the cry of pain rang out she tried in vain to stop her ears. At last,
hot, hungry, lonesome, and afraid, she laid her dirty face against the
baby's fuzzy head and they sobbed together in undisturbed misery.

When at last the child fell into a restless sleep, Nance sat patiently
on, her small arms stiffening under their burden, and her bare feet and
legs smarting from the stings of hungry mosquitos.

By and by the limp garments on the clothes line overhead began to stir,
and Nance, lifting her head gratefully to the vagrant breeze, caught her
breath. There, just above the cathedral spire, white and cool among
fleecy clouds, rose the full August moon. It was the same moon that at
that moment was turning ocean waves into silver magic; that was smiling
on sleeping forests and wind-swept mountains and dancing streams. Yet
here it was actually taking the trouble to peep around the cathedral
spire and send the full flood of its radiance into the most sordid
corners of Calvary Alley, even into the unawakened soul of the dirty,
ragged, tear-stained little girl clasping the sick baby on Snawdor's
fire-escape.

[Illustration: "Her tense muscles relaxed; she forgot to cry"]

Something in Nance responded. Her tense muscles relaxed; she forgot to
cry. With eyes grown big and wistful, she watched the shining orb. All
the bravado, the fear, and rebellion died out of her, and in hushed
wonder she got from the great white night what God in heaven meant for
us to get.