Rose-Marie’s voice was very soft, as she spoke again.

“I’m glad that you chose the picture you did,” she said, “the picture of the Christ Child and His Mother!”

Ella wadded a heavy dress into the suit-case.

“I don’t hold much with religious pictures,” she said, without looking up; “religion never did much fer me!  I only got it ‘cause th’ Baby had hair like Lily’s hair!”

Rose-Marie crouched down, suddenly, upon the floor beside the girl.  She laid her hand upon the suit-case.

“Where are you going, Ella?” she asked abruptly.  “Where are you going—­and when will you be back?”

Ella’s lips drew up into the semblance of a smile—­a very bitter one—­as she answered.

“It’s none of yer business where I’m goin’,” she said, “an’ I may not ever come back—­see?”

Rose-Marie caught her breath in a kind of sob.  It was as she had guessed—­and feared!

“Ella,” she asked slowly, “are you going alone?”

The girl’s face coloured swiftly, with a glorious wave of crimson.  She tossed her head with a defiant movement.

“No, I ain’t goin’ alone!” she told Rose-Marie.  “You kin betcha life I ain’t goin’ alone!”

Rose-Marie—­sitting beside her on the floor—­asked God, silently, for help before she spoke again.  She felt suddenly powerless, futile.

“Why are you going, dear?” she questioned, at last.

Ella dropped the shoes that she had been about to tuck into the suit-case.  Her eyes were grim.

“Because,” she said, “I’m tired of all o’ this,” Her finger pointed in the direction of the outer room.  “I’m tired o’ dirt, and drunken people, and Jim’s rotten talk.  I’m tired o’ meals et out o’ greasy dishes, an’ cheap clothes, and jobs that I hate—­an’ that I can’t nohow seem ter hold!  I’m tired, dog-tired, o’ life.  All that’s ever held me in this place is Lily.  An’ sometimes, when I look at her, I don’t think that she’d know the difference whether I was here ’r not!”

Rose-Marie was half sobbing in her earnestness.

“Ah, but she would know the difference,” she cried.  “Lily loves you with all of her heart.  And your mother is really trying to be neater, to make a better home for you!  She hasn’t a pleasant time of it, either—­your mother.  But she doesn’t run away.  She stays!”

There was scorn in the laugh that came, all at once, from Ella’s twisted mouth.  Her great eyes were somberly sarcastic.

“Sure, she stays,” said Ella, “’cause she ain’t got enough gumption ter be gettin’ out!  I know.”

In her heart Rose-Marie was inclined to agree with Ella.  She knew, herself, that Mrs. Volsky would never have the courage to make any sort of a definite decision.  But she couldn’t say so—­not while Ella was staring at her with that cynical expression.

“I guess,” she said bravely, “that we’d better leave your mother out of this discussion.  After all, it’s between you—­and your conscience.”