“I’ll do it for you,” he proposed cheerily.  “Then if there’s anything to sign you can do it with your eyes shut.  I love to write with my eyes shut and see how near I come to it!”

“I never tried,” she admitted, “but perhaps I could.”

“It says first, ‘Your name in full.’” Doodles looked up inquiringly.

“Faith Lily.” repeated its owner mechanically.  Then she started across the room.  “I’ll get you a pen and ink,” she said.

Doodles wrote with careful hand.  “That’s a pretty name,” he commented.

“I always liked it,” she smiled.  “But I’m afraid my faith has been going back on me lately.  I did have a good deal.  I thought the Lord wouldn’t let me go to the poorhouse, then it seemed as if He was going to.  Only a little while ago I thought He must have forgotten me—­and now this!” Her dim eyes grew big with wonder and thankfulness.  “Even if I can’t go, I shall be glad you tried to get me in; it will tell me I have one friend.”

“The next is, ‘Time and place of birth.’”

“I was born August 3, 1847, in Cloverfield, Massachusetts.”

“‘Name of father,’” read Doodles.

“Jonathan Seymour Lily.”

There were many questions, and the boy was a slow writer.  It took no little time to place all the answers.  But the end of the list was finally reached without blot or smudge.  Doodles surveyed his work with gratification.

“I guess I haven’t made any mistake,” he said, reading it over.  “Now if you can just put your name there, it will be done.”

Her hand trembled and the letters were wavering, but when Doodles declared it was “splendidly written,” she smiled her relief.

Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday went by, and Doodles heard nothing from Mr. Randolph.  He began to be afraid that the committee had decided against his friend, and although his mother told him that such procedures always take considerable time, he grew more nervous with every mail-coming.  When Saturday morning brought him no word, he decided to go over to Miss Lily’s.

“I don’t know that she could read the letter if she had one,” he said in dismay.  “Why didn’t I think of that before!”

His first glimpse of the little woman corroborated his worst fears.  Her eyes were swollen with weeping, and her face was haggard and despairing.

“Can’t you go?” he ejaculated.

“I haven’t heard a word!” she answered mournfully.  “I didn’t know but you had.”

“No, I haven’t.  That’s why I came over.”

She shut the door and made him sit down.

“I guess I’ll have to go to the poorhouse after all,” she began in a hushed voice, as if fearful of being overheard.

“Oh, I wouldn’t give up!  Mr. Randolph said it would take time.”

“But I can’t wait!  The woman thought I was going, and she’s rented my room, and she won’t let me stay another night!  I haven’t quite enough money to pay up, and she says she shall keep my trunk and furniture—­oh, to think I have come to this!”