complicated itinerary, repeating it over and over to fix it in her mind.
She was fearful, too, lest some inquisitive neighbour, catching sight of
them, might stop them and challenge to know their business. The streets
once gained, she felt easier--easier indeed with every yard she put
between her and that house of horrors. But the streets, too, held their
dangers. The bells had rung in the elementary schools; all respectable
boys and girls were indoors, deep in the afternoon session, and she had
heard of attendance officers, those prowling foes.

At the end of Pollard's Row--a squalid street of tenement houses--she
suffered indeed a terrible scare. A benevolent-looking middle-aged
lady--a district visitor, in fact--emerging from one of these houses and
arrested perhaps at sight of the crutch or of the boy's strange rags,
stopped her and asked where she was going.

Tilda fell back on the truth. It was economical.

"To the 'orspital," she answered, "the Good Samaritan."

Then she blundered.

"It's 'ereabouts, ain't it, ma'am?"

"Not very far," replied the lady; "two or three streets only. Shall I
show you the way? I have plenty of time."

"Thank you," said Tilda (she was suffering a reaction, and for a moment
it dulled the edge of her wits), "but I know the Good Samaritan, an'
they know all about me."