Cherry's little bedroom under the roof was bright with the confusion of cheap finery scattered everywhere and swept aside at the sudden entrance of the death angel. A neighbor had done her best to push away the crude implements of complexion that were littering the cheap oak bureau top, and the doctor's case and bottles and glasses crowded out the giddy little accessories of beauty that Cherry had collected. Two chairs piled high with draggled finery, soiled work aprons and dresses made a forlorn and miscellaneous disorder in one corner, and the closet door sagged open with visions of more clothing hung many deep upon the few hooks.

Mrs. Fenner stood at the head of the bed wringing her hands and moaning uncontrolledly, and Cherry, little Cherry, lay whitely against the pillow, the color all gone from her ghastly pretty little face, that had lately hid its ravished health and beauty behind a camouflage of paint. There were deep dark circles under the limpid eyes that now were full of mortal pain, and pitiful lines around the cherry mouth that had been wont to laugh so saucily.

The doctor stood by the window with the attitude of grave waiting. The helpful neighbor lingered in the doorway, holding her elbows and taking minute note of Marilyn's dress. This might be a sad time, but one had to live afterward, and it wasn't every day you got to see a simple little frock with an air like the one the minister's daughter wore. She studied it from neck to hem and couldn't see what in the world there was about it anyway to make her look so dressed up. Not a scratch of trimming, not even a collar, and yet she could look like that!

Mercy! Was that what education and going to college did for folks?

The light of a single unshaded electric bulb shone startlingly down to the bed, making plain the shadow of death even to an inexperienced eye.

Marilyn knelt beside the bed and took Cherry's cold little hand in her own warm one. The waxen eyelids fluttered open, and a dart of something between fright and pain went over her weird little face.

“Can I do anything for you Cherry?” Marilyn's voice was tender, pitiful.

“It's too late,” whispered the girl in a fierce little whisper, “Send 'em out—I—wantta—tell—you—someth—!” The voice trailed away weakly. The doctor stepped over and gave her a spoonful of something, motioned her mother and the neighbor away, tiptoeing out himself and closing the door. The mother was sobbing wildly. The doctor's voice could be heard quieting her coldly:

The girl on the bed frowned and gathered effort to speak:

“Mark Carter—didn't mean no harm—goin'—with me—!” she broke out, her breath coming in gasps, “He was tryin'—to stop me—goin'—with—Dolph—!” The eyes closed wearily. The lips were white as chalk. She seemed to have stopped breathing!

“It's all right—Cherry—” Marilyn breathed softly, “It's all right—I understand! Don't think any more about it!”

The eyes opened fiercely again, a faint determination shadowed round the little mouth:

“You gotta know—!” she broke forth again with effort. “He was good to me—when I was a little kid, and when he found I was in trouble—” the breath came pitifully in gasps—“he—offered—to—marry me!”

Marilyn's fingers trembled but she held the little cold hand warmly and tried to keep back the tears that trembled in her eyes.

“He—didn't—want to—! He—just—done it to be kind! But I—couldn't—see—it—! That's—what—we—argued—!” Her voice grew fainter again. Marilyn with gentle controlled voice pressed the little cold hand again:

“Never mind, Cherry dear—it's all right!”

Cherry's eyes opened with renewed effort, anxiously:

“You won't—blame—Mark—? He never—did—nothin'—wrong—! He's—your—friend!”

“No, Cherry! It's all right!”

The girl seemed to have lost consciousness again, and Marilyn wondered if she ought not to call the doctor, but suddenly Cherry screamed out:

“There he is again! He's come for me! Oh—I'm—a—gon' ta—die! An' I'm afrrrr-aid!”

Cherry clutched at Marilyn's arm, and looked up with far off gaze in which terror seemed frozen.

The minister's daughter leaned farther over and gathered the fragile form of the sick girl in her arms tenderly, speaking in a soothing voice:

“Listen Cherry. Don't be afraid. Jesus is here. He'll go with you!”

“But I'm afraid of Jesus!” the sharp little voice pierced out with a shudder, “I haven't been—good!”

“Then tell Him you are sorry. You are sorry, aren't you?”

“Oh, yes!” the weak voice moaned. “I—never—meant—no—harm! I only—wanted—a little—good time—!”

The eyes had closed again and she was almost gone. The doctor had come in and he now gave her another spoonful of medicine. Marilyn knew the time was short.

“Listen, Cherry, say these words after me!” Cherry's eyes opened again and fastened on her face, eagerly:

“Jesus, I'm sorry—!”

“Jesus—I'm—sor-ry—!” repeated the weak voice in almost a whisper.

“Please forgive me,” said Marilyn slowly, distinctly.

“Please—for—give—!” the slow voice repeated.

“And save me—save—!” the voice was scarcely audible.

The doctor came and stood close by the bed, looking down keenly, but Cherry roused once more and looked at them, her sharp little voice stabbing out into the silence piercingly,

“Is that—all?”

“That is all,” said Marilyn with a ring in her voice, “Jesus died to take care of all the rest! You can just rest on Him!”

“Oh-h!” The agony went out of the pinched little face, a half smile dawned and she sank into rest.

As Marilyn went home in the dawn with the morning star beginning to pale, and the birds at their early worship, something in her own heart was singing too. Above the feeling of awe over standing at the brink of the river and seeing a little soul go wavering out, above even the wonder that she had been called to point the way, there sang in her soul a song of jubilation that Mark was exonerated from shame and disgrace. Whatever others thought, whatever she personally would always have believed, it still was great that God had given her this to make her know that her inner vision about it had been right. Perhaps, sometime, in the days that were to come, Mark would tell her about it, but there was time enough for that. Mark would perhaps come to see her this morning. She somehow felt sure that at least he would come to say he was glad she had stayed with his mother. It was like Mark to do that. He never let any little thing that was done for him or his pass unnoticed.

