“Most of us do.  What does she know about asylums that prejudices her so?”

“Little, except she’s come across some girls who came out of them who have gone wrong, and she thinks it’s because they were kept too shut off from outside life, and told too little of temptations and real truths and—­and things like that.  What she means is that she thinks those who manage asylums and homes try to keep the girls innocent through ignorance, and when they’re turned out to go to work they don’t understand the dangers that are ahead.  Some grown-ups forget that young people crave young ways and pretty things and good times, and that they’ve got to be taught about what they don’t understand.”

“Little Etta—­Etta Blake was an orphan.  She was like a bird—­in a cage.  When she—­got out—­ If only—­they had—­told her—­” The voice from the bed was strangely stronger, and the fingers, still twisted into mine, made feeble pressure.

I leaned closer.  “Where is she?  Where is Etta Blake?  Where can I find her?”

“You can’t find her.  It’s—­too late.  We worked—­at the same place—­once.  And I tried—­to make—­ But she said—­it was—­too late.”

The gasping voice trailed wearily and the face, turning from me, lay still upon the pillow.  Presently I saw Miss White start and come closer.  The short, quick breath had stopped.

At Mrs. Mundy’s front door Selwyn, holding the sleeping child in his arms, looked at me.  “What are you going to do with her?” His voice was uncertain, but in it there was not the disapproval I had expected from the telling of my promise to Mrs. Cotter.  “You can’t keep her, can you?”

I shook my head.  “She mustn’t stay in town.  The doctor says her case is too advanced to be arrested, and the only thing that can be done is to make her as comfortable and happy as possible until she—­can go—­to her mother.  I don’t know what is best to be done.  I must be near enough to see her every now and then.  Mr. Guard will tell me what to do.  Whenever I don’t know I ask him.  He always helps me.”

“Are you never to ask me to—­help you?” Selwyn’s voice was low, but from his eyes was no escape, and as the light from the door which I had opened with my latch-key fell upon his face I saw it flush—­saw in it what I had never seen before.

“You!” I was very tired, and something long held back struggled for utterance.  “You!” The word was half a sob.  “If only you—­”

Mrs. Mundy was coming down the hall, and at the door her hands went out to take the child from Selwyn.  “Bettina told me, and I thought perhaps you’d bring the little creature here.  I’ve got a place all fixed.  You are tired out.”  She turned to me, and then to Selwyn.  “Thank you, sir, for taking care of her—­for going with her and bringing her back.  I’m sorry I wasn’t here to do it myself.  She’s needing of some one to look after her.”  Turning, she went down the hall with the child in her arms, and Selwyn, also turning, walked down the steps and got into the cab.