When they were gone, Sue looked down at the check in her hand.
Yesterday, in the heat of a just resentment, she had boasted a new
freedom. What had come of it was twelve hours without the presence of
her mother--twelve hours shared with Hattie and Farvel.
They had been happy hours, for strangely enough Hattie had needed
little cheering. It was Farvel who easily accomplished wonders with
her. Sue did not know what passed between the clergyman and the
bride-who-was-not-to-be during a long conference in the library. She
had heard only the low murmur of their voices. And once she had heard
Hattie laugh. When the two finally emerged, it was plain that Hattie
had been weeping, and Farvel was noticeably kind to her, even tender.
At dinner he was unwontedly cheerful, relieved at the whole solving of
the old, sad mystery, though worried not a little by Clare's
disappearance. After dinner he had taken himself out and away in a
futile search that had lasted the whole night.
But happy as Sue had been since parting with her mother at Tottie's,
nevertheless she felt strangely shaken, as if, somehow, she had been
swept from her bearings. She attributed this to the fact that never
before had she and her mother spent a night under different roofs.
Until Sue's twenty-fourth birthday, there had been the daily partings
that come with a girl's school duties. (Sue had continued through a
business college after leaving high school.) But beyond the short trip
to school and back, Mrs. Milo did not permit her daughter to go
anywhere alone, urging Sue's youth as her excuse.
They shopped together; they sat side by side in the Milo pew at St.
Giles; and after Sue's sixteenth birthday, though Wallace might have to
be left at home with his father, Mrs. Milo did not permit her daughter
to accept invitations, even to the home of a girl friend, unless she
herself was included. It was said--and in praise of Mrs. Milo--that
here was one woman who took "good care of her girl."
When Horatio Milo died (an expert accountant, he had no resistance with
which to combat a sudden illness that was aggravated by a wound
received in the Civil War), Mrs. Milo clung more closely than ever--if
that was possible--to Sue. To the daughter, this was explained by her
mother's pathetic grief; and by her dependence. For Sue was now, all
at once, the breadwinner of the little family.
At this juncture, Mrs. Milo pleaded hard in behalf of an arrangement
for earning that would not take her daughter from her even through a
short business day. Sue met her mother's wishes by setting up an
office in the living-room of their small apartment. Here she took some
dictation--her mother seated close by, busy with her sewing, but not
too busy to be graciousness itself to those men and women who desired
Sue's services. There was copying to be done, too. The girl became a
sort of general secretary, her clients including an author, a college
professor, and a clergyman.
Thus for six years. Then, at thirty years of age, she went to fill the
position at the Rectory. Her father had been a vestryman of the
Church, and she had been christened there--as a small, freckle-faced
girl in pigtails, fresh from a little village in northern New York.
And now, at this day that was so late, Sue knew that between her and
her mother things could never again be as they had been. Their
differences lay deep: and could not be adjusted. Mrs. Milo had always
demanded from her daughter the unquestioning obedience of a child; she
would not--and could not--alter her attitude after so many years.
But there was a reason for their parting that was more powerful than
any other: down from its high pedestal had come the image of Mrs. Milo
that her daughter had so long, and almost blindly, cherished. All at
once, as if indeed her eyes had been suddenly and miraculously opened,
Sue understood all the hypocrisy of her mother's gentleness, the
affection that was only simulated, the smiles that were only muscle
deep.
How it had all happened, Sue as yet scarcely knew. But in effect it
had been like an avalanche--an avalanche that is built up, flake by
flake, over a long period, and then gives way through even so light a
touch as the springing to flight of a mountain bird. The Milo
avalanche--it was made up of countless small tyrannies and scarcely
noticeable acts of selfishness adroitly disguised. But touched into
motion by Mrs. Milo's frank cruelty, it had swept upon the two women,
destroying all the falsities that had hitherto made any thought of
separation impossible. As Sue fingered the check, she realized that
her life and her mother's had been changed. It was likely that they
might go on living together. Though they were two women who belonged
apart.
"Why, Miss Susan,"--Farvel had come across the lawn to her
noiselessly--"what's this I hear? That you're going away."
She rose, a little flurried. "I--I suppose I must."
"And you've bought all these for--for the child," he added, catching
sight of the dolls and toys.
"It'll be nice to give them to her. But I'd hoped I could be near
Barbara for a long time to come. I hoped I could help to make up to
the little one for--for anything she's lacked." She shook her head.
