After a moment I heard an answering hail; an instant later the familiar bulk of Casey towered above me in the mist.
"Who's wantin' me?" he demanded, and then, as he recognized me: "Hel-lo, Miss Iverson! Sure ye're not lost, are ye?" he added, facetiously.
"I'm not," I told him, "but I think some one else is. Do you recognize this youngster? I found her here just now—or, rather, she found me."
"Fine-kine-rady," murmured the child, antiphonally. She had turned her brown velvet eyes on the policeman in one fleeting glance which seemed to label and dismiss him. His existence, her manner plainly said, was no concern of hers. Casey bent down and surveyed her with interest—a task made somewhat difficult by the fact that she was coldly presenting the back of her head to him and that the top of it was about on a level with his knee.
"Let's take her up t' the waitin'-room," he suggested, "an' have a good look at her. Can she walk, I wonder—or will I carry her?"
At the words the independent explorer below us started up the stairs, dragging me with her, her hand still clinging to my fingers, her short, willing legs taking one step at a time and subject to an occasional embarrassing wabble, but on the whole moving briskly and with the ease of habit.
"She understands English," remarked Casey, as he admiringly followed her, "an' she's used to stairs. That's clear."
We found the waiting-room deserted except by the ticket-seller and the ticket-chopper, who were languidly discussing the fog. Both took an animated interest in our appearance, and, when they learned our mission, eagerly approached the child for minute inspection of her. In the center of the little circle we made under the station lamp the mite bore our regard with the utmost composure, her brown eyes on my face, her hand still firmly grasping my third and fourth fingers. She seemed mildly surprised by this second delay in getting anywhere, but entirely willing to await the convenience of these strange beings who were talking so much without saying anything. The ticket-seller finally summed up the result of our joint observation.
"Whoever that kid is, she's a peach," he muttered, in spontaneous tribute to the living picture before us.
She was a peach. Her bare head was covered with short, upstanding curls, decorated on the left side with a cheap but carefully tied scarlet bow that stood out with the vivid effect of a poinsettia against black velvet. In her cheeks were two deep dimples, and a third lurked in the lower right side of her chin, awaiting only the summons of her shy smile to spring into life. When she lowered her eyes her curly black lashes seemed unbelievably long, and when she raised them again something in their strange beauty made me catch my breath.