"Pretty soon I staggered down the stairs, but I wasn't drunk; no,
indeed.

"'Where are you going, Anna?' she inquired.

"'Out to dinner with ----. Any objection?' I asked.

"'No, only be in in time for business.'

"Oh, thank God! I never laid my eyes on her again, nor she on me from
that day to this. But I don't want you to get the idea that that escape
from her ended my troubles. By no manner of means. Listen!" And then
she told me of experiences too dreadful for publication--experiences in
Ogden and Salt Lake, Utah; Reno, Nevada. Now she was in Los
Angeles--farther away from mother and home than ever; as unhappy, as
homesick, as miserable a girl as ever trod the earth. When she happened
to be passing the mission door, some one was singing, "Just as I am
without one plea." After that door had closed for the night, she
followed Sister Taylor and me, trying to summon up courage enough to
approach me, fearing that if she did not I should soon get on a car and
her opportunity of ever meeting me would be lost.

At the time of our meeting, Anna was well-nigh homeless, friendless,
penniless, and, worst of all, Christless. In less than four hours,
praise God! she had her greatest needs supplied, and, best of all, she
had found her Savior.

In memory of this, one of the songs appearing in this book was
written--"The Value of a Song." It was a particular favorite with our