"But you see, my mother depends on me so. She wouldn't go without me.
She's too old to go just with Mrs. Balcome. And--and if it's my
duty----" At her feet was that box which Mrs. Balcome had thrown down
on hearing that it contained something which should be put upon ice.
Sue picked the box up and began to undo the string.
Farvel stood in silence for a little. Then, finally, "I--I want to
tell you something before you go. I'm afraid it will surprise you.
And--and"--coloring bashfully--"I hardly know how to begin."
"Ye-e-es?" Sue was embarrassed, too, and hid her confusion by taking
from the box a bride's bouquet that was destined not to figure in any
marriage ceremony. At sight of the flowers, her embarrassment grew.
Farvel began to speak very low.--"After Laura left, I didn't think of a
second marriage--not even when her brother had the divorce registered.
I felt I couldn't settle down again and be happy when I didn't know her
fate. She might be alive, you see. And I am an Episcopal clergyman.
Still--I wasn't contented. I had my dreams--of a home, and a wife----"
He paused.
"A wife who would really care," she said.
"Yes. And a woman _I_ could love. Because, I know I'm to blame for
Laura's going--oh, yes, to a very great extent. I didn't love her
enough. If I had, she never would have left--never would have done
anything to hurt me. If I were to marry again, it would have to be
someone I cared for a great deal. That's what I--I want to plead now
when I tell you--when I confess. I want to plead that this new love I
feel is so great--almost beyond my--my power, Miss Susan."
She did not look at him. The bouquet in her hand trembled.
He went on. "I oughtn't to find it hard to tell you anything. I've
always felt that there was such sympathy between us. As if you
understand me; and I would never fail to understand you."
"I have felt it, too."
Now she lifted her eyes--but to the windows of the drawing-room. From
the nearest, a face was quickly withdrawn--her mother's. She stepped
back, widening the distance between herself and Farvel.
"Susan!" It was Mrs. Milo, calling as if from a distance.
Instantly, Farvel also fell back. And scarcely knowing why she did it,
Sue put the bride's bouquet behind her.
Mrs. Milo came out. Her eyes had a peculiar glitter, but her voice was
gentle enough. "Susan dear, why do you go flying away just when you're
wanted? Why don't you come and help your poor motherkins as you
promised? You don't want me to do everything?"
"No, mother."
"Then please go at once and help Mrs. Balcome with the packing. My
things go into the two small wardrobe trunks. You'll have to use that
big trunk that was your dear father's. Now hurry!"
"Yes, mother." Sue attempted a detour, the bouquet still out of her
mother's sight.
"What are you trying to conceal, dear?"
"It's--it's Hattie's bouquet."
A look of mingled fear and resentment--a look that Sue understood;
next, breathing hard, "What are you doing with it? You don't want it!
Give it to me!" Mrs. Milo caught the flowers from her daughter's hands
and threw them upon the grass. "Now go and do what I've asked you to!"
She pointed.
Sue glanced at Farvel, who was staring at the elder woman in amazed
displeasure. "I'll be back," she said significantly. There was a
trace of yesterday's rebellion in her manner as she went out.
As the drawing-room door closed, Mrs. Milo's manner also underwent a
change. She hastened to Farvel, her eyes brimming with tears, her lips
trembling. "Oh, Mr. Farvel," she cried, "she's all I've got in this
world. She's the very staff of my life! And my heart is set on her
going abroad with me! It'll be an expensive trip, but I'm an old
woman, Mr. Farvel, and I can't take that long journey without Sue! I
know you're against me for what I did yesterday--for what I said to
your wife. But I felt she'd separate me from Sue--that she'd put Sue
against me. And, oh, don't punish me for it! Don't take my daughter
away from me! Oh, don't! Don't!" She caught at his hand, broke down
completely, and sobbed.
"Why, Mrs. Milo!" exclaimed Farvel, not understanding. "What do you
mean?--take her away?"
"I mean marry her!--Oh, she's my main hold on life!"
He laughed. "My dear, dear lady, I haven't the least intention in the
world of asking your daughter to marry me."
"No?" She stopped her weeping.
"None whatever. How can I marry--while Laura is alive?"
"And--and"--doubtfully--"you don't even--love her?"
"Will it make your mind entirely easy if I tell you that I--I care for
someone else?" He blushed like a boy.
