“God,” she said slowly, “is in this tenement.  God is everywhere, Jim—­everywhere!  If I call on Him, He will help me!”

All at once Jim had swung her away from him, until he was holding her at arm’s length.  He looked at her, from between narrowed lids, and there was bitter sarcasm in his eyes.

“Call on Him, then,” he taunted, “call on Him!  Lotta good it’ll do yer!” The very tone of his voice was a sacrilege, as he said it.

Rose-Marie’s eyes were blurred with tears as she spoke her answer to his challenge.  She was remembering the prayers that she had said back home—­in the little town.  She was remembering how her aunts had taught her, when she was a wee girl, to talk with God—­to call upon Him in times of deep perplexity.  She had called upon Him, often, but she had never really needed Him as she did now.  “Help me, God!” she said softly, “Help me, God!”

The Volsky flat was still, for a moment.  And then, with surprising quickness, the door to the inner room swung open.  Jim, who was standing with his back to the door, did not see the tiny, golden-haired figure that stood in the opening, but Rose-Marie caught her breath in a kind of a sob.

“I had forgotten Lily—­” she murmured, almost to herself.

Jim, hearing her words, glanced quickly back over his shoulder.  And then he laughed, and there was an added brutality in the tone of his laughter.

“Oh—­Lily!” he laughed.  “Lily!  She won’t help yer—­not much!  I was sort of expectin’ this God that yer talk about—­” The laughter died out of his face and he jerked her suddenly close—­so close that she lay trembling in his arms.  “Lily can’t hear,” he exulted, “’r see, ’r speak. I’ll take my kiss—­now!”

It was then that Rose-Marie, forgetting herself in the panic of the moment, screamed.  She screamed lustily, twisting her face away from his lips.  And as she screamed Lily, as silently as a little wraith, started across the room.  She might almost have heard, so straight she came.  She might almost have known what was happening, so directly she ran to the spot where Rose-Marie was struggling in the arms of Jim.  All at once her thin little hands had fastened themselves upon the man’s trouser leg, all at once she was pulling at him, with every bit of her feeble strength.

Rose-Marie, still struggling, felt an added weight of apprehension.  Not only her own safety was at stake—­Lily, who was so weak, was in danger of being hurt.  She jerked back, with another cry.

“Oh, God help me!” she cried, “God help us!”

Silently, but with a curious persistence, the child clung to the man’s trouser leg.  With an oath he looked back again over his shoulder.

“Leave go of me,” he mouthed.  “Leave go o’ me—­y’ little brat! ’r I’ll—­”

And “Let go of him, Lily,” sobbed Rose-Marie, forgetting that the child could not hear.  “Let go of him, or he’ll hurt you!”