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 among Rue's shadowy memories of the past, of love, and mother, and a home that was not the Home, was a dim recollection of some curious articles which her baby hands had only been allowed to touch carefully, because they were mementoes of an uncle who had died far away on a mission field. "So it would have been most like hearing about my relations; only I haven't got any," mused Rue. "Oh, dear! I wish I'd stayed good and hadn't pulled Mary Jane's hair. I didn't mean to, anyway."

She tried to find out about it afterwards by inquiring of one of the other girls.

"Oh! he wanted the children to try and save up something, so they could help send Bibles to the heathen. Guess, if he lived here long, he'd find we hadn't anything to save," was the hurried reply.

Bibles! That was where Rue was rich. She actually had two that had been brought from that faintly remembered home.

"I don't suppose I'll read one of 'em to pieces; not if I used it till I'm a big woman," she said to herself. "I might give the other one. I ought to help, 'count of being a relation, somehow, and I want to be good. I just do."

Later in the day she ventured another inquiry:

"How will he get those to the heathen?"

"I don't know. Why, yes, he'll send 'em through the post-office, of course. What do you care so much about it for?"

That was what Rue did not mean to tell. She chose her prettiest Bible, spent the play-hours of two days