THE TEARS THAT HAD ESCAPED
from her eyes despite a brave effort to keep them where they belonged. “Whatcher cryin’ about, is yer lost?” “No, I’m not, but my mamma is. A bad man lost her, and I’m trying to find her for my papa and me, ’cause we’re homesick without her.”
“Where do yer live?”
“Away, way off. I took my money from my little savings bank, and Mary bought a ticket to bring me to Toronto. She said everybody came here, and she guessed my mamma was here. I’ve just got five cents left.”
“Bully,” said the boy, “that’s just enough. If you want anything you can get it by advertising in The News for five cents.”
“Where’s that?”
“You just go down that street there until you come to the winder where all the picters is, and that’s The News.”
“How many papers do you want, little girl?” said a clerk in the business office of The News, as he put his head through a wicket to take a five-cent piece which a child was holding up.
“I don’t want any papers. I want my mamma,” said the child.
“Your mamma isn’t here, little girl. What is your name?”
“Millie Switchell, and I come to Toronto to find my mamma, but it’s so big I’m almost lost myself.”
“So you want to put an ad in The News, do you?”
“Will that find her?”
“Perhaps so.”
The news editor had entered the room while this dialogue was going on and he