The pathos of this answer stirred me all the more.
"Who's been taking care of you ever since your father left you?" I had lowered my voice now to a more confidential tone.
"A German man."
"What did you leave him for?"
"He had no work, and he took me to the priest."
"When?"
"Last week, sir."
"What did the priest do?"
"He gave me these clothes. Don't you think they're nice? The priest's sister made them for me—all but the stockings; she bought those."
As he said this he lifted his arms so I could look under them, and thrust out toward me his two plump legs. I said the clothes were very nice, and that I thought they fitted him very well, and I felt his chubby knees and calves as I spoke, and ended by getting hold of his soft wee hand, which I held on to. His fingers closed tightly over mine, and a slight smile lighted up his face. It seemed good to him to have something to hold on to. I began again:—