[CHAPTER XVII.]
LEVESON'S SECRET.
THEY stood looking each at the other,—the little daintily-dressed girl, in her warm winter clothing, with furs, and muff, and sheltering jacket; and the poor child, with wasted frame, and hollow eyes, and threadbare rags, through which every gust of wind swept piercingly.
"Now, Miss Josie!"
"Yes, I know, nurse," said Josie, turning in self-defence at the sound of reproof. "But this is the same little girl I saw once before, and you know what mother said."
"Don't believe it is the same," said nurse shortly.
"O yes, it is, because I know her face. She has been living with her grandfather ever since,—at least she says so,—and he isn't her real grandfather, but he gave her a home when she was starving. Wasn't that it, little girl?"
Ailie nodded. "An' gran'father grows weaker an' weaker, an' there ain't a morsel to give him," she said passionately. "An' it's all along of my livin' with him, that he's come to this."
"It is very dreadful," said Josie. "I wish I had my shilling back. Nurse, couldn't you lend me a penny? I'll pay you back when I have my allowance."