'May I presume on my sudden predilection,' said I, 'and inquire your name?'
'Maria,' replied she, rising from her seat; 'and now I must be gone.'
'And where are you going, Maria?' said I.
'To the Devil,' said she.
'Alas! my love,' whispered I, 'sorrow hath bewildered thee. Impart to me the cause of thy distress, and perhaps I can alleviate, if not relieve it. I am myself a miserable orphan; but happy, thrice happy, could I clasp a sympathetic bosom, in this frightful wilderness of houses and faces, where, alas! I know not a human being.'
'Then you are a stranger here?' said she quickly.
'I have been here but a few hours,' answered I.
'Have you money?' she demanded.
'Only four guineas and a half,' replied I, taking out my purse. 'Perhaps you are in distress—perhaps—forgive this officiousness—not for worlds would I wound your delicacy, but if you want assistance——'
'I have only this old sixpence upon earth,' interrupted she, 'and there 'tis for you, Miss.'