"Oh, Alan Farvel, I'm so glad! So glad!" Her gratitude was
spontaneous. "And I wish you could marry! You deserve the very best
kind of a wife!"
"You flatter me."
"Not at all! You're a good man. You'd make some girl very happy.
I've always said, 'What a pity Mr. Farvel isn't a married man'--not
knowing, of course, that you'd ever been one.--Could I trouble you to
hand me that bouquet?"
"Certainly." Farvel picked up the bride's bouquet from where she had
thrown it and gave it to her.
"Thank you. A moment ago, I found the perfume of it quite
overpowering. But the blossoms are lovely, aren't they?--So you do
care for someone? And"--she smiled in her best playfully teasing
manner--"is the 'someone' a secret?"
"Well,----"
"Ah, you don't want to tell me! I'm an old lady, Mr. Farvel; I know
how to keep a secret."
"Oh, I'm going to tell you. Though you're going to think very badly of
me."
"Badly? For being in love?--You will have to wait."
"For being in love with a certain young lady."
"Ho-ho! That's very unlikely. Now, who is it? I'm all eagerness!"
She smiled at him archly.
He waited a moment; then, "I love Hattie Balcome."
"_Hattie?_" She found it impossible of comprehension.
"Hattie."
"Well,--that is--news."
He bowed, a little surprised. He had expected anger and vituperation.
"Of course, my son---- But as that can't be. And Sue--does Sue know?"
"I was just about to tell her."
She turned, calling: "Susan! Susan! _Su_san!"
There was a rustle at the door--a smothered laugh. Sue appeared. "Who
calls the Queen of Lower Egypt?" she hailed airily, striking an
attitude. She had changed her dress. This was the "other one" given
her by Balcome--a confection all silver and chiffon. And this was Sue
at her youngest.
"Oh, my dear," cried her mother, "it's lovely!"
Startled by the unexpected admiration, Sue relaxed the pictorial
attitude. "You--you really like it, mother?"
"I think it's _adorable_!" vowed Mrs. Milo. "A perfect _dream_!--Don't
you think so, Mr. Farvel?"
He smiled. "I've never seen Miss Susan look more charming," he
declared.
His compliment heightened the color in Sue's cheeks. "I--I just
happened across it," she explained, "so I thought I'd try it on."
Mrs. Milo prepared to go. "By the way, Susan," she said. "I've
changed my mind about Europe."
"You're not going?" Sue looked pleased.
"Oh, yes, I'm going. But--I've decided not to take you."
"Oh." Sue looked down, that her mother and Farvel might not guess at
her relief and her happiness.
Her mother went on: "It's quite true what you said yesterday. You
_have_ been tied to me too closely. We need a change from each other."
She spoke with great gentleness. Smiling at Sue, the elder woman noted
how cruelly the bright sunlight of the Close brought out all the lines
in her daughter's face, emphasized the aging of the throat and the
graying of the hair.
"Besides," continued the silvery voice, "it would be a very expensive
trip--with four in the party."
"Four?"
"Poor dear Wallace, I'm going to take him with me. His happiness is
ruined, and where would he go without me? Not to Peru--alone. I
couldn't permit that. He is absolutely broken-hearted. I must try to
heal his wound.--Oh, I'm not criticizing the way Hattie has treated
him. But his mother must not be the one to fail him now,--the darling!"
"I want you to make any arrangement, any decision, that will mean
comfort and happiness to you and Wallace," said Sue. And felt all at
once a sudden, new, sweet sense of freedom.
"And I feel that Mrs. Balcome and I will need a man along," added Mrs.
Milo. "If you were to go also----"
"I am just as satisfied not to."
"--It would take more money than we shall have. And as Hattie's mother
is going, doubtless Hattie will be glad enough to have you here to
chaperone her."
"Yes."
"But then do anything you like. You'll remember that yesterday you
twitted me about having to be waited on. I'll prove to you, my dear,
that I can get on without you."
"Yes," said Sue, again. "And for what it would cost to take me, you
can hire the best of attention."
"That's true, though I hadn't thought of it. But for a woman of my
years, I'm very active. I need no attention, really.--Just see, will
you, if there isn't a hook loose here on this shoulder? Mrs. Balcome
was downstairs when I dressed."
Sue looked. "It's all right, mother dear."
"And this bonnet"--she gave it a petulant twitch--"you know it's
heavier on one side than the other. I told you that when you were
making it."
