CHAPTER VI

"Going for eighteen," he had said, but even that had not prepared Jane
for the poignant youth of the girl. She looked a child, in her shrunken
middy blouse, her fair hair hanging about her eyes. She was sitting on
the floor, urging bread and milk on a fat and gurgling baby in a little
red chair. She did not look up at first, but went on speaking to the
child.

"Please, Billiken, eat for Muddie! Billiken--when it's the last time
Muddie'll ever have to feed you? Take it quick or Muddie'll give it to
the kitty-cat!"

"Ethel?" Jane closed the door softly and came toward her.

The other eyed her defensively and she tried to tidy her hair with hands
that shook. On the left was a tiny, pinhead solitaire.

"I am Michael Daragh's friend, Ethel. He asked me to talk with you."

"Oh, my God!" Little red spots of rage flamed in her thin cheeks and she
struck her hands together. "Can't they leave me alone? I've told 'em I
won't talk any more. I've told 'em my mind's made up for keeps. But they
keep at me and _keep_ at me!"

Jane stood still. "I know I haven't any right here," she said,
distressedly, "and I know you don't want me."

The girl scrambled to her feet and went to the bureau where she stood
pulling and patting at her hair. "What'd you come for, then?" She
muttered it under her breath, but Jane caught the words.

"Well, if you know Michael Daragh, you must know that when he asks you to
do a thing, even a hard one, you--just do it!" Ethel did not comment or
turn her head and Jane found the sense of drama which had borne her so
buoyantly up the stairs deserting her. She wanted to go out of that drab
room and down those drab stairs and out of that drab house forever, but
she resolutely forced herself to cross the room and bent down beside the
giddy little red chair.

"Why do you call her Billiken?"

"Can't you see?" It was curt and sullen, not at all the tone for an
Unfortunate Girl to employ toward a young lady anointed with the oil of
joy. "She grins just like the Billikens do. Ever since she was a teenty
thing." She gave her caller a long, rebellious stare. "You don't look
like a nurse or a Do-gooder."

"I'm not," said Jane promptly. "I'm merely Michael Daragh's fr----" She
broke off, catching herself up. Well, now, was she? His friend, after a
few weeks of slenderest acquaintance? She had a feeling that the grave
Irishman had obeyed the command to come apart and be separ