She was
sitting alone with the child during a spell of delirium, when suddenly
the little hot hands reached up passionately, and the name "mother"
quivered on the dry lips in a tone unfamiliar to Lynda's ears. She bent
close.
"What, little Ann?" she whispered.
The big, burning eyes looked puzzled. Then: "Take me to--to the
Hollow--to Miss Lois Ann!"
"Sh!" panted Lynda, every nerve tingling. "See, little Ann--don't you
know me?"
The child seemed to half understand and moaned plaintively:
"I'm lost! I'm lost!"
Lynda took her in her arms and the sick fancy passed, but from that hour
there was a new tie between the two--a deeper dependence.
There was one day when they all felt little Ann was slipping from them.
Dr. McPherson had come as near giving up hope as he ever, outwardly,
permitted himself to do.
"You had better stay at home," he said to Conning; "children are
skittish little craft. The best of them haul up anchor sometimes when
you least expect it."
So Truedale remained at home and, wandering through the quiet house,
wondered at the intensity of his suffering as he contemplated the time
on ahead without the child who had so recently come into his life from
he knew not where. He attributed it all to Ann's remarkable
characteristics.
Late in the afternoon of the anxious day he went into the sick room and
leaned over the bed.
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