take her. It was one of those low theatres that do so much damage to
the like of her; there was a gambling den one side of it, an eating
saloon the other, and at the door of it lounged a scamp I knew very
well, looking like a big spider watching for a fly. I longed to
fling my billy at him; but as I couldn't, I held on to the girl. I
was new to the thing then, but though I'd heard about hunger and
homelessness often enough, I'd never had this sort of thing, nor
seen that look on a girl's face. A white, pinched face hers was,
with frighted, tired-looking eyes, but so innocent; she wasn't more
than sixteen, had been pretty once I saw, looked sick and starved
now, and seemed just the most helpless, hopeless little thing that
ever was.

"'You'd better come to the Station for to-night, and we'll see to
you to-morrow,' says I.

"'Thank you, sir,' says she, looking as grateful as if I'd asked her
home. I suppose I did speaks kind of fatherly. I ain't ashamed to
say I felt so, seeing what a child she was; nor to own that when she
put her little hand in mine, it hurt me to feel how thin and cold it
was. We passed the eating-house where the red lights made her face
as rosy as it ought to have been; there was meat and pies in the
window, and the poor thing stopped to look. It was too much for her;
off came her shawl, and she said in that coaxing way of hers,--

"'I wish you'd let me stop at the place close by and sell this;
they'll give a little for it, and I'll get some supper. I've had
nothing since yesterday morning, and maybe cold is easier to bear
than hunger.'