thanked him.

Then she had left it at the desk of the Waldorf Astoria, and at the
ticket-office of the subway.

It always came back.

Once or twice she took it to the Brooklyn Bridge and threw it into
the river, but perhaps something in the way it fell through the air
touched the mother's heart and smote her, and she had descended to
the river and fished it out.

Then Caroline had taken the child to the country. At first she
thought to leave it on the wayside and she had put it down in the
snow, and standing a little distance off had thrown mullein stalks
at it, but something in the way the little bundle lay covered in
the snow appealed to the mother's heart.

She picked it up and went on. "Somewhere," she murmured, "I shall
find a door of kindness open to it." Soon after she had staggered
into the homestead.

Anna, with true woman's kindness, asked no questions. She put the
baby carefully away in a trunk, saw Caroline safely to bed in the
best room, and returned to her seat by the fire.

The old clock struck twenty minutes past eight.

Again a knock sounded at the door.