content-like after
that."

There was sodden despair in Becky's voice.

"Who--is the father of this child?"

The commonplace question, under the strain, sounded trivial--but it was
rung from Angela's dismay.

Becky gave a rough laugh.

"Not the agony o' death an' the fear o' hell could wring that out of
Zalie," she said. Then: "Yo' ain't goin' back on yo' promise, are yo'?"

Sister Angela rallied. At any moment the wheels on the road might end
her time for considering poor Becky.

"You mean," she whispered, "that you renounce--this child; give it to
me, now? You mean--that I must find a home for it?"

"Yo' done promised--an' it eased Zalie at the end."

Angela reached for the child--she was calm and self-possessed at last.
This was not the first child she had rescued.

"It is--a girl?" she asked, lifting the tiny form.

"Hit's a girl. Give hit a chance."

"I will." Then Angela wrapped the child in the old quilt and turned
toward the door.

"Will you wait until I return?" she paused to ask, but Becky, her eyes
on that picture of the Good Shepherd, replied:

"No--I don let go!"

With that she passed as noiselessly from the room as if she were but a
shadow sinking into the darkness outside.

Angela went upstairs and knocked at Sister Constance's door. Sister
Constance was alert at once. Every faculty of hers was trained to
respond intelligently to taps on the door in the middle of the night.

"This is--a child--a mountain child," whispered Sister Angela. "It has
been left here. Take it into the west wing and tell no one of its
presence until we know whether it will be claimed!"

"Very well, Sister." Constance folded the child to her ample breast; the
maternal in her gave the training she had received a divine quality. The
baby stirred, stretched out its little limbs, and opened its vague,
sleep-filled eyes as if at last something worthy of response had
appealed to it.

Sister Angela stood in the cold, dark hall listening, and when the door
of the west wing chamber closed, she felt, once more, secure. Sister
Angela was never able to describe afterward the state of mind that made
the happenings of the next few hours seem like flaming pillars against a
dead blur of sensation.

There was the sound of wheels. That set every nerve tense.

Meredith was in her arms--clinging, sobbing, and repeating:

"He must never have my child, Sister. Promise, promise!"

"I promise, my darling. I promise." Angela h