CHAPTER IX.
THE SHADOW.
The sudden apparition of Shorty at once dismayed and disheartened Miriam. It seemed as if she were never to shake off the past—never to be allowed entirely to emerge from out the mire into which she had sunk through no fault of her own. If Mrs. Darrow were to see her in confidential discourse with this Arab of the gutter, Heaven only knew what would be the result. With apprehension she glanced swiftly up and down the road. But no one was in sight. Then quietly she glided to the lee-side of a cottage, where she was sheltered both from sight and from the wind. Shorty followed her with rat-like activity, and snuggled in his rags against her skirts. The night was closing in around them, and she shuddered and shrank back from the contact of this obscene creature who had crawled out of the darkness, as it were, across her path. The urchin gazed at her admiringly.
"My eye, y'are a stunner, y'are," he croaked, hugging himself; "wot 'ud old Mother Mandarin say t' ye now?"
"Hush!" Miriam glanced round again. "Nonsense, Shorty; someone might hear! What do you want—money?"
"I cud do with a bit. Travellin' fust clarse fro' London costs a 'eap; an' m' close ain't wot they shuld be fur wisitin'."
With a hasty gesture Miriam drew away her skirts, and producing two half-crowns handed them to the boy.
"This will get you food," she said hurriedly. "I can't give you any more. I am little better off than you are."
Shorty clinked the coins together, and whistled shrilly—much to Miriam's dismay. But the wind was so loud that the sound was drowned in the sweeping of the blast.