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He kept his hands from hers, and begged her not to touch the handkerchief he had bound around his head; but before his story was finished, a growing stain on the pillow had oozed into sight. “Here, you poor darling, take mine! And don’t be afraid—you’ll find your mother before long.” Edith’s words were brave, but her own eyes were moist. “This here dorg is clean tuckered out,” she declared, “ef he swallered a green pea, you’d see it goin’ down orl the way.” Betty said her prayers that night before her cyclamen. It seemed to her a “mornin’-glory that had been growed by an angel, its petals sparkled so, an’ it smelled so pure.” She breathed very softly her thanksgiving, with a vague feeling that it had wings and could find its way better than she knew..