Pollie went up to her and ventured timidly to touch her arm.
"Please, Mrs. Smith," she began.
"Lor' bless me, child, what are you doing out so late, and in this crowd too?" was her exclamation.
"I can't get in," Pollie sobbed; "oh, what is the matter?"
"What! don't you know? Lor', it's awful," she replied; "here, policeman, do get this poor child through that there mob; I guess her mother is in a way about her."
"All right, Mrs. S——," said the man, and to Pollie's astonishment he took her up in his arms, to carry her through the crowd, who made way for him to pass with his light burden.
Tallow candles were flaring in the narrow passage, people with pallid, haggard faces looked out from open room doors; yet with all this unwonted stir, there seemed to be a strange hushed awe upon them, as though they were calmed by the mysterious presence of a great calamity.
When the man put Pollie down she glanced from one to another in trembling alarm, still clinging to her protector's hand.
"Here she is at last," cried a voice; and turning to the speaker she recognised a woman who lived in the house, and whom she had often met on the stairs.
"Is it my mother?" asked the child, with undefined dread at her poor little heart.