her weep. He went closer to her, and laid a pitying hand on her shoulder.
"You're all broken up," he said. "You've got to get some rest. You must go home in the morning and stay there."
She did not appear to heed his admonition, but she put her hand up, and rested it on his.
"There's a favor I want to ask of you, Barry. I've been thinking about it to-day. You know, a long time ago, you brought me a check as a gift from your company, and I refused it. You brought it again and I still refused it. You urged me many times to take it. Is that check still in existence?"
"Yes, I have it. It was charged up to our charity account when it was issued, and it still stands that way."
"Well, Barry, my pride is all gone now. If you should offer it to me again I'd—I'd take it."
"You shall have it. It's yours. I'll bring it to you the first thing in the morning."
"Thank you! I can do so much with the money now. Oh, so much! It will be a godsend to Factory Hill."
The shawl-clad woman in the kitchen rose, gathered a few sticks of wood from a corner of the room, thrust them into the stove, and again seated herself, crouching, silent, over the inadequate fire.
"And there's another thing, Barry, but I can't tell you that to-night. I've got to have a stronger heart when I tell you that, because you've been so unselfish, and brave, and splendid in every way, and I dread to hurt you."
He looked down at her questioningly.
"What is it, Mary?"
"Not to-night. I said, not to-night."
"Very well. Then if I can't do anything more for you I'll be going. You have food enough to last till morning?"
