not wipe them away.

Walker Farr was too perturbed to soliloquize just then in his
philosopher's style, but he did realize that some part of his altruism
had come out of its trance.

And after he had knelt there on the floor for a time he rose and took
the child in his arms and sat down in a creaky rocking-chair and crooned
under his breath, and was astonished to find that she had gone sound
asleep. He stared into the dusk that was gathering outside the dormer
window and wondered what ailed him.

He had heard many feet thudding on the stairs below. The workers were
returning. The beehive was filling. There were many voices, clatter of
dishes, chatter of patois.

He wondered how well the woman Sirois was known in the house--whether
she had relatives--how soon somebody would come and beat upon the door.

He wondered just what disposition was made of children left in this
manner.

If the woman had relatives who were forced to take the child it meant
more of this horrible tenement life. The child in his arms was pale and
thin; her bones seemed as inconsiderable as a bird's.

He did not know much about children's homes, orphanages, institutions
for the reception of the homeless, but it seemed to him that such a
tiny, frail little girl would be very, very lonely in such a place.