High over the heads of the hurrying humanity in a street of tenements
Moira Lynch lighted her lamp and set it close to the bare window. With
her it was a ceremony. She sang as she performed the little act. Without
were the shadows of the approaching night--gloom, storm, disaster,
perhaps even the evil fairies; her lamp would scatter them all with its
glow, just as her song drove the worries from her heart.
Her lamp lighted, she paused for a moment, her head forward, listening.
Then at the sound of a light step she sprang to the door and threw it
open. A wee slip of a girl, almost one with the shadows of the dingy
hallway, ran into her arms.
"And it's so late you are, dearie! And so dark it's grown--and cold.
Your poor little hands are blue. Why, what have you here, hidin' under
your shawl? Beryl Lynch! Dear love us--a doll!" With a laugh that was
like a tinkling of low pitched bells the little mother drew the treasure
from its hiding place. But as her eyes swept the silken splendor of the
raiment her merriment changed to wonder and then to fear.
"You didn't--you didn't--oh, Beryl Lynch, you--"
"Steal it? No.
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