of a burden--on his responsibility? He did not know. He owned up to that
ignorance frankly. But he walked on, carrying her, and put away from his
thoughts the sensible alternative of placing her in the hands of those
duly appointed to care for such cases.

He told himself that, as a stranger in the city, he would not be able
to find a refuge--an institution that time of night--and he knew that he
was lying to himself, and wondered why.

The impulse that directed his course toward the canal was rather grim,
but he remembered the tree which had been sanctuary for him that day. He
carefully lowered the little girl over the fence and climbed after her.
And she did not call any more for her mother because this strange new
scene seemed to impress her and fill her with wonderment. She stared up
into the dim, mysterious, rustling foliage of the tree for a long time.
She patted her hands upon the grass as if it were something she
had never seen or felt before. She seemed to be making her first
acquaintance with Mother Nature--claiming the heritage of outdoors that
children so intensely covet. The sloped ceiling and the walls of the
attic room had been sky and landscape for her. She peered into the still
waters of the canal and saw the stars reflected there, and cocked her
ear to listen when sleepy birds stirred above and chirped in their
dreams. And then she fell asleep again and he tucked her within his coat
to keep from her the dampness of the faint mist rising from the canal.

The dawn flushed early and she woke when the birds did, and found so
much to interest her--ants who ran up and down the tree, funny bugs that
tumbled, robins who bounced along the sward on stiff legs--that she did
not ask for her mother nor seem to find at all strange the companionship
of this tall man whose face was so kind.