The name came like a sob. And somehow Lynda thought of Burke Lawson! Burke, who had done his strong best, and still could not keep himself in control because of—lil’ Ann! The helpless baby was—oh! yes, yes—it was Truedale’s responsibility. If she, Lynda, were to keep her life—her sacred love—she, too, must do a “big thing”—perhaps the biggest a woman is ever called upon to do—to prove her faith.
For another moment she struggled; then, like a blind woman, she stretched out her hands and laid them upon the child.
“Nella-Rose, will you give—me little Ann?”
“Give her—to—you?” There was anguish, doubt, but hope, in the words.
“I want—the child! She shall have her father—her father’s home—his love, God willing! And I, Nella-Rose, as I hope for God’s mercy, I will do my duty by little Ann.”
And now Lynda was on the floor beside the shabby pair, shielding them as best she could from the last wrench and renunciation.
“Are you doing this for—for your man?” whispered Nella-Rose.
“Yes. For my—man!” They looked long into each other’s eyes. Then solemnly, slowly, Nella-Rose relinquished her hold of the child.
“I—give you—lil’ Ann.” So might she have spoken if, in religious fervour, she had been resigning her child to death. “I—I—give you lil’ Ann.” Gently she kissed the sleeping face and laid her burden in the aching, strained arms that had still to learn their tender lesson of bearing. Ann opened her eyes, her lips quivered, and she turned to her mother.
“Take—lil’ Ann!” she pleaded. Then Nella-Rose drank deep of the bitter cup, but she smiled—and spoke one of the lies over which angels have wept forgivingly since the world began.