to greet her evening visitor.

Some one was coming up the stairs quickly, excitedly. She could hear
short, swift footsteps on the treads, running through the hall to hurry
up the stairs again. Some urgent call she presumed--a baby fighting for
entrance into this world, or a sick child weeping to leave it.
Instinctively drawing herself up for service, Kathleen stood ready to
answer whatever call might come. The hurrying steps faltered a little at
the third flight as though halted by overpowering weariness, but in a
second they came on fast again. She could see the figure now--a girl,
hatless, coatless, in a white dress. A moment, and she was looking into
Hertha's upturned face.

"Let me in, Kathleen," the girl cried.

The Irishwoman's greeting was instant and affectionate. Any harbored
resentment vanished as she saw that her visitor was in trouble, needing
her help. Had Hertha come richly dressed, breathing prosperity, she
would have received scant welcome; but now she was led into the kitchen,
her hostess talking affectionately.

"It was this very evening, dearie, I was thinking of you when the
custard went back on me. If my old lodger was here now, I says to
myself, we'd be eating custards as smooth as Father McGinnis when he
comes asking for ten dollars for the church. Sit down in your old seat,
it's missing you."

But Hertha did not sit. She had heard nothing of Kathleen's welcome.
Standing by the table, her head thrown back defiantly, she cried in an
excited voice, "Keep me here to-night and I'll be out of your way
to-morrow."

"It's for you to stay as long as you like," her friend answered.

She was shocked at the girl's appearance. During their months of
separation she had often thought of her as she had moved about the
kitchen, calling up the pleasant picture of a daintily dressed young
woman, quiet in her movements, smiling upon her as she put the last
touch to the table before their meal. She had never seen her untidy or
seriously perturbed. But this figure before her was a distorted image of
its former self. The hair was rough and loose, the dress had dark
stains, the hands were soiled. And in the white, thin face were both
anger and fear. "Don't touch me," she said, as Kathleen went toward her.
"Listen to what I'm saying. I am going South to-morrow, with my brother.
You know I said I had a brother. He is hurt, in the hospital, but
they'll let him go with me to-morrow."

"Then he's not badly hurt,"