Maggie Reed. The little face seemed to rise up before him as an angel's among the squalid surroundings of his childhood.
"Let her come in, dear," he said, with a tenderness in his voice that she had seldom heard of late.
Presently Maggie stood before him, ragged and wet, her pale face worn with want and suffering. She must have been about twenty-eight; but she looked ten years older.
"Maggie!" he cried, taking her hand, and placing her in a chair.
"Mr. Ermen. I came ter ask yer somethin, not ter beg. Don't think I've come ter beg. I want yer ter let Father Francis say yer Mass. 'E's seen all about it in the papers, how it's ter be sung on Christmas Day. 'E's an old man, and he would never ask yer 'imself, but 'e always thinks of yer, and prays for yer."
"And do you?" murmured George.
What a low cur he had been to let this poor girl suffer all her life! And his other humble friends, too, whom he had vowed never to forsake!
"I hev' prayed for yer every night and morning since yer left us. I've said, 'God bless him, and make him great.' Yer see, sir, women don't forget."
V.