“Oh, only for a very little while—­I am going off about a little business for a short time.  I expect to be back very soon.”

“Ah!  I heard—­I am glad to hear that you are coming back.”  She was manifestly embarrassed, and Keith was wondering more and more what she wanted of him.  “I just wanted to say good-by.  I am going away.”  She was fumbling at her wrap.  “And to tell you I have changed my business.  I’m not goin’ to keep a dance-house any longer.”

“I am glad of that,” said Keith, and then stuck fast again.

“I don’t think a girl ought to keep a dance-house or a bank?”

“No; I agree with you.  What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know; I thought of trying a milliner.  I know right smart about hats; but I’d wear all the pretty ones and give all the ugly ones away,” she said, with a poor little smile.  “And it might interfere with Mrs. Gaskins, and she is a widder.  So I thought I’d go away.  I thought of being a nurse—­I know a little about that.  I used to be about the hospital at my old home, and I’ve had some little experience since.”  She was evidently seeking his advice.

“You saved my life,” said Keith.  “Dr. Balsam says you are a born nurse.”

She put this by without comment, and Keith went on.

“Where was your home?”

“Grofton.”

“Grofton?  You mean in England?  In the West Country?”

She nodded.  “Yes.  I was the girl the little lady gave the doll to.  You were there.  Don’t you remember?  I ran away with it.  I have it now—­a part of it.  They broke it up; but I saved the body.”

Keith’s eyes opened wide.

“That Lois Huntington gave it to?”

“Yes.  I heard you were going to be married?” she said suddenly.

“I!  Married!  No!  No such good luck for me.”  His laugh had an unexpected tone of bitterness in it.  She gave him a searching glance in the dusk, and presently began again haltingly.

“I want you to know I am never going back to that any more.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

“You were the first to set me to thinkin’ about it.”

“I!”

“Yes; I want to live straight, and I’m goin’ to.”

“I am sure you are, and I cannot tell you how glad I am,” he said cordially.

“Yes, thankee.”  She was looking down, picking shyly at the fringe on her wrap.  “And I want you to know ’twas you done it.  I have had a hard life—­you don’t know how hard—­ever since I was a little bit of a gal—­till I run away from home.  And then ’twas harder.  And they all treated me’s if I was just a—­a dog, and the worst kind of a dog.  So I lived like a dog.  I learned how to bite, and then they treated me some better, because they found I would bite if they fooled with me.  And then I learned what fools and cowards men were, and I used ’em.  I used to love to play ’em, and I done it.  I used to amuse ’em for money and hold ’em off.  But I knew sometime I’d die like a dog as I lived like one—­and then you came—.”  She paused and looked away out of the window, and after a gulp went on again:  “They preached at me for dancin’.  But I don’t think there’s any harm dancin’.  And I love it better’n anything else in the worl’.”