Lida was a mite of ten and looked younger, because she was such a
small, wizened little creature. To-night, as she sidled boldly
enough up to the manse girls, she looked as if she had never been
warm since she was born. Her face was purple and her pale-blue,
bold little eyes were red and watery. She wore a tattered print
dress and a ragged woollen comforter, tied across her thin
shoulders and under her arms. She had walked the three miles
from the harbour mouth barefooted, over a road where there was
still snow and slush and mud. Her feet and legs were as purple
as her face. But Lida did not mind this much. She was used to
being cold, and she had been going barefooted for a month
already, like all the other swarming young fry of the fishing
village. There was no self-pity in her heart as she sat down on
the tombstone and grinned cheerfully at Faith and Una. Faith and
Una grinned cheerfully back. They knew Lida slightly, having met
her once or twice the preceding summer when they had gone down
the harbour with the Blythes.

"Hello!" said Lida, "ain't this a fierce kind of a night?
"T'ain't fit for a dog to be out, is it?"

"Then why are you out?" asked Faith.

"Pa made me bring you up some herring," returned Lida. She
shivered, coughed, and stuck out her bare feet. Lida was not
thinking about herself or her feet, and was making no bid for
sympathy. She held her feet out instinctively to keep them from
the wet grass around the tombstone. But Faith and Una were
instantly swamped with a wave of pity for her. She looked so