“The old woman ran out with the other people and saw what had happened.  She knew there wasn’t going to be time to wait for firemen or anything, so she ran into the building.  She could hear the baby screaming, and she couldn’t stand that; so she worked her way to it.  There it was, all hurt and bleeding.  Then she was almost scared to death over thinking what its mother would do to her for going away and leaving it, so she ran to a Home for little friendless babies, that was close, and banged on the door.  Then she hid across the street until the baby was taken in, and then she ran back to see if her own house was burning.  The big factory and the little house and a lot of others were all gone.  The people there told her that the beautiful lady came back and ran into the house to find her baby.  She had just gone in when her husband came, and he went in after her, and the house fell over both of them.”

Freckles lay rigidly, with his eyes on the Angel’s face, while she talked rapidly to the ceiling.

“Then the old woman was sick about that poor little baby.  She was afraid to tell them at the Home, because she knew she never should have left it, but she wrote a letter and sent it to where the beautiful woman, when she was ill, had said her husband’s people lived.  She told all about the little baby that she could remember:  when it was born, how it was named for the man’s elder brother, that its hand had been cut off in the fire, and where she had put it to be doctored and taken care of.  She told them that its mother and father were both burned, and she begged and implored them to come after it.

“You’d think that would have melted a heart of ice, but that old man hadn’t any heart to melt, for he got that letter and read it.  He hid it away among his papers and never told a soul.  A few months ago he died.  When his elder son went to settle his business, he found the letter almost the first thing.  He dropped everything, and came, with his wife, to hunt that baby, because he always had loved his brother dearly, and wanted him back.  He had hunted for him all he dared all these years, but when he got here you were gone—­I mean the baby was gone, and I had to tell you, Freckles, for you see, it might have happened to you like that just as easy as to that other lost boy.”

Freckles reached up and turned the Angel’s face until he compelled her eyes to meet his.

“Angel,” he asked quietly, “why don’t you look at me when you are telling about that lost boy?”

“I—­I didn’t know I wasn’t,” faltered the Angel.

“It seems to me,” said Freckles, his breath beginning to come in sharp wheezes, “that you got us rather mixed, and it ain’t like you to be mixing things till one can’t be knowing.  If they were telling you so much, did they say which hand was for being off that lost boy?”

The Angel’s eyes escaped again.

“It—­it was the same as yours,” she ventured, barely breathing in her fear.