But the morning passed and Mark did not come. The only place that Mark went was to see Billy.

“Billy, old man,” he said, sitting down by the edge of the bed where Billy was drowsing the early morning away, just feeling the bed, and sensing Saxy down there making chicken broth, and knowing that the young robins in the apple tree under the window were grown up and flown away. “Billy, I can't keep my promise to you after all. I've got to go away. Sorry, kid, but she'll come to see you and I want you to tell her for me all about it. I'm not forgetting it, Kid, either, and you'll know, all the rest of my life, you and I are buddies! Savvy, Kid?”

Billy looked at Mark with big understanding eyes. There was sadness and hunger and great self control in that still white face that he worshipped so devotedly. All was not well with his hero yet. It came to him vaguely that perhaps Mark too had even yet something to learn, the kind of thing that was only learned by going through fire. He struggled for words to express himself, but all he could find were:

“I say, Mark, why'n't'tya get it off'n yer chest? It's great!”

Perhaps there wouldn't have been another human in Sabbath Valley, except perhaps it might have been Marilyn who would have understood that by this low growled suggestion Billy was offering confession of sin as a remedy for his friend's ailment of soul, but Mark looked at him keenly, almost tenderly for a long minute, and shook his head, his face taking on a grayer, more hopeless look as he said:

“I can't, Kid. It's too late!”

Billy closed his eyes for a moment. He felt it wasn't quite square to see into his friend's soul that way when he was off his guard, but he understood. He had passed that way himself. It came to him that nothing he could say would make any difference. He would have liked to tell of his own experience in the court room and how he had suddenly known that all his efforts to right his wrong had been failures, that there was only One who could do it, but there were no words in a boy's vocabulary to say a thing like that. It sounded unreal. It had to be felt, and he found his heart kept saying over and over as he lay there waiting with closed eyes for Mark to speak: “Oh, God! Why'n'tchoo show him Yerself? Why'n'tchoo show him Yerself?” He wondered if Miss Lynn couldn't have shown Mark if he had only gone and talked it over with her. But Mark said it was too late, “Well, Why'n'tchoo show him Yerself, then? Why'n'tchoo show him Yerself, God,—please!”

Mark got up with a long sigh:

“Well, s'long, Kid, till I see you again. And I won't forget Kid, you know I won't forget! And Kid, I'm leaving my gun with you. I know you'll take good care of it and not let it do any damage. You might need it you know to take care of your Aunt, or—or—Miss Severn—or!”

“Sure!” said Billy with shining eyes clasping the weapon that had been Mark's proud possession for several years. “Aw Gee! Ya hadn't oughtta give me this! You might need it yourself.”

“No, Kid, I'd rather feel that you have it. I want to leave someone here to kind of take my place—watching—you know. There'll be times—!”

“Sure!” said Billy, a kind of glory overspreading his thin eager face. “Aw Gee! Mark!”

And long after Mark had gone, and the sound of his purring engine had died away in the distance, Billy lay back with the weapon clasped to his heart, and a weird kind of rhythm repeating itself over and over somewhere in his spirit: “Why'n'tchoo show him Yerself, God? Why'n'tchoo show him Yerself? You will! I'll bet You will! yet!”

And was that anything like the prayer of faith translated into theological language?

Aunt Saxon went up tiptoe with the broth and thought he was asleep and tiptoed down again to keep it warm awhile. But Billy lay there and felt like Elisha after the mantle of the prophet Elijah had fallen upon him. It gave him a grand solemn feeling, God and he were somehow taking Mark's place till Mark got ready to come back and do it himself. He was to take care of Sabbath Valley as far as in him lay, but more particularly of Miss Marilyn Severn.

And then suddenly, without warning, Miss Marilyn herself went away, to New York she said, for a few weeks, she wasn't sure just how long. But there was something sad in her voice as she said it, and something white about the look she wore that made him sure she was not going to the part of New York where Mark Carter lived.

Billy accepted it with a sigh. Things were getting pretty dry around Sabbath Valley for him. He didn't seem to get his pep back as fast as he had expected. For one thing he worried a good deal, and for another the doctor wouldn't let him play baseball nor ride a bicycle yet for quite a while. He had to go around and act just like a “gurrull!” Aw Gee! Sometimes he was even glad to have Mary Little come across the street with her picture puzzles and stay with him awhile. She was real good company. He hadn't ever dreamed before that girls could be as interesting. Of course, Miss Marilyn had to be a girl once, but then she was Miss Marilyn. That was different.

Then too, Billy hadn't quite forgotten that first morning that Saxy got her arms around him and cried over him glad tears, bright sweet tears that wet his face and made him feel like crying happy tears too. And the sudden surprising desire he felt to hug her with his well arm, and how she fell over on the bed and got to laughing because he pulled her hair down in his awkwardness, and pulled her collar crooked. Aw Gee! She was just Aunt Saxy and he had been rotten to her a lot of times. But now it was different. Somehow Saxy and he were more pals, or was it that he was the man now taking care of Saxy and not the little boy being taken care of himself? Somehow during those weeks he had been gone Saxy had cried out the pink tears, and was growing smiles, and home was “kinda nice” after all. But he missed the bells. And nights before he got into bed he got to kneeling down regularly, and saying softly inside his heart: “Aw Gee, God, please why'n'tcha make Mark understand, an' why'n'tcha bring 'em both home?”