The doctor had told him that she was very much run down.  It looked as if the process had been going on for some time.  Her heart action was not all it should be, and there were symptoms of lack of nutrition.  What she needed was rest, utter rest.  Sleep if possible most of the time for at least a week, with, careful feeding every two or three hours, and after that a quiet, cheerful place with plenty of fresh air and sunshine and more sleep; no anxiety, and nothing to call on the exhausted energies for action or hurry.

Now how was a state of things like that to be brought about for a person who had no home, no friends, no money, and no time to lie idle?  Moreover, how could there be any cheerful spot in the wide world for a little girl who had passed through the fire as she had done?

Presently he went out to the drug-store and telephoned to the hospital.  They said she had had only one more slight turn of unconsciousness, but had rallied from it quickly and was resting quietly now.  They hoped she would have a good night.

Then he went back to his room and thought about her some more.  He had an important English examination the next day, one in which he especially wanted to do well; yet try as he would to concentrate on Wells and Shaw, that girl and what was going to become of her would get in between him and his book.

It was after ten o’clock when he sauntered down the hall and stood in Stephen Marshall’s room for a few minutes, as he was getting the habit of doing every night.  The peace of it and the uplift that that room always gave him were soothing to his soul.  If he had known a little more about the Christ to whose allegiance he had declared himself he might have knelt and asked for guidance; but as yet he had not so much as heard of a promise to the man who “abides,” and “asks what he will.”  Nevertheless, when he entered that room his mind took on the attitude of prayer and he felt that somehow the Presence got close to him, so that questions that had perplexed him were made clear.

As he stood that night looking about the plain walls, his eyes fell upon that picture of Stephen Marshall’s mother.  A mother!  Ah! if there were a mother somewhere to whom that girl could go!  Some one who would understand her; be gentle and tender with her; love her, as he should think a real mother would do—­what a difference that would make!

He began to think over all the women he knew—­all the mothers.  There were not so many of them.  Some of the professors’ wives who had sons and daughters of their own?  Well, they might be all well enough for their own sons and daughters, but there wasn’t one who seemed likely to want to behave in a very motherly way to a stranger like his waif of a girl.  They were nice to the students, polite and kind to the extent of one tea or reception apiece a year, but that was about the limit.