tiptoes nodded at the reflection before her--nodded and spoke to it.

"You're a sinner, all right, Carmencita Bell, and there's no natural
goodness in you. You hate hideousness, and poorness, and other
people's cast-offs, and emptiness in your stomach, and living on the
top floor with crying babies and a drunken father underneath, and
counting every stick of wood before you use it. And you get furious
at times because your father is blind and people have forgotten about
his beautiful music, and you want chicken and cake when you haven't
even enough bacon and bread. You're a sinner, all right. If you were
in a class of them you would be at the head. It's the only thing you'd
ever be at the head of. You know you're poverty-poor, and still you're
always fighting inside, always making out that it is just for a little
while. Why don't you--"

The words died on her lips, and suddenly the clear blue eyes, made for
love and laughter and eager for all that is lovely in life, dimmed
with hot tears, and with a half-sob she turned and threw herself face
downward on the rug-covered cot on the opposite side of the room.

"O God, please don't let Father know!" The words came in tones that
were terrified. "Please don't ever let him know! I wasn't born good,
and I hate bad smells, and dirty things, and ugly clothes, and not
enough to eat, but until I am big enough to go to work please,
_please_ help me to keep Father from knowing! Please help me!"

With a twisting movement the child curled herself into a little ball,
and for a moment tempestuous sobbing broke the stillness of the room,
notwithstanding the knuckles of two little red hands which were
pressed to the large sweet mouth. Presently she lifted the hem of her