She was soon off, stepping briskly in spite of the heat. The air was scintillating under the almost vertical rays of the sun, whose intensity was merciless, and scarcely a leaf stirred; even the birds were drowsy, and kept in shelter, while every house was closed and barricaded against the heat as against an invading army.
For a time Sara had the shade of the great trees lining the sidewalks for protection; but as she left these wide avenues for the alleys of poverty, there was nothing but her umbrella between her and the scorching luminary, while mingled with the intensified heat were the dust and odors arising from unsprinkled and garbage-strewn streets.
She felt faint before she reached the tenement-house, and only the consciousness that she must not give way to illness in this neighborhood gave her strength to proceed.
Once inside, she dropped down on the lowest step of the stairway, regardless of dust, until she had recovered somewhat, then wearily climbed the steps. Half-way up she met a rough-looking man, who scowled at her, but said nothing; and she hurried by him, glad to see he kept on his way without looking back.
Reaching the third floor finally, she saw a rather pretty little girl standing in one of the many open doors, and asked which led to Miss Bertha Gillette's room.
"She ain't got no room," said the child shrilly; "she's in old Mis' Pierce's room, down thar," pointing to a closed door; "that's whar they took her when they brung her in. There wan't no room anywheres else."
"Oh! Was she taken ill on the street?"
The child nodded.
"Got a sunstroke, I guess," and Sara hurried on to the designated door.
She knocked lightly, then opened it and entered. It was a bare little room, with one window, but decently clean, and the sash was entirely removed, being replaced by a mosquito-netting tacked to the frame, so the air was not foul. On the old bed in the corner lay the young girl, white and still, and beside her sat an elderly woman with a kind, weather-beaten visage, who looked up inquiringly.