"I'm sorry, mother." Sue adjusted the bonnet with deft hands.
"And now I have a thousand things to do!" It was like a dismissal of
Sue. Two things had come between them: on Sue's part, it was the
sudden knowledge of her mother's character--of its depths and its
shallows; while on the part of the elder woman, it was injured pride,
and never-to-be-forgotten mortification.
Mrs. Milo floated away to the door. "And Mr. Farvel has a great secret
to tell you," she chirped as she went; "--a wonderful secret." She
turned to blink both eyes at the clergyman roguishly. "He's going to
confess to you." Then she held out the bride's bouquet, and with such
a peremptory gesture that Sue came to take it from her. Next she shook
a finger at Farvel. "Now out with it, Alan!" she commanded.
"Alan!" gasped Sue, under her breath. She gave her mother a tiny push.
"Yes, go, mother! Hurry! You're wanted at the telephone!"
"I'm wanted at the steamship office," answered Mrs. Milo. "Oh, think
of it!--Egypt! The Holy Land! The Garden of Eden!"
Left alone, both Farvel and Sue found the moment embarrassing. She
went back to the sun-dial, picking at the flowers of the bouquet. He
stood apart, hands rammed in pockets.
Presently, "Well, I--I don't have to go to Europe." She smiled at him
shyly.
"No. That's--that's good."
"And--and when I went out you--you were saying----"
It helped him. "I was trying to--to make a clean breast of something,"
he began, faltering. "But--but--oh, she can tell you best." He looked
up at the window of his study. "Hattie!" he called. "Hattie!"
"Yes, Alan!" A rose fell upon the grass; then Hattie looked down at
them, radiant and laughing, her fair hair blowing about her face.
"Come here, little woman."
"All right." The fair head disappeared.
"Hattie!" Sue was like one in a dream.
"You're--you're shocked. But wait----"
"No--no. That is,--not the way you mean." Then as the truth came to
her, she went unsteadily to a bench, sat, and leaned her head on a
hand. Now she understood why her mother was willing to leave her
behind!
Hattie came tearing across the grass to her. "Oh, Sue! Oh, you're
crying! Oh, _dear_ Sue, you're crying!" She knelt, her arms about the
elder woman.
"Of _course_ I'm crying," answered Sue. "That's what I always do when
I--I see that someone is happy."
"Oh, Sue! Sue!" The girl clung to her. "Don't think too badly of me.
It came out last night--when Alan and I were talking. I told him I
didn't love Wallace the way I should--oh, Sue, _you_ know I never
have--and that it was because I loved someone else. And, oh, he grew
so--so white--he was so hurt--and I told him--I had to. It just poured
out of my soul, Sue. It had been kept in so long."
"You darling girl!" They clung to each other, murmuring.
"Now you know why I was so--so broken up yesterday," explained Farvel.
"It wasn't--Laura. It was Hattie."
"Oh, we've cared for each other from the first!" confessed Hattie.
"And we've settled how it is all going to be. I'll stay in New York,
where we can be near each other, and see each other now and then--oh,
we shall be only friends, Sue. But I'd rather have his friendship than
the love of any other man I've ever known. And we'll be patient. And
if we can't ever be more than friends, we'll be glad just for that.
See how happy you've been, Sue, with no one--all these years. And here
I shall have Alan."
"Ah, my dear girl!" exclaimed Sue. She stroked the bright hair. "Ah,
my dear girl!"
"Oh, Sue, you mean you haven't been happy? Why don't you marry?"
Sue laughed. "_I_? What an idea! Why, I don't think I've ever even
had the thought. Anyhow, the years have gone--the inclination is gone,
if it ever was there. I'm too old." Then with sudden and passionate
earnestness, "But you two." She rose and took each by a hand, and led
them to the dial. "Read! Read what is written in the stone!--_Tempus
Fugit_--time flies! Oh, take your happiness while you can! Don't
wait. Oh, don't!--We must find a way somehow. The Church--we must see
the proper authorities--oh, it isn't right that you two should be
punished----"
"Momsey!" Peter, the pale, was calling from the drawing-room door.
"There's a gentleman----"
A man appeared behind the boy, and pushed past into the Close--a young
man, unshaven and haggard, with bloodshot eyes.
"Is there something I can do for you?" asked Farvel, quickly. He
hastened toward the visitor, who looked as if he had suddenly gone mad.
