“Oh, she took off my nice clothes, but I reckon they were wet, and she wrapped me up in this nasty shawl, and she left me here and said she would come back and carry me to Lady. But she never came, and I am so chilly, and so hungry, and so sick at my stomach with the smell of this shawl. I am almost dead. Oh, dear me!”
“Come out here, little girl, and let me see you,” said Harcourt, kindly.
The child seemed perfectly fearless. All her horrible experiences had not had the power to make a coward of her.
She crawled out, tottered to her feet, and stood before him—a little creature clothed only in an old, ragged, foul shawl, reaching from her shoulders to her knees, leaving exposed to view the fair head and neck, and the delicate ankles and feet of a beautiful girl child.
She looked something like a small, old-fashioned chimney sweep, wrapped in his sooty, little blanket, except for the loveliness of her fair face and hands.
“Foul play!” exclaimed Harcourt, as he took in the whole incongruous picture at a glance.
“How long have you been lying under that stoop, poor child?” he inquired.
“Oh! I don’t know. I went to sleep. I just woke up a little while ago. Oh, sir, please do take me to Lady,” pleaded the child.
“Who is Lady, my dear?”
“Oh, she is Lady, you know, Lady.”