I had feared for some time what I knew now was true, and it was not for Etta alone that pity possessed me.  Somehow, for all young girlhood, for the weak and wayward, the bold and brazen, the unprotected and helpless, I seemed somehow responsible, I and other women like me, who were shielded from their temptations and ignorant of the dangers to which they were exposed; and Etta was but one of many who had gone wrong, perhaps, because I had not done right.  Something was so wrong with life when such things could happen, as through all ages had happened; things which men said were impossible to prevent.  Perhaps they are, but women are different from men in that they attempt the impossible.  When they understand, this, too, must be attempted—­

After a while Mrs. Mundy began to tell me what she had learned.  It was an old story.  The girl who told her of Etta was a friend of the latter’s and had been a waitress in the same restaurant in which Etta was cashier.  It was at this restaurant that Harrie met her.

“She was crazy to think he meant to marry her,” the girl had told Mrs. Mundy, “but at first she did think it.  For some time he was just nice to her, taking her to ride in his automobile, and out to places where he was not apt to meet any one he knew, and then—­then—­”

“She doesn’t blame Harrie, though.  That is, at first she didn’t.  She was that dead in love with him she would have gone with him anywhere, but after a while, when she found out the sort he was, she—­cursed him.  It was about the child they had a split.”

“Was it born here?” I was cold and moved closer to the fire.

Mrs. Mundy shook her head.  “He sent her to a hospital out of town, but when she came back with the child he told her she would have to send it away somewhere, put it in some place, or he’d quit her.  He seemed to hate the sight of it.  It was on account of the child they had a fuss.  Etta wouldn’t give it up.  She can be a little fury when she’s mad, the girl said, and they had an awful row and he went off somewhere and stayed four months.  She tried to get work, but each time some one told about her and she was turned off because—­of the child.  At one place one of the bosses tried to take some liberty with her and she threw an ink-bottle at him and he drove her away.  She knew there wasn’t any straight way left to her after that unless she starved or went in a rescue place.  She tried to get in one and take the baby with her, but it was full, and then, too, she kept hoping she could get work.  Then the baby got sick and needed what she couldn’t give it, and after a while she gave up.  She got a woman to look after the child, promised to pay her well, and went down into Lillie Pierce’s world.  Since the day she went she has never been out except to see the baby, until two weeks ago, when she moved into a decent place and took two rooms.  Harrie had come back to her.”

“How old is the child?”