Chester looked up, and a smile illuminated his face. Always willing to look on the bright side of human nature, his generous heart smote him for having perhaps judged too harshly. The little hand which he was chafing began to warm with life; this relieved him of the terrible excitement which the moment before had rendered his words, if just, more than imprudent.
"Thank you, sir, she is better," he said, with an expression of frank gratitude beaming over every feature, "I think she will live now, so we will only trouble you a few minutes longer."
"My family are in bed—and these street beggars are so little to be relied upon," observed the Mayor, evidently wishing to offer some excuse for his former harshness, without doing so directly; "but this seems a case of real distress."
Chester was subdued by this speech. More and more he regretted the excitement of his former language. He longed to make some reparation to a man who, after all, might be only prudent, not unfeeling.
"If," said he, looking at the child, whose features began to quiver in the glowing fire-light, "if I had a drop of wine now."
"Oh, we are temperance people here, you know," replied the Mayor, coldly.
"Or anything warm," persisted Chester, as the child opened her eyes with a famished look.
"You can get wine at the station-house. My girls are in bed."
"I am afraid she will have small hopes of help at the station-house. The Common Council make no provision for medical aid where the sick or starving are brought in at night. It is a great omission, sir."
"The Common Council cannot do everything," replied the Mayor, becoming impatient, but still subduing himself.