"Did the priest send you here?"
"Yes, sir. Do you want to see the letter?" The little hand—the free one—fumbled under the jacket, loosened the two lower buttons, and disclosed a white envelope pinned to his shirt.
"I'm to give it to 'em at the asylum. But I can't unpin it. He told me not to."
"That's right, my boy. Leave it where it is."
"You poor little rat," I said to myself. "This is pretty rough on you. You ought to be tucked up in some warm bed, not out here alone in this storm."
The boy felt for the pin in the letter, reassured himself that it was safe, and carefully rebuttoned his jacket. I looked out of the window, and caught glimpses of houses flying by, with lights in their windows, and now and then the cheery blaze of a fire. Then I looked into his eyes again. I still had hold of his hand.
"Surely," I said to myself, "this boy must have some one soul who cares for him." I determined to go a little deeper.
"How did you get here, my boy?" I had leaned nearer to him.
"The priest put me on the train, and a lady told me where to get off."
"Oh, a lady!" Now I was getting at it! Then he was not so desolate; a lady had looked after him. "What's her name?" This with increased eagerness.