“And, after all, I am just one common person!” She watched the throb of the arteries in the stem of her neck, and put her hand at last gently and almost timidly to where her heart beat beneath her breast. "At present under the care of his preserver—one Owen Wood, a carpenter, by whom he was brought up. I hoped for a family like the Becks and I waded through the system until I got them, so maybe life isn’t so damn hopeless after all. His throat filled; he wanted to weep. Will you find your destiny, I wonder, or will you go through life like so many others—a wanderer, knocking ever at empty doors, homeless to the last? Oh, if one could but find the way to your heart. " "Depend upon it, Sir.
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