But she was interested in Lurcher for his own miserable sake, too. He had lived by himself in this wretched lodging for years. How he lived he did not say; but it was evident that his income was both infinitesimal and uncertain.
Nevertheless, he was not a mean-looking man, nor were his garments unclean. They were ragged. He admitted, apologetically, that he could not see to use a needle and so “had sort o’ got run down.”
“I’ll come some day soon and mend you up,” promised Helen, when the old man gave her the prescription he had received from the oculist at the Eye and Ear Hospital. “And you shall have these glasses just as soon as the lenses can be ground.”
“God bless you, Miss!” said the old man, simply.
He had a quiet, “listening” face, and seldom spoke above a whisper. He was more the shadow of a man than the substance.
“Ain’t that a terrible end to look forward to, Helen?” remarked Sadie, seriously, as they descended the stairs to the street. “He ain’t got no friends, and no family, and no way to make a decent livin’. They wouldn’t have the likes of him around in offices, writin’ in books.”
“Oh, you mean he is a bookkeeper?” cried Helen.
“Sure, I do. That’s a business! My papa is going to be in business for himself again. And so will I—you see! That’s the only way to get on, and lay up something for your old age. Work for yourself——”
“In a millinery store; eh?” suggested Helen, smiling.
“That’s right!” declared Sadie, boldly.