Now she hasn’t a friend in the city.  I know from the few little things she has told me that there isn’t any one in the world she will feel free to turn to.  She isn’t the kind of girl who will accept charity.  She’s refined, reserved, independent, and all that, you know.  There’s another thing, too—­she prays to your Stephen’s Christ—­that’s why I dared write to you about it.

You see, I’m an entire stranger to her.  I just happened along when the kid was killed and had to stick around and help; that’s how I came to know.  Of course she hasn’t any idea of all this, and I haven’t any real business with it, but I can’t see leaving her in a hole this way; and there’s no one else to do anything.

You wonder why I didn’t find a mother nearer by, but I haven’t any living of my own, except a stepmother, who wouldn’t understand, and all the other mothers I know wouldn’t qualify for the job any better.  I’ve been looking at your picture and I think you would.

What I thought of is this (if it doesn’t strike you that way maybe you can think of some other way):  I’m pretty well fixed for money, and I’ve got a lump that I’ve been intending to use for a new automobile; but my old car is plenty good enough for another year, and I’d like to pay that girl’s board awhile till she gets rested and strong and sort of cheered up.  I thought perhaps you’d see your way clear to write a letter and say you’d like her to visit you—­you’re lonesome or Something.  I don’t know how a real mother would fix that up, but I guess you do.

Of course the girl mustn’t know I have a thing to do with it except that I told you about her.  She’d be up in the air in a minute.  She wouldn’t stand for me doing anything for her.  She’s that kind.

I’m sending a check of two hundred dollars right now because I thought, in case you see a way to take up with my suggestion, you might send her money enough for the journey.  I don’t believe she’s got any.  We can fix it up about the board any way you say.  Don’t hesitate to tell me just how much it is worth.  I don’t need the money for anything.  But whatever’s done has got to be done mighty quick or she’ll go back to work again, and she won’t last three days if she does.  She looks as if a breath would blow her away.  I’m sending this special delivery to hurry things.  Her address is Miss R.B.  Brentwood, Good Samaritan Hospital.  The kid called her “Bonnie.”  I don’t know what her whole name is.

So now you have the whole story, and it’s up to you to decide.  Maybe you think I’ve got a lot of crust to propose this, and maybe you won’t see it this way, but I’ve had the nerve because Stephen Marshall’s life and Stephen Marshall’s death have made me believe in Stephen Marshall’s Christ and Stephen Marshall’s mother.

I am, very respectfully,
PAUL COURTLAND.