"Promise you what?" I leaned still farther over the bed. The fire
of a tortured soul was burning in the eyes before me, and out of them
had gone dull glaze and ghastly stare; into them had come appeal,
both piteous and passionate, and fear that defied death. "What must
I promise?" My eyes held hers lest words should wander.

"Tell me what I must do?"

"Don't let them put her in--an orphan home. The ones who--manage
it--don't know themselves--how life--treats girls. They mean
kind--but they don't teach them--what might happen. Little
Etta--little Etta Blake lived in an orphan home. And now--now--"

The hands in mine were dropped, amazement for the moment making me
forget all else. I leaned yet closer. "Where is she? Where is Etta
Blake? Where can I find her?"

As if groping, the eyes looking into mine made effort to understand,
then turned away. "You can't find her--now. It's--too late. She
was let go--to work--and she--didn't know. She come--from a little
town--to a big one. And nobody--told her--what might happen. My
little Nora--who's going to tell her?"

With violent effort, the figure on the bed attempted to sit up, and
the twitching hands were flung one on either side, then again they
clutched mine. "Why don't God--let me--take her--with me? Promise
me--you won't forget--my little Nora! Won't let them--put her--in an
orphan home. Promise me--you'll watch--"