low roof of a tenant house, which sloped down so far in front, that
even the child could not stand upright under it, except where it was
perforated with a small attic window, which overlooked the chimneys
and gables of other tenement buildings, hived full of poverty, and
swarming with the dregs of city life.

This was the prospect on one side. On the other a door with one hinge
broken, led into a low open garret, where smoke-dried rafters slanted
grimly over head, like the ribs of some mammoth skeleton, and loose
boards, whose nails had rusted out, creaked and groaned under foot.
They made audible sounds even beneath the shadowy tread of the little
girl, as she glided toward the top of a stair-case unrailed and out
in the floor like the mouth of a well. Here she sat down, supporting
her head with one hand, in an attitude of touching despondency.

"I wonder oh, I wonder, if he will come!" she repeated, looking
mournfully downward.

It was a dreary view, those flights of broken stairs, slippery and
sodden with the water daily carried over them. They led by other
tenement rooms, which sent forth a confusion of mingled voices, but
opened with a glimpse of pure light upon the street below.

But for this gleam of light, breaking as it were, like a smile through
the repulsive vista, Mary Fuller might have given up in absolute
despair, for she was an imaginative child, and glimpses of light like
that came like an inspiration to her.

After all, what was it that kept the child chained for an hour to
one spot, gazing so earnestly down toward the opening? Did she expect