be back in a minute."

"Folks don't make beds up with hot water," thought Tilda.

She watched the nurse down the passage, stepped to the door, and turned
the handle softly.

There was no change in the ward except that a tall screen stood by the
sick woman's bed. Tilda crept to the screen on tip-toe, and peered
around it.

Ten seconds--twenty seconds--passed, and then she drew back and stole
out to the landing, closing the door as softly as she had opened it.
In the light of the great staircase window her face was pale and
serious.

She went down the stairs slowly.

"Seems I made a mistake," she said, speaking as carelessly as she could,
but avoiding the boy's eyes. "You wasn' wanted up there, after all."

But he gazed at her, and flung out both arms with a strangling sob.

"You won't take me back! You'll hide me--you won't take me back!"

"Oh, 'ush!" said Tilda. "No, I won't take yer back, an' I'll do my
best, but--oh, 'Dolph!"--she brushed the back of her hand across her
eyes and turned to the dog with the bravest smile she could contrive--
"to think of me bein' a mother, at _my_ time o' life!"