“While—mommy-Lyn is—in—there?” gasped the girl, turning reproachful eyes up to him. “How—could I?”
“How long have you been here?”
“Always; always!”
“Ann, you must go to your room at once! Come, I will go with you.” She rose and took his hand. There was fear in her eyes.
“Is—is mommy-Lyn—” she faltered, and Truedale understood.
“Good God!—no!” he replied; “not that!”
“I was to—to stay close to you.” Ann was trembling as she walked beside him. “She gave you—to me! She gave you to me—to keep for her!”
Truedale stopped short and looked at Ann. Confusedly he grasped the meaning of the tie that held this child to Lynda—that held them all to the strong, loving woman who was making her fight with death, for a life.
“Little Ann,” was all he could say, but he bent and kissed the child solemnly.
When morning dawned, Lynda came back—bringing her little son with her. God had spoken!