no call after him. He was free to go where he would, and for reasons
that he himself could not have explained he chose that it should be
home,--that is, the place which he called home. It might not meet your
ideas of what a spot so named should be. The road to it led through one
of the meanest portions of the city. Each foot of the way the houses
seemed to grow more squalid looking, and the streets filthier. The
particular alley down which he dived at last was narrower and blacker
than any yet passed, and the cellar door which he pushed open let him
into the meanest-looking house in the row,--a long, low, dark room. In
one corner there was the remnant of a stove, braced up by bricks and
stones, but no fire was burning therein, though the day was cold.
Furniture there was none, unless the usual rickety table and two broken
chairs could be called by that name. A door was ajar that led into an
inner cellar, and a glimpse of piles of offensive looking rags, that
were called "bed-clothes" by the family, might have given you an idea of
what their home life was, as hardly any other phase of it can. The rags
were not all in the further cellar, however; a gay patch-work quilt, or
at least one that had once been gay, but from which bits of black cotton
now oozed in every direction, seemed to have curled itself in a heap
against the one window. However, it moved soon after Dirk opened the
door, and showed itself to be more than a quilt. Inside was a young
girl, the quilt wrapped around her closely, drawn up about her face and
head, as if she would hide all but her eyes within, and try to get rid
of shivering.

"You home?" she said, her tones expressing surprise, but at the same
time indifference. "What is it for?"

"Because I wanted to come. Hasn't a fellow a right to come home if he
wants to?"