Jinny was alone:  sitting by the fire, rocking the baby to sleep, singing some child’s hymn:  a simple little thing, beginning,—­

  “Come, let us sing of Jesus,
    Who wept our path along: 
  Come, let us sing of Jesus,
    The tempted, and the strong.”

Such a warm, happy flush lightened in Charley’s heart at that!  She did not know why; but her fear was gone.  The baby, too, a white, pure little thing, was lying in the cradle, cooing softly to itself.  The mother—­instinct is nearest the surface in a loving woman; the girl went up quickly to it, and touched its cheek, with a smile:  she could not help it.

“It’s so pretty!” she said.

Jinny’s eyes glowed.

“I think so,” she said, simply.  “It’s my baby.  Did you want me?”

Lot remembered then.  She drew back, her face livid and grave.

“Yes.  Do you know me?  I’m Lot Tyndal.  Don’t jerk your baby back!  Don’t!  I’ll not touch it.  I want to get some honest work.  I’ve a little brother.”

There was a dead silence.  Jinny’s brain, I told you, was narrow, her natural heart not generous or large in its impulse; the kind of religion she learned did not provide for anomalies of work like this. (So near at hand, you know.  Lot was neither a Sioux nor a Rebel.)

“I’m Lot,”—­desperately.  “You know what I am.  I want you to take us in, stop the boys from hooting at me on the streets, make a decent Christian woman out of me.  There’s plain words.  Will you do it?  I’ll work for you.  I’ll nurse the baby, the dear little baby.”

Jinny held her child tighter to her breast, looking at the vile clothes of the wretch, the black marks which years of crime had left on her face.  Don’t blame Jinny.  Her baby was God’s gift to her:  she thought of that, you know.  She did not know those plain, coarse words were the last cry for help from a drowning soul, going down into depths whereof no voice has come back to tell the tale.  Only Jesus.  Do you know what message He carried to those “spirits in prison”?

“I daren’t do it.  What would they say of me?” she faltered.

Lot did not speak.  After a while she motioned to the shop.  Adam was there.  His wife went for him, taking the baby with her.  Charley saw that, though everything looked dim to her; when Adam came in, she knew, too, that his face was angry and dark.

“It’s Christmas eve,” she said.

She tried to say more, but could not.

“You must go from here!” speaking sharp, hissing.  “I’ve no faith in the whinin’ cant of such as you.  Go out, Janet.  This is no place for you or the child.”

He opened the street-door for Lot to go out.  He had no faith in her.  No shrewd, common-sense man would have had.  Besides, this was his Christmas night:  the beginning of his new life, when he was coming near to Christ in his happy home and great love.  Was this foul worm of the gutter to crawl in and tarnish it all?