“Marty, Marty!” called her father, who had not seen what she did and was afraid she would get lost in the crowd, “where are you? Hurry up, child!”
Then, when he had made them comfortable in the car and was about bidding them good-by, he said,
“Now, Marty, when you change cars stick closely to your mother and don't be running after strangers, as you did a moment ago.”
“Why, papa,” Marty protested earnestly, “they weren't strangers; at least I know that littlest boy with the awfully torn hat. He is Jimmy—”
“Well, well, I can't stop now to hear who he is, but I didn't know he was an acquaintance of yours. However, don't run after anybody, or you will get lost some of these days. Good-by, good-by. Be good children, both of you.”
“Who was that boy, Marty?” asked Mrs. Ashford presently.
“He's Jimmy Torrence, and he lives in Jennie's house. Don't you remember I told you that one day, when we were all in Mrs. Scott's room singing to Jennie, a little boy came and leaned against the door-post and listened? Mrs. Scott told him to come in and took him on her lap. She gave him a cup of milk, and after he went away she said he had been sick with a fever and his folks were very poor. There's a good many of them, and they live in the third-story back-room.”
“Oh, yes, I remember. So that is the boy. Poor little fellow! He looks as if he needed some country air.”
“Doesn't he!” said Marty. “O mamma, don't you think that society Mrs. Watson belongs to would send him to the country for a week? That would be better than nothing.”
“I fear they cannot, for Mrs. Watson told me the other day that there are a great many more children who ought to be sent than they have money to pay for.”