"Hull is my name," announced the man; "--Felix Hull."
"Oh, yes," said Sue, eagerly. She signed to Hattie to go, and the girl
hastened away through the door under the wedding-bell.
"You have news?" questioned Farvel.
Hull crossed the lawn to the dial. He walked slowly, like an old man.
And his shoulders were bent. His derby hat was off, and he clutched it
in two shaking hands.
"Tell us," bade Sue. "It's--bad news?"
"Yes."
"Take your time," she added kindly.
"Yesterday--just before you saw her--I was there. She was--well, you
know. She begged me to go--and keep away from the house. That made me
suspicious. I told her I wouldn't come back. Well, I didn't. Because
I never left. I knew she wasn't telling me the truth--I beg your
pardon, sir.--So I hung around. I saw you all go in. After a little,
I saw her come out--on the run. I followed. She went about twenty
blocks----"
"Where?"
"You're Miss Milo, aren't you?"
"Susan Milo."
"She spoke of you--oh, so--so loving. Well, it was a girl's
club--called the Gramercy. I knew it well because we'd met there many
a time. I went in. There was a new maid on hand, but I saw Clare.
She came right away, like as if she was more than glad to have a talk.
I didn't expect that, so I'd brought along a canary--to make her think
it was hers--the one she'd left behind, you see,--so she couldn't just
refuse to see me. Well, we talked. There wasn't any quarreling. She
wasn't a bit broke up--that surprised me. And it threw me clean off my
guard. She was highty-tighty, as you might say, and I'll admit it
hurt. We shook hands though, when I went, but she didn't ask me to
stay to tea." He turned to Farvel. "One thing she said about the
child she wanted you to know."
"What?"
"It's not your daughter, sir."
"Ah."
"And I hear from the St. Clair woman that the little one isn't as old
as Clare said. So----"
"I understand."
"Well, this morning, when I woke up--I didn't sleep much to speak of
last night--I got to thinking about--her. And I made up my mind that
I'd go look her up, and--and be a friend to her anyhow." His voice
broke. "I was fond of her, Miss Milo."
"She was gone?"
He nodded. "She'd been gone since the night before. Went out, the
maid said, with no hat on and a letter in her hand--for the post. And
she hadn't come back. I tell you, that worried me. I was half-crazy."
He tried to control his voice, to keep back the tears.
"Then it's very bad news," ventured Farvel. He laid a hand on the
other man's sleeve.
"I went over to the St. Clair house," Hull went on. "Clare hadn't been
there. Then--I knew. So I went to the one place--that was likely----"
"You mean----" asked Farvel. "Oh, not that! Not that!"
"She was there. She'd spoken about the river. That's why I was sure."
"The river!" gasped Sue. "Oh, what are you saying?"
"She'd done as she said," answered Hull, quietly.
Sue sank to a bench. "Oh, that cry of hers, yesterday!" she reminded,
breaking down. "Do you remember, Mr. Farvel? When she saw you--'It's
all over! It's all over!' Oh, why did I let her out of my sight!"
"It's my fault," declared Hull, hoarsely. "I was too hard on her. Too
hard." He turned away.
Farvel went to him and held out his hand. Hull took it, and they stood
in silence for a long moment. Then Hull drew back. There was a queer,
distorted smile on his face. "This comes of a man's thinking he's
smart," he declared. "I wanted to show her I was on--instead of
letting her explain it all to me. But I've always been like that--too
smart--too smart." He turned and went out, walking unsteadily.
It was Sue who broke the news to Hattie. And when the latter had left
to rejoin her mother at the hotel (for it was agreed that it would be
better if Farvel and the girl did not see each other again until
later). Sue came back into the Close--to wait for Barbara.
She waited beside the dial. There was nothing girl-like in her
posture. Her shoulders were as bent as Hull's had been. The high
color was gone from her face. And the gray eyes showed no look of
youth. She felt forsaken, and old, and there was an ache in her throat.
"Well, the poor trapped soul is gone," she said presently, out loud to
herself. She looked down at the dial. "Time is not for her any more.
But rest--and peace."
What changes had come while just these last twenty-four hours were
flying! while the shadow on that dial had made its single turn!
"And here you are, Susan, high and dry." She had wept for another; she
laughed at herself. "Here you are, as Ikey says, 'All fixed up, und by
your lonesomes.' But never mind any lamentations, Susan." For her
breast was heaving in spite of herself. "Your hands are free--don't
forget that? And you can do l-l-l-lots of helpful things--for your
pocket is lined. And there must be something ahead for you, Susan!
