"She's not used to it, you see," said the young woman, knowingly; "she
don't know what it means. It's just that much play to her."

This last was said with a questioning glance at Van Bibber, in whom
she still feared to find the disguised agent of a Children's Aid
Society. Van Bibber only nodded in reply, and did not answer her,
because he found he could not very well, for he was looking a long way
ahead at what the future was to bring to the confiding little being at
his side, and of the evil knowledge and temptations that would mar
the beauty of her quaintly sweet face, and its strange mark of
gentleness and refinement. Outside he could bear his friend Lester
shouting the refrain of his new topical song, and the laughter and the
hand-clapping came in through the wings and open door, broken but
tumultuous.

"Does she come of professional people?" Van Bibber asked, dropping
into the vernacular. He spoke softly, not so much that he might not
disturb the child, but that she might not understand what he said.

"Yes," the woman answered, shortly, and bent her head to smooth out
the child's stage dress across her knees.

Van Bibber touched the little girl's head with his hand and found that
she was asleep, and so let his hand rest there, with the curls between
his fingers. "Are--are you her mother?" he asked, with a slight
inclination of his head. He felt quite confident she was not; at
least, he hoped not.

The woman shook her head. "No," she said.