He slackened the pace and looked at her closely. The sweater and the sunshine had brought a faint tinge of wild-rose color to the transparency of her skin. The flippancy and boldness so prominent in her eyes the day before had disappeared. She looked more as she had when she was asleep in the moonlight. A wave of kindness and brotherliness swept over him.
“I am going to tell her,” he said gently, “that you are a poor little girl who needs a friend.”
“Is that all you will tell her?”
“You may tell her as much or as little of your story as you think you should.”
“You are a good man, but,” she added thoughtfully, “the best of men don’t understand women’s ways toward each other. If I tell her my sordid little story, she may not want to help me—at least, not want to keep me up here in her home. I’ve not found women very helpful.”
“She will help you and keep you, because—” he hesitated, and then continued earnestly, “before she was married, she was a settlement worker in a large city and she understood such—”
“As I,” she finished. “I know the settlement workers. They write you up—or down—in a sort of a Rogue Record, and you are classified, indexed, filed and treated by a system.”
“She isn’t that kind!” he protested indignantly. “She does her work by her heart, not by system. Have you ever really tried to reform?”
“Yes,” she exclaimed eagerly. “I left Chicago for that purpose. I couldn’t find work. I was cold and hungry; pawned everything they would take and got shabby like this,” looking down disdainfully at herself, “but I didn’t steal, not even food. I would have starved first. Then I was arrested up here for stealing. I wasn’t guilty. Bender had no case, really; but he wouldn’t give me a square deal or listen to anything in my favor, because my record was against me. You can’t live down a record. There is no use trying.”
“Yes, there is!” he declared emphatically. “I have always thought a thief incurable, but I believe she could perform the miracle.”