With quick movement the girl got up. From her throat came a sound
hysterical and choking, and, putting her hand to it, she looked first
at me and then at Mrs. Mundy, but at Selwyn she did not look again.
"I'm going. Thank you for letting me come in." Blindly she
staggered to the door, her hands outstretched as if to feel what she
could not see. At it she turned and in her face was that which keeps
me awake at night, which haunts and hurts and seems to be crying to
me to do something which I know not how to do.

"You poor child!" I started toward her. "You must not go alone."
But before I could reach her she fell in a heap at the door, and as
one dead she lay limp and white and piteously pretty on the floor.




CHAPTER VI

I don't understand Mrs. Mundy. She acts so queerly about the girl we
found on the street last night. She put her to bed, after she had
recovered from her fainting spell, on a cot in the room next to her
own, but this morning she told me the girl had gone, and would tell
me nothing else.

When Selwyn, who had picked her up and laid her on the couch, asked
if he should not get a doctor, Mrs. Mundy had said no, and said it so
positively that he offered to do nothing else. And then she thanked
him and told him good night in such a way he understood it was best
he Should go.