reply in kind. And slowly upon the child's face an answering smile began
to dawn--little crinkles at the corners of the drooping mouth, little
flickerings in the blue eyes, until at last the two beaming faces
pledged--on the part of the man tender protection, on the part of the
child unquestioning confidence.

But he said no word--he dared not trust his voice.

He went down on his knees cautiously, her smile welcoming him now.

He held out his hands. She hesitated a moment and then gave into them
her chiefest possession--her rag doll. It was as if she had pledged her
faith in him. He danced the doll upon his broad palm, and the child's
eyes, dancing too, thanked him for the courtesy he was paying to her
dearest friend.

But Walker Farr realized that something strange and disquieting in the
case of a man who believed himself a cynic was stirring within him.
That hostage of the doll was not sufficient to satisfy the sudden queer
craving. The knowledge of the hopeless helplessness of that little girl
throbbed through him. The memory of the spectacle of what he had left on
the canal bank made the pathos of this little scene in the garret doubly
poignant as he looked into the child's eyes. Never, in his memory, had
he invited a child to come to him.

Now he put out his hand--and it trembled. She snuggled her warm little
fist into his grasp. And then she scrambled up and came and nestled
confidingly against him. She couldn't see his face then, and he allowed
the tears of a strong man who is overcome before he has understood--who
wonders at himself--he allowed those tears to streak his cheeks and did