Sam Kimper hurried through a new street, sparsely settled, crossed a
large vacant lot, tramped over the grounds of an unused foundry, and
finally went through a vacancy in a fence on which there were only
enough boards to show what the original plan had been. A heap of ashes,
a dilapidated chicken-coop, and a forest of tall dingy weeds were the
principal contents of the garden, which had for background a small
unpainted house in which were several windows which had been repaired
with old hats and masses of newspaper. As he neared the house he saw in
a cove in the weeds a barrel lying on its side, and seated in the mouth
of the barrel was a child with a thin, sallow, dirty, precocious face
and with a cat in her arms. The child stared at the intruder, who
stopped and pushed his hat to the back of his head.

"Pop!" exclaimed the child, suddenly, without moving.

"Mary!" exclaimed the man, dropping upon his knees and kissing the
dirty face again and again. "What are you doin' here?"

"Playin' house," said the child, as impassively as if to have had her
father absent two years was so common an experience that his return did
not call for any manifestation of surprise or affection.

"Stand up a minute, dear, and let me look at you. Let's see,--you're
twelve years old now, ain't you? You don't seem to have growed a bit.
How's the rest?"

"Mam's crosser an' crosser," said the child; "Joe's run away, 'cause
the constable was after him for stealin' meat from--"