home in the trolley, her little brother, crossing the street
to meet her, was knocked down and killed by a passing
automobile. We buried him to-day, and the girl fainted dead
away on the way back from the cemetery and only recovered
consciousness when we got her to the hospital. The doctor
says she has exhausted her vitality and needs to sleep for a
week and be fed up; and then she ought to go to some
cheerful place where she can just rest for a while and have
fresh air and sunshine and good, plain, nourishing food.

Now she hasn't a friend in the city. I know from the few
little things she has told me that there isn't any one in
the world she will feel free to turn to. She isn't the kind
of girl who will accept charity. She's refined, reserved,
independent, and all that, you know. There's another thing,
too--she prays to your Stephen's Christ--that's why I dared
write to you about it.

You see, I'm an entire stranger to her. I just happened
along when the kid was killed and had to stick around and
help; that's how I came to know. Of course she hasn't any
idea of all this, and I haven't any real business with it,
but I can't see leaving her in a hole this way; and there's
no one else to do anything.

You wonder why I didn't find a mother nearer by, but I
haven't any living of my own, except a stepmother, who
wouldn't understand, and all the other mothers I know
wouldn't qualify for the job any better. I've been looking
at your picture and I think you would.