"I can't! I can't touch him!" wailed the woman. "It's awful! Suppose he
should be dead?"

"He's not dead," declared Purt. "We won't let him die--the poor kid! Here,
mother, you hold his head and we'll lay him down on the seat. Let his head
and shoulders lie right in your lap."

"Oh, Laura! Do come!" cried the woman.

"I can't, Mrs. Sweet!" returned Laura, sobbing. "I've got to stay and watch
my pot boil. Do be quick, Purt!"

She stepped out of the car. Purt slammed the tonneau door and leaped to the
steering wheel. In a moment the self-starter sputtered, and then the car
wheels began to roll.

Mrs. Sweet was actually forced to do something that she had never done
before--personally help somebody in trouble. Perhaps the experience would
do her good, Laura thought.

In tears the latter returned to the corner. The fire was brightly blazing
underneath her swinging pot. There was already quite a collection of coins
and a few bills in the bottom of the receptacle. But although Laura stuck
to the post of duty, her heart was no longer in the ceremonies of Ember
Night. She wished heartily that she had never suggested the entertainment,
even if it did benefit the Red Cross.