shaded candle Katie stood at the door watching her. Surely the hour was
past! Sleep such as that must draw one back to life.

Lying there in the sweet dignity of her braided hair, in that simple
lovely gown, she might have been Ann indeed.

There was tenderness just then in the heart of Katherine Wayneworth
Jones. She was glad that this girl who was sleeping as though sleep had
been a treasure long withheld, was knowing to-night the balm of a good
bed, glad that she could sink so unquestioningly into the lap of
protection. Protection!--it was that which one had in a place like this.
Why was it given the Anns--and not the Vernas? The sleeping girl seemed
to feel that all was well in the house which sheltered her that night.
Suddenly Katie knew what it was had gone. Fear. It was terror had slipped
back, leaving the weariness which can give itself over to sleep. Katie
was thinking, striking deeper things than were wont to invade Katie's
meditations. The protection of a Wayne, the chivalrous comradeship of a
Captain Prescott--how different the life of an Ann from the life this
girl might have had! She stood at the door for a long moment, looking at
her with a searching tenderness. What had she been through? What was
there left for her?

Once, as a child, she had taken a turtle from its native mud and brought
it home. Soon after that they moved into an apartment and her father
said that she must give the turtle up. "But, father," she had cried, "you
don't understand! I took it! Now how can I throw it away?"

"You are right, Katherine," he had replied gravely--her dear, honorable,
understanding father; "it is rather inconvenient to have a turtle in an
apartment, but, as you say, responsibilities are greater than