Some one had brought in a pitcher of water and had lit her gas, so she sat down and tried to keep herself composed by crocheting on her wool lace.

There was no way of finding out the time, but after some hours the house grew very still and she felt sure it was late. Mrs. Jones had told her they kept the saloon open till twelve, an hour later than they would, she said, if they did not live there in the building.

Crossing the big hall there was a narrow one, with a front window in the end, and two or three times, when Marion grew very lonely, she turned down her light and stole down to this window, taking some comfort in seeing the bright light shining opposite and knowing that friendly people were almost within call.

On her last trip to gather this small comfort she found the saloon dark, and the deep shadow cast by the shed-roof above the door made it seem black as the entrance to a cavern. The sight made her feel lonely and forsaken, but the darkness told her twelve o’clock had passed and the time was coming near when she must follow Elfie. She could find the station, she thought, even if the carriage went too fast for her; but it was frightful to think of going through the lonely city streets at that hour of the night.

“I will not think about it,” she said to herself. “God is in the dark as well as in the light. He will take care of me, and for Elfie’s sake I can do any thing.”

There were sounds of movement in the room opposite, and Marion, who had long before turned out her light to avoid observation and taken her position on the chair again, listened patiently at the transom.

After a while she heard the man leave the room softly and go down-stairs, and then an occasional fretful sound from Elfie, as if she was being roused from sleep. The man came back presently, and Marion heard him say as he re-entered the room:

“The carriage has come. It is too soon, but we had better go.”

Marion softly opened her door a half inch then, and through the crack saw one of the women put Elfie carefully into the man’s arms, telling him to sit down on the sofa in the hall till she put on her hat; then, with the door open, she turned up the gas—probably they had left the room dark to keep Elfie asleep—and began to arrange her hair hurriedly at the glass.

The other woman was rapidly packing some things into a bag. In the hall close by Marion’s room was an old hair-cloth sofa, and, cautiously opening her door a trifle farther, she saw the man sitting there with Elfie sleeping in his arms. In a moment he seemed suddenly to remember something important, and, carefully laying the child, still asleep, down upon the sofa, he walked quickly back to the room, while the door, which he moved in passing along, closed behind him.

A wild thought leaped into Marion’s mind.

“O, dare I? shall I?” she asked herself. Then, with a silent cry in her heart for help from God, she sprang into the hall, lifted the heavily sleeping child in her arms, and was back in her own room with her in an instant. She laid her gently on the bed and locked the door, with her head swimming and her heart beating so madly it seemed to rise clear up in her throat and nearly strangle her.

“What next? what next?” she kept asking herself as she stood trembling by the door, thinking, perhaps, it might be soon broken down and some rapid and terrible vengeance taken upon her.

In a few moments there was a smothered commotion in the hall. They had missed Elfie and were looking wildly about for her. At first they evidently thought she had roused herself and wandered off, and they searched halls and stairs. At last there was a sound of rapid feet on the stairs, and the clerk, in some excitement, followed the man up to Number 39, exclaiming in less guarded tones than the others were using that the thing was impossible; no one could or would have interfered with the child.

Then, in answer to some proposition, Marion heard him say indignantly:

“What! Rout up all our boarders at this hour of the night? No, sir, not for any money would I do it! There’s been too much noise made already.”

But at last he seemed to consent, and himself knocked at every door, apologizing for the disturbance, asking if any one had seen a little boy that a traveler had lost.

The inquiry seemed very startling, and many people left their rooms with cloaks or ulsters thrown about them to gather particulars of the strange disappearance. Marion felt sure that Elfie had received, in preparation for a long journey, a large dose of the quieting drops, so with little fear of waking her she lifted her from the bed and laid her, with a pillow under her head, upon the floor close by the wall under the bed, first moving it away, and then, as silently as she could, rolling it back to its place, thus entirely concealing the child, who never stirred through it all.

Then she jumped into bed herself, and, when the expected inquiry came, called out sleepily:

“No; I have seen no little boy.”

Even as she spoke the child under the bed turned uneasily and groaned. A cold perspiration bathed Marion from head to foot. She thought all was lost, but there were people talking excitedly in the hall, and the small sound was drowned by the large.

The landlord, Marion learned by some remarks called out by his appearance, had now joined the party.

“What right has any one to make such a disturbance?” he asked, irritably. “If your son is really missing, madam, then the proper way for us will be to summon a detective. I can get one here in ten minutes by the telephone.”

It is not probable that Madame Belotti wished for the services of a detective, even in view of the calamity which had befallen her, for she said hastily:

“I—I—can’t wait. We must go on the next train, because a friend who is dying in New York has telegraphed for us.”

There was a distinct murmur of surprise among the spectators, who must have thought madame quite unmotherly in spite of the great anxiety she had lately shown.

The halls grew very quiet, and Marion drew the bed away from the wall so that the air might reach the little sleeper, and, not daring to lift her to the bed for fear farther search might be made, sat down on the floor by her, happy to hold her little hand in hers, although not yet daring to believe she had really rescued her.

But she was not disturbed again, and when daylight stole in through the closed blinds there was such a profound stillness all over the house that the tired girl’s watchfulness relaxed and she willingly yielded to the sleepiness she had been resolutely fighting off, and, tenderly putting Elfie into the bed, she lay down beside her and slept till the sun was so bright that she was quite sure it must be after ten o’clock.