"Ah! poor, houseless, motherless child," cried the old man, clasping his hands, and gazing as if for the first time upon her white face, her torn dress, and swollen feet; "has all my care brought her to this at last? Was I a happy man once, and have I lost happiness and all I had for this?"
"If we were in the country now," said the child, as cheerfully as she could, "we should find some good old tree, stretching out his green arms as if he loved us, and nodding as if he would have us fall asleep; thinking of him while he watched.
"Please God," she went on, "we shall be there soon—to-morrow, or the next day at the farthest; and in the meantime let us think, dear, that it was a good thing we came here; for we are lost in the crowd and hurry of this place, and if any cruel people should pursue us, they could surely never trace us farther. There's comfort in that. And here's a deep old doorway—very dark, but quite dry, and warm too, for the wind does not blow in here. What's that?"
Uttering a half shriek, she fell back before a black figure which came out of the door-way where they were about to take refuge, and stood still, looking at them.
"Speak again," it said; "do I know that voice?"
"No," replied the child; "we are strangers, and having no money for a night's lodging, we were going to rest here."
There was a lamp at no great distance—the only one in the place, which was a kind of square yard, but sufficient to show how poor and mean it was. To this the man beckoned them, and soon they stood looking at each other in the light of its rays.
The stranger was poorly clad and very dirty. His voice was harsh, but though his face was half hidden with long, dark hair, it was neither unkind nor bad.
"How came you to think of resting here?" he said. "Or how," he added, looking closely at the child, "do you come to want a place of rest at this time of night?"
"Our misfortunes," the old man said, "are the cause."