Miss Smith eyed her
grimly, then slowly stepped back.
"Come in," she commanded briefly, motioning the woman to a chair.
But she stood, a pathetic figure, faded, worn, yet with unmistakable
traces of beauty in her golden face and soft brown hair. Miss Smith
contemplated her sadly. Here was her most haunting failure, this girl
whom she first had seen twelve years ago in her wonderful girlish
comeliness. She had struggled and fought for her, but the forces of the
devil had triumphed. She caught glimpses of her now and then, but today
was the first time she had spoken to her for ten years. She saw the
tears that gathered but did not fall; then her hands quivered.
"Bertie," she began brokenly. The girl shivered, but stood aloof.
"Miss Smith," she said. "No--don't talk--I'm bad--but I've got a little
girl, Miss Smith, ten years old, and--and--I'm afraid for her; I want
you to take her."
"I have no place for one so young. And why are you afraid for her?"
"The men there are beginning to notice her."
"Where?"
"At Elspeth's."
"Do you stay there now?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"_He_ wants me to."
"Must you do as he wants?"
"Yes. But I want the child--different."
"Don't _you_ want to be different?"
The woman quivered again but she answered steadily: "No."
Miss Smith sank into a chair and moistened her dry lips.
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