“Then you rest easy,” said the Angel, with large confidence.  “Your mother didn’t do it!  Mothers of sons such as you don’t do things like that.  I’ll go to work at once and prove it to you.  The first thing to do is to go to that Home where you were and get the clothes you wore the night you were left there.  I know that they are required to save those things carefully.  We can find out almost all there is to know about your mother from them.  Did you ever see them?”

“Yis,” he replied.

“Freckles!  Were they white?” she cried.

“Maybe they were once.  They’re all yellow with laying, and brown with blood-stains now” said Freckles, the old note of bitterness creeping in.  “You can’t be telling anything at all by them, Angel!”

“Well, but I just can!” said the Angel positively.  “I can see from the quality what kind of goods your mother could afford to buy.  I can see from the cut whether she had good taste.  I can see from the care she took in making them how much she loved and wanted you.”

“But how?  Angel, tell me how!” implored Freckles with trembling eagerness.

“Why, easily enough,” said the Angel.  “I thought you’d understand.  People that can afford anything at all, always buy white for little new babies—­linen and lace, and the very finest things to be had.  There’s a young woman living near us who cut up her wedding clothes to have fine things for her baby.  Mothers who love and want their babies don’t buy little rough, ready-made things, and they don’t run up what they make on an old sewing machine.  They make fine seams, and tucks, and put on lace and trimming by hand.  They sit and stitch, and stitch—­little, even stitches, every one just as careful.  Their eyes shine and their faces glow.  When they have to quit to do something else, they look sorry, and fold up their work so particularly.  There isn’t much worth knowing about your mother that those little clothes won’t tell.  I can see her putting the little stitches into them and smiling with shining eyes over your coming.  Freckles, I’ll wager you a dollar those little clothes of yours are just alive with the dearest, tiny handmade stitches.”

A new light dawned in Freckles’ eyes.  A tinge of warm color swept into his face.  Renewed strength was noticeable in his grip of her hands.

“Oh Angel!  Will you go now?  Will you be hurrying?” he cried.

“Right away,” said the Angel.  “I won’t stop for a thing, and I’ll hurry with all my might.”

She smoothed his pillow, straightened the cover, gave him one steady look in the eyes, and went quietly from the room.

Outside the door, McLean and the surgeon anxiously awaited her.  McLean caught her shoulders.

“Angel, what have you done?” he demanded.

The Angel smiled defiance into his eyes.

“‘What have I done?’” she repeated.  “I’ve tried to save Freckles.”

“What will your father say?” groaned McLean.