"I like you to help those in trouble, dear, but of course you must do as nurse tells you. Only I will say to her, that if you see the little girl again, you may give her something, or send her here for some bread."
"Where does she live, Josie?" asked Leveson.
"Somewhere about, I suppose," said Josie. "I wish I had asked her. I never thought of that. You couldn't find her out, could you?"
"What is her name?"
"I didn't ask. She was just my size."
"I am afraid I might find hundreds of half-starved little girls about your size, without falling in with the right one."
"I wish I had remembered," said Josie. "If only I knew her name, or where she lives. I liked the poor little girl's face so much. I am sure it would be quite pretty if it were clean,—but she did look so very very miserable. Oh, now I remember, she said she had no home, and she had slept under the stairs last night, but she didn't say what stairs. Leveson, wasn't it very wicked of her mother to steal? Are people always put in prison when they steal?"
"When they are found out, and it can be proved against them."
"And isn't it very wicked?"
"Yes. Very wrong," said Leveson, resting his arm on the back of Josie's chair. "It is wrong to steal, and wrong to tell lies, and wrong to covet, and wrong to give way to temper. None of us are perfect."