“Listen, Faith—­Mary’s crying,” she whispered.  Faith replied not, being already asleep.  Una slipped out of bed, and made her way in her little white gown down the hall and up the garret stairs.  The creaking floor gave ample notice of her coming, and when she reached the corner room all was moonlit silence and the trestle bed showed only a hump in the middle.

“Mary,” whispered Una.

There was no response.

Una crept close to the bed and pulled at the spread.  “Mary, I know you are crying.  I heard you.  Are you lonesome?”

Mary suddenly appeared to view but said nothing.

“Let me in beside you.  I’m cold,” said Una shivering in the chilly air, for the little garret window was open and the keen breath of the north shore at night blew in.

Mary moved over and Una snuggled down beside her.

“Now you won’t be lonesome.  We shouldn’t have left you here alone the first night.”

“I wasn’t lonesome,” sniffed Mary.

“What were you crying for then?”

“Oh, I just got to thinking of things when I was here alone.  I thought of having to go back to Mrs. Wiley—­and of being licked for running away—­and—­and—­and of going to hell for telling lies.  It all worried me something scandalous.”

“Oh, Mary,” said poor Una in distress.  “I don’t believe God will send you to hell for telling lies when you didn’t know it was wrong.  He couldn’t.  Why, He’s kind and good.  Of course, you mustn’t tell any more now that you know it’s wrong.”

“If I can’t tell lies what’s to become of me?” said Mary with a sob.  “You don’t understand.  You don’t know anything about it.  You’ve got a home and a kind father—­though it does seem to me that he isn’t more’n about half there.  But anyway he doesn’t lick you, and you get enough to eat such as it is—­though that old aunt of yours doesn’t know anything about cooking.  Why, this is the first day I ever remember of feeling ’sif I’d enough to eat.  I’ve been knocked about all of my life, ’cept for the two years I was at the asylum.  They didn’t lick me there and it wasn’t too bad, though the matron was cross.  She always looked ready to bite my head off a nail.  But Mrs. Wiley is a holy terror, that’s what she is, and I’m just scared stiff when I think of going back to her.”

“Perhaps you won’t have to.  Perhaps we’ll be able to think of a way out.  Let’s both ask God to keep you from having to go back to Mrs. Wiley.  You say your prayers, don’t you Mary?”

“Oh, yes, I always go over an old rhyme ’fore I get into bed,” said Mary indifferently.  “I never thought of asking for anything in particular though.  Nobody in this world ever bothered themselves about me so I didn’t s’pose God would.  He might take more trouble for you, seeing you’re a minister’s daughter.”

“He’d take every bit as much trouble for you, Mary, I’m sure,” said Una.  “It doesn’t matter whose child you are.  You just ask Him—­and I will, too.”