“I—­would go back to—­my man!”

“You mean that—­as truly as God hears you?—­you mean that, Nella-Rose?”

“Yes.  But lil’ Ann?”

Now that she had made the great decision about Truedale, there was still “lil’ Ann.”

Lynda fought for mastery over the dread thing that was forcing its way into her consciousness.  Then something Nella-Rose was saying caught her fevered thought.

“When I was a lil’ child I used to dream that some day I would do a mighty big thing—­maybe this is it.  I don’t want to hurt his life and—­yours; I couldn’t hurt my man and—­and—­the babies waiting back there for me.  But—­lil’ Ann!”

The name came like a sob.  And somehow Lynda thought of Burke Lawson!  Burke, who had done his strong best, and still could not keep himself in control because of—­lil’ Ann!  The helpless baby was—­oh! yes, yes—­it was Truedale’s responsibility.  If she, Lynda, were to keep her life—­her sacred love—­she, too, must do a “big thing”—­perhaps the biggest a woman is ever called upon to do—­to prove her faith.

For another moment she struggled; then, like a blind woman, she stretched out her hands and laid them upon the child.

“Nella-Rose, will you give—­me little Ann?”

“Give her—­to—­you?” There was anguish, doubt, but hope, in the words.

“I want—­the child!  She shall have her father—­her father’s home—­his love, God willing!  And I, Nella-Rose, as I hope for God’s mercy, I will do my duty by little Ann.”

And now Lynda was on the floor beside the shabby pair, shielding them as best she could from the last wrench and renunciation.

“Are you doing this for—­for your man?” whispered Nella-Rose.

“Yes.  For my—­man!” They looked long into each other’s eyes.  Then solemnly, slowly, Nella-Rose relinquished her hold of the child.

“I—­give you—­lil’ Ann.”  So might she have spoken if, in religious fervour, she had been resigning her child to death.  “I—­I—­give you lil’ Ann.”  Gently she kissed the sleeping face and laid her burden in the aching, strained arms that had still to learn their tender lesson of bearing.  Ann opened her eyes, her lips quivered, and she turned to her mother.

“Take—­lil’ Ann!” she pleaded.  Then Nella-Rose drank deep of the bitter cup, but she smiled—­and spoke one of the lies over which angels have wept forgivingly since the world began.

“Lil’ Ann, the kind lady is going to keep yo’ right safe and happy ’til mother makes things straight back there with—­with yo’—­father, in the hills.  Jes’ yo’ show the lady how sweet and pretty yo’ can be ’til mother comes fo’ yo’!  Will yo’—­lil’ Ann?”

“How long?”

“A mighty lil’ while.”

All her life the child had given up—­shrunk from that which she feared but did not understand; and now she accepted it all in the dull, hopeless way in which timid children do.  She received her mother’s kiss—­gave a kiss in return; then she looked gloomily, distrustingly, at Lynda.  After that she seemed complacent and obeyed, almost stupidly, whatever she was told to do.