There must be s-s-s-something!"
"Miss Susan!" Someone had come from the drawing-room.
"Dora!" But she kept her face turned away, lest she betray her tears.
"It is your humble servant," acknowledged Dora.
"Well, my humble servant, listen to me: I want you to pack my things
into that old trunk of father's. And put my typewriter into its case,
and screw the cover down. And when I send you word, you'll bring both
to me. But--no one is to know where you come."
Dora's eyes bulged with the very mystery of it--the excitement. "Miss
Susan," she vowed gravely, "I shall follow your instructions if my life
is spared!"
"And now--bring the little one."
"In all my orphanage experience," confided Dora, delaying a moment to
impart this important news, "I've never heard so much mother-talk.
Since last night, she's not stopped for one _second_! I gave her a hot
lemonade to get her to sleep. And she was awake this morning when it
was still dark. I think"--with feeling--"that if she doesn't get her
mother pretty soon, she'll--she'll----" But words failed her. She
wagged her head and went out.
Sue stood for a moment, looking straight before her, her eyes wide and
grave. Presently, a smile lighted them, and softened all her face.
She turned. Her hat and the long coat were on the bench with the toys.
She went to put them on, buttoning the coat carefully over the silver
gown. Next, she took from a pocket the ring that her brother had given
her. She held it up for the sun; to shine upon it. Then, very
deliberately, she slipped it upon the third finger of her left hand.
A movement within the house, a patter of small feet at the drawing-room
door, and Sue turned. There stood a little girl in a dress of faded
gingham. Down her back by a string hung a shabby hat. But her shoes
were new and shining.
In one hand she carried a doll.
She glanced up and around--at the ivy-grown wall of the Church, at the
stained-glass windows glowing in the light, at the darting birds, the
wedding-bell, the massed flowers and palms; and down at the grass, so
neat and vividly green, and cool. Last of all, she looked at Sue.
Sue knelt, and held out both hands, smilingly, invitingly; then waited,
dropping her arms to her sides again.
Barbara came nearer, but paused once more, and the brown eyes studied
the gray. This for a long moment, when the child smiled back at Sue,
as if reassured, and nodded confidingly.
"Oh, this is a beautiful garden," she said. "And after today, I'm
going to live where there's flowers all the time! My mother, she's
come back from Africa. My father hasn't, because he's got to hunt
lions. But my mother and me, we're going to live in a little cottage
in--in, well, some place. And there's a garden a-a-all around the
cottage,"--she made a sweeping gesture with one short arm--"a garden of
roses! And I'm going to have my mother every day. And she loves me!
And she's good, and brave, and sweet, and pretty."
At that moment, Sue Milo was beautiful. All the tenderness of a heart
starved of its rightful love looked from her eyes. And her face shone
as if lighted by a flame. "I--love you!" she said tremulously.
"Do you?"--there was an answering look of love in the eyes of the child.
"Oh, _so_ tenderly!"
The little face sobered. The small figure moved forward a step.
"I'm--I'm glad"--almost under her breath. "Because--because I love
_you_, too." Then coming still closer, and looking earnestly into
those eyes so full of gentle sweetness, "Who--are--you?"
"Barbara,"--Sue's arms went out again, yearningly--"Barbara, I--am your
mother."
"Mother!"--the cry rang through the Close. The child flung herself
into those waiting arms, clasping Sue with her own. "Oh, mother!
Mother! _Mother_!"
"My baby! My baby!"
Now past the open door of the Church, walking two and two in their
white cottas, came the choir. And their voices, high and clear, sang
that verse of Ikey's song which Sue loved best--
"_O happy harbor of God's Saints!
O sweet and pleasant soil!
In Thee no sorrow can be found,
Nor grief, nor care, nor toil!_"
Before the song was done, Barbara's hat was on, and with
"Lolly-Poppins" and the woolly lamb under an arm; with Sue similarly
burdened with the Kewpie, the new doll, and the duck that could quack,
the two went, hand in hand, across the lawn to that little white door
through which forsaken babies had often come, but through which one
lovingly claimed was now to go. And the little white door opened to
the touch of Sue's hand--and through it, to a new life and a new
happiness; to service sweet beyond words, went a new mother--and with
her, a new-found daughter.