remembering her promise to old Becky!

"I wish," she said, haltingly, "I wish I had consulted Father Noble. I
have undertaken too much."

"Consulted him about what, Sister?" Doris was touched by the quivering
voice and strained eyes; she set her own trouble aside.

Again that pressing sound, and the wind swirling the dead leaves against
the house.

"About a little deserted mountain child upstairs. I have promised to
find a home for it, but I cannot manage such things any more--I am too
old."

The words came plaintively, as if defending against implied neglect.

Doris's eyes grew deep and concerned.

"A deserted child?" she repeated. In the feverish haste and trouble of
the past few days the ordinary life of Ridge House had held no part. It
seemed to be claiming its rights now, pushing her aside.

Then Sister Angela, her tired face set toward the long window whence
came that pressing sound and the swish of the wind, told Becky's story.
She told it as she might if Becky were listening, ready at any lapse to
correct her, but she carefully refrained from mentioning names.

It eased her mind to turn from Doris's trouble to poor Becky's, and she
saw with relief that Doris was listening; was interested.