"Some gentlefolks gev a basket o' food. But for them, I doubt they wouldn't ha' pulled old Job through. But likely 'tis all gone now."
"That basket—" said Leveson, hardly able to speak steadily. "Ailie, you say, was ill. She could not go to fetch the basket. Who was the little girl that went in her stead?"
"Little girl in her stead—" repeated the woman absently, being occupied in wondering how the gentleman came to know so much about the matter, and deciding that he must have sent the food himself. "I'm a poor widder, sir, and 'ud be glad of help."
"If you will answer my questions, I am willing to give you a shilling for taking up so much of your time," said Leveson, not liking the assumed whine, yet feeling that the poor thing might need assistance.
"Sure, sir, I'll answer aught I can. Little girl sent in Ailie's stead,—why 'twas Lettie Forsyth."
"Lettie Forsyth!" repeated Leveson. "Who are her parents?"
"Well, now I comes to think of it, sir, I've heard as she ain't got none. But she be for all the world like to their own child."
"Will you kindly direct me to the Forsyths' rooms?" said Leveson, and he followed her up the staircase, on which numerous children sat and crawled, played and quarrelled; one and all pausing to stare in amazement at the well-dressed stranger as he passed. Leveson looked pityingly on the little ones,—unwashed, uncombed, untaught, uncared for, unconscious of a Saviour's love, unknowing a Redeemer's story. Oh, this mighty London harvest,—how few the labourers in comparison with the work awaiting them!
"And there is room in the fold for one and all, if we could but call them in!" murmured Leveson to himself.
Reaching the upper floor but one, Leveson's guide opened a door, and called out, "I say, Mrs. Forsyth, here be a parson come to see yer." Thereupon the promised reward was given, and a kind word with it.