A bewildered look swept over the child’s face.  “Away!” she echoed, “to leave Nan an’ Pwimwose an’ the horsies?  Me’ll do too, Don.  He’ll do anywhere wid oo, Don.”

“I wish I could take you!” and John strained her to his breast.  “But there is no Neptune to carry us now, little one.  Your father sold him this afternoon.”

“My nice Nepshun!” The child’s lip quivered, but something in the suffering face above her made her say quickly, “Me’ll be dood, Don, an’ when oo turn back, me’ll be waitin’ at de gate.”

She patted his cheek confidingly.  “Nice Don!  Nan loves oo, dear, an’ Desus.  Nan loves Desus ’cause oo do, Don.”

John’s voice choked.  “Keep on loving, Nansie.”

“Yes, me will.  Does Desus carry de little chil’en in his arms like oo do, Don?  Me’s so comf’able.  Me loves Desus.”

The little arm, soft and warm, crept closer around his neck, while the golden curls swept his cheek.  “Oo’s my bootiful man, Don.  Me’ll marry oo when me gets big,” and then, all unconscious of the sorrow which should greet her in the morning, the baby slept.

To and fro across the floor John trod lightly with his precious burden.  His arms never felt the weight.  They would be such empty arms bye-and-bye!  Then at last he laid her down, and, taking a pair of scissors from his pocket, he carefully severed one of the golden rings of hair, and laid it within the folds of the handkerchief which he still carried in his vest pocket.  The fair girl and the little child.  These should be his memory of womanhood.

[Illustration:  ’ME’LL DO ANYWHERE, WIV OO, DON.]

* * * * *

In Reginald’s room kind-hearted Mrs. Hawthorne was weeping bitterly.  She loved John as her own son, but no one ever dreamed of disputing the tyrannical dictates of the master of Hollywood, however unjust they might be.

Reginald lay as John had left him with his face buried in the pillows and utterly refused to be comforted.  What comfort could there be if John was going away?  It never occurred to him that his mother needed cheer as much as he.  Like all selfish souls his own pain completely filled his horizon.

CHAPTER X.

“I don’t see what we are to do about Evadne!” and Mrs. Hildreth sighed disconsolately.  “She looks like a walking shadow.  I should not be surprised if she had inherited her father’s disease, and they say now that consumption is as contagious as diphtheria.”

“Horrors!” cried Isabelle.  “Do quarantine her somewhere, Mamma, until you are quite sure there is no danger.  I haven’t the faintest aspirations to martyrdom.”

“It is a great care,” sighed Mrs. Hildreth.  “All of you children have always been so healthy.  I don’t believe Doctor Russe will listen to her going to the seaside, and the mountains are so monotonous!  Other people’s children are a great responsibility.”