He bent down and looked there. And first he smelt, and then he saw a little creature wrapped up in a noisome rag or shawl, he could not tell which, and she was moaning, and sobbing, and crying:
“Why don’t she come? Oh, why don’t she come?”
He bent lower, and inquired, gently:
“What is the matter, little one?”
“Oh, I don’t know—I don’t know why she don’t come back!” sobbed the child.
“Who do you mean?” inquired Harcourt.
“Oh! she—she—she!”
“Who is she?”
“Oh, I don’t know. She was a ragged woman, and smelt awful.”
“What did she do to you?”