Part 16 (1/2)

”All right?” she asked.

”All right,” he responded.

”Did you test the other end?”

”Right enough--” said the man. ”Safe as a church! The water barrel in the garden stuck a little--but I eased it up--” He looked back into the hole, as he stepped out. ”Too bad we had to take _her_ down,” he said regretfully.

”The police _might_ 'a' stopped,” said the woman. ”You couldn't tell.”

They swung the barrel in place, and blew out the lantern, and the man ascended the stair. After a few minutes the woman came up. The kitchen was empty. The fire burning briskly cast a line of light beneath the hearth, and on the top of the stove the kettle hummed quietly. She lighted a lamp and lifted the kettle, filling her dishpan with soft steam.... Any one peering in at the open window would have seen only a tall woman, with high shoulders, bending above her cloud of steam and was.h.i.+ng dishes, with a quiet, round face absorbed in thought.

When she had finished at the sink and tidied the room, she took the lamp and went into the small hall at the rear, and mounted the steep stairs.

At the top she paused and fitted a key and entered a low room. She put down the lamp and crossed to the door on the other side--and listened.

The sound of low breathing came lightly to her, and her face relaxed.

She came back to the bureau, looking down thoughtfully at the coa.r.s.e towel that covered it, and the brush and comb and tray of matches. There was nothing else on the bureau. But on a little bracket at the side the picture of a young girl, with loose, full lips and bright eyes, looked out from a great halo of pompadour--with the half-wistful look of youth.

The mother's eyes returned to the picture and her keen face softened....

She must save Mollie--and the child in the next room--she must save them both.... She listened to the child again, breathing beyond the open door. She looked again at the picture, with hungry eyes. Her own child--her Mollie--had never had a chance--she had loved gay things--and there was no money--always hard work and wet feet and rough, pus.h.i.+ng cars.... No wonder she had gone wrong! But she would come back now. There would be money enough--and they would go away--together.

Twenty-five thousand dollars. She looked long at the pitiful, weak, pictured face and blew out the light and crept into bed.... And in the next room the child's even breathing came and went... and, at intervals, across it in the darkness, another sound--the woman's quick, indrawn breath that could not rest.

x.x.x

ASLEEP

In the morning the woman was up with the first light. And as the men came grumbling in to breakfast, the round face wore its placid smile.

They joked her and ate hastily and departed for the open field. It was part of a steady policy--to be always in the open, busy, hard-working men who could not afford to lose an hour. The excursion had been a quick, restless revolt--against weeks of weeding and planting and digging.... But they had had their lesson. They were not likely to stir from their strip of market garden on the plain--not till the time was up.

As the woman went about her work, she listened, and stopped and went to the door--for some sound from upstairs. Presently she went up and opened the door... and looked in.

The child lay with one hand thrown above her head--a drawn look in the softly arched brow and half-parted lips. The woman bent over her, listening--and placed her hand on the small wrist and counted--waiting.

The eyes flashed open--and looked at her. ”I thought you were Nono,”

said the child. A wistful look filled her face and her lip quivered a little--out of it--and steadied itself. ”You are Mrs. Seabury,” she said quietly.

”Yes,” said the woman cheerfully. ”Time to get up, dearie.” She turned away and busied herself with the clothes hanging from their hooks.

The child's eyes followed her--dully. ”I don't think I care to get up,”

she said at last.

The woman brought the clothes and placed them by the bed, and smiled down at her. ”There's something nice to-day,” she said casually. ”We're going outdoors to-day--”

”_Can_ I?” said the child. She flashed a smile and sat up. ”Can _I_ go out-of-doors?” It was a little cry of waiting--and the woman's hand dashed across her eyes--at the keenness of it. Then she smiled--the round, a.s.suring smile, and held up the clothes. ”You hurry up and dress and eat your breakfast,” she said, ”--a good, big breakfast--and we are going--out in the sun--you and me.” She nodded cheerfully and went out.

The child put one foot over the edge of the bed and looked down at it--a little wistfully--and placed the other beside it. They were very dark, little feet--a queer, brown colour--and the legs above them, were the same curious brown--and the small straight back--as she stepped from the bed and slipped off her nightgown and bent above the clothes on the chair. The colour ran up to her throat--around it, and over the whole sunny face and hands and arms--a strange, eclipsing, brown disguise.

There had been a quick, sharp plan to take her abroad and they prepared her hastily against risks on board the steamer. The plan had been abandoned as too dangerous. But the colour clung to the soft skin; and the hair, cropped close to the neck, had a stubby, uncouth look. No one seeking Betty Harris, would have looked twice at the queer, little, brownie-like creature, dressing itself with careful haste. It lifted a plaid dress from the chair--large squares of red and green plaid--and looked at it with raised brows and dropped it over the cropped head. The skirt came to the top of the rough shoes on the small feet. Betty Harris looked down at the skirt--and smoothed it a little... and dropped on her knees beside the bed--the red and green plaids sweeping around her--and said the little prayer that Miss Stone had taught her to say at home.