blindly for
the baby, pushed aside the hands that would have detained her, and went
stumbling out into the street. And since that day no one in Deaneville
had been able to get close enough to speak to her. She did not go to
Dan's funeral, and such sympathizers as tried to find her were rewarded
by only desolate glimpses of the tall figure flitting along the edge of
the marshes like a hunted bird. A month old, little Danny accompanied
his mother on these restless wanderings, and many a time his little
mottled hand was strong enough to bring her safely home when no other
would have availed.

Her old Chinese "boy" came into the village once a week, and paid
certain bills punctiliously from a little canvas bag that was stuffed
full of gold pieces; but Fong was not a communicative person, and
Deaneville languished for direct news. Johnnie, discouraged by
fruitless attempts to have a talk with the forlorn young creature, had
to content herself with sending occasional delicacies from her own
kitchen and garden to Shandon, and only a week before this bright
February morning had ventured a note, pinned to the napkin that wrapped
a bowl of cream cheese. The note read:

Don't shorten Danny too early, Shandy. Awful easy for babies to ketch
cold this weather.

Of all the loitering curious men and women at doors and windows and in
the street, Johnnie was the only one who dared speak to her to-day.
Mrs. Larabee was dressed in the overalls and jersey that simplified
both the dressing and the labor of busy Monday mornings; her sleek
black hair arranged fashionably in a "turban swirl." She ran out to the
cart with a little cry of welcome, a smile on her thin, brown face that
well concealed the trepidation this unheard-of circumstance caused her.
"Lord, make me say the right thing!" prayed Johnnie, fervently. Mrs.
Waters saw her coming, stopped the big horse, and sat waiting. Her eyes
were wild with a sort of savage terror, and she was trembling violently.

"Well, how do, Shandon?" said Mrs. Larabee, cheerfully. Then her eyes
fell on the child, and she gave a dramatic start. "Never you tell me
this is Danny!" said she, sure of her ground now. "Well,
you--old--buster--you! He's IMMENSE, ain't he, Shandon?"

"Isn't he?" stammered Shandon, nervously.

"He's about the biggest feller for nine months I ever saw," said Mrs.
Larabee, generously. "He could eat Thelma for breakfast!"

"Johnnie--and he ain't quite seven yet!" protested Shan