kind? Like," she faltered, "like Jesus was kind? He wouldn't have hurt
anything. He loved animals--and He loved boys, too. Why don't you try to
be the sort of a boy He could love? Why do you try to be bad--to do
wrong things?"

The eyes of the child were even more sullen--the twist of his mouth was
even more grim as he listened to Rose-Marie. But when she had finished
speaking, he answered her--and still he did not try to run away.

"Wot," he questioned, almost in the words of the Young Doctor, "wot do
you know about things that's right an' things that's wrong? It ain't bad
t' hurt animals--not if they're little enough so as they ain't able t'
hurt you!"

Rose-Marie sat down, very suddenly, upon the bench. In all of her
life--her sheltered, glad life--she had never heard such a brutal creed
spoken, and from the lips of a child! Her eyes, searching his face, saw
that he was not trying to be funny, or saucy, or smart. Curiously enough
she noted that he was quite sincere--that, to him, the torturing of a
kitten was only a part of the day with its various struggles and
amusements. When she spoke again her tone was gentle--as gentle as the
tone with which the other slum children, who came to the Settlement
House, were familiar.

"Whoever told you," she questioned, "that it's not wrong to hurt an
animal, so long as it can't fight back?"

The boy eyed her strangely. Rose-Marie could almost detect a gleam of
latent interest in his dark eyes. And then, as if he had gained a sort of
confidence in her, he answered.