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Poor Rose, with “custom made” on every seam of the purple! But Jerry was hardly listening. His eyes were on the girl among the pillows.

“I see,” said Jerry slowly. “You haven’t said yet, Elizabeth. Are you going home?”

“If–they want me.”

“Of course they want you!” Again Rose: “Why shouldn’t they? You’ve been a good girl and a credit to any family. If they say anything mean to you you let me know.”

“They’ll not be mean to her. I’m sure they’ll want to write and thank you. If you’ll just give me your address, Mrs. Sweeney—-“

He had a pencil poised over a notebook. Rose hesitated. Then she gave her address on the Avenue, with something of bravado in her voice. After all, what could this country-store clerk know of the Avenue? Jerry wrote it down carefully.

“Sweeney–with an e?” he asked politely.

“With three e’s,” corrected Rose, and got up with dignity.

“Well, good-bye, dearie,” she said. “You’ve got your friends now and you don’t need me. I guess you’ve had your lesson about going to sleep with a cig–about being careless with fire. Drop me a postal when you get the time.”

She shook hands with Jerry and rustled and jingled down the ward, her chin well up. At the door she encountered Old Maggie, her arms full of bandages.

“How’s the Avenue?” asked Old Maggie.

Rose, however, like all good actresses, was still in the part as she made her exit. She passed Old Maggie unheeding, severe respectability in every line of her figure, every nod of her purple plumes. She was still in the part when she encountered the Probationer.

“It’s going like a house afire!” she said. “He swallowed it all–hook and bait! And–oh, yes, I’ve got something for you.” She went down into her silver bag and pulled out a roll of bills. “I’ve felt meaner’n a dog every time I’ve thought of you buying that parrot. I’ve got a different view of life–maybe–from yours; but I’m not taking candy from a baby.”

When the Probationer could speak Rose was taking herself and the purple into the elevator and waving her a farewell.

“Good-bye!” she said. “If ever you get stuck again just call on me.”

With Rose’s departure silence fell behind the screen. The girl broke it first.

“They’re all well, are they?”

“All well. Your mother’s been kind of poorly. She thought you’d write to her.” The girl clenched her hands under the bedclothing. She could not speak just then. “There’s nothing much happened. The post office burned down last summer. They’re building a new one. And–I’ve been building. I tore down the old place.”

“Are you going to be married, Jerry?”

“Some day, I suppose. I’m not worrying about it. It was something to do; it kept me from–thinking.”

The girl looked at him and something gripped her throat. He knew! Rose might have gone down with her father, but Jerry knew! Nothing was any use. She knew his rigid morality, his country-bred horror of the thing she was. She would have to go back–to Rose and the others. He would never take her home.

Down at the medicine closet the Probationer was carbolising thermometers and humming a little song. Everything was well. The Avenue Girl was with her people and at seven o’clock the Probationer was going to the roof–to meet some one who was sincerely repentant and very meek.

In the convalescent ward next door they were singing softly–one of those spontaneous outbursts that have their origin in the hearts of people and a melody all their own:

‘Way down upon de S’wanee Ribber,
Far, far away,
Dere’s wha my heart is turnin’ ebber–
Dere’s wha de old folks stay.

It penetrated back of the screen, where the girl lay in white wretchedness–and where Jerry, with death in his eyes, sat rigid in his chair.

“Jerry?”

“Yes.”

“I–I guess I’ve been pretty far away.”

“Don’t tell me about it!” A cry, this.

“You used to care for me, Jerry. I’m not expecting that now; but if you’d only believe me when I say I’m sorry—-“