the
porch in the dark with gusts of rain beating intermittently at the
lattice beside her. Her hands were wrung hard together. Her desperate
gaze roved over the few scattered lights of the little village, over the
great flaring, throbbing mills beyond, as though questioning where she
could seek for assistance. Paying money to Pap Himes did no good. So
much was plain. She had always been afraid to begin it, and she realized
now that the present outcome was what she had apprehended. Uncle Pros,
the source of wisdom for all her childish days, was in the hospital, a
harmless lunatic. Of late the old man's bodily health had mended
suddenly, almost marvellously; but he remained vacant, childish in mind,
and so far the authorities had retained him, hoping to probe in some way
to the obscure, moving cause of his malady. Twice when she spoke to her
mother of late, being very desperate, Laurella had said peevishly that
if she were able she'd get up and leave the house. Plainly to-night she
was too sick a woman to be troubled. As Johnnie stood there, Shade
Buckheath passed her, going out of the house and down the street toward
the store. Once she might have thought of appealing to him; but now a
sure knowledge of what his reply would be forestalled that.

There remained then what the others called her "swell friends." Gray
Stoddard--the thought brought with it an agony from which she flinched.
But after all, there was Lydia Sessions. She was sure Miss Sessions
meant to be kind; and if she knew that Deanie was really sick--. Yes, it
would be worth while to go to her with the whole matter.

At the thought she turned hesitatingly toward the door, meaning to get
her hat, and--though she had formulated no method of appeal--to hurry to
the Hardwick house and at least talk with Miss Sessions and endeavour to
enlist her help.

But the door opened before she reached it, and Mavity Bence stood there,
in her face the deadly weariness of all woman's toil and travail
since the fall.

Johnnie moved to her quickly, putting a hand on her shoulder,
remembering wi