Roland, suddenly recollecting the child, told all he knew about her, while Mr. Alden listened with evident sympathy and interest.
"Ah! Another of the sad cases of hidden misery that one is constantly stumbling on," he said, his voice and eye grown soft with compassion. "That child doesn't look like one accustomed to beg. If the poor woman wants a minister, why shouldn't I go with you? I am at your service."
"If it's quite convenient," said Roland, "it would be very kind if you would."
"Oh, as for that, ministers and doctors mustn't stand too much on convenience. I've learned a good many lessons from my medical friend Blanchard. We both own the same Master, and I've no more right to be careful of my convenience than he has. Well, my dear, come away!"
For, as he talked in his rapid energetic manner, he had been as rapidly donning overcoat and gloves, and, hat in one hand, now extended the other to the little girl.
"That's right, Gracie, wrap her well up! Tell Mother that I'll be back as soon as I can, but you needn't keep tea waiting for me, if you are all too hungry. Now then, you can shut the door."
Roland courteously raised his hat to the young girl, as she stood looking after them with a smile very like her father's, while her long, wavy, golden hair was rippled by the cold December wind. He felt a wistful regret at leaving the warm, homelike atmosphere behind, when the door at last closed upon them.
Mr. Alden drew a few more particulars from the child as they hastened on. Her mother had been ill a good many days, she couldn't tell how many. No, there had not been any doctor to see her. Mother said she hadn't money enough. They had bread, but no tea, and mother could take nothing but tea!
Mr. Alden darted into a little grocery and came out carrying two small brown parcels. Frequent practice had made him equal to all such emergencies. They had gone a good way past the better class of houses, into a region of unpromising and dingy tenements—a region long ago deserted by all who could afford to leave it. At last the child stopped at an entry door.
"It's here—up-stairs," she said, looking up at her companions. They went up a rickety stair, black with years of unwashed footmarks, and followed the child into the room. She entered; but they stood still on the threshold, while Roland's brow contracted as if with a sharp sensation of physical pain.