peace since the way I looked at her that day, and she couldn't stand it
any longer. She didn't know why I had that effect on her, but I did, and
she'd sent for me to talk about it.

Well, we talked. I told her I didn't think just being sorry was enough,
and I asked her how sorry was she.

"I don't know," she said, and then she began on tears again, so I
thought I'd better be quick while the feeling lasted.

"Well, you know, Miss Bray," I began, "Pinkie Moore hasn't been adopted
yet. She never will be while the ladies think what you told them is
true. You ought to write a letter to the Board and tell them what you
said wasn't so."

"I can't!" she said; and then more fountains flowed. "I can't tell them
I told a story!"

"But that's what you did," I said. "And when you've done a mean thing,
there isn't but one way to undo it--own up and take what comes. But it's
nothing to a conscience that's got you, and is never going to let you go
until you do the square thing. If you want peace, it's the only way to
get it."

"But I can't write a letter; I'm so nervous I couldn't compose a line."
And you never would have known her voice. It was as quavery as old
Doctor Fleury's, the Methodist preacher who's laid off from work.

"I'll write it for you." And I hopped for the things in her desk. "You
can copy it when you feel better." And, don't you know, she let me do