CHAPTER II.
JUNE’S PITY.
In the afternoon June sought her brother, and seating herself on his knee urged him to go with her and help her find the little girl, and get her out of the station.
“Oh, you little, soft-hearted kitten,” said Scott, “we cannot look after all the beggars, and we could not get her out until morning if we were to try, and, besides, mother says she needs a lesson, and, last of all, I cannot spend the time.”
“But only think if I were shut up and had to stay in the dark all night, why, I should die from fright.”
“But you say she said she was not afraid, so it cannot hurt her.”
“Yes; she said she was not afraid, but I guess she said so because she knew she must go, and when the policeman told her so, I think she said it to show him how brave she could be. You should have seen how sweetly she looked at me when I spoke kindly to her, and when the policeman spoke crossly to her, mercy! How black her eyes did look, and her pretty lip curled up just this way.”
Here June put up her red lips in the sauciest way imaginable.
“What! like that,” said Scott, “she must have been a terribly impudent piece of humanity; that is a wonderfully saucy looking mouth. I guess she does not deserve any pity.”
“Oh, well, that was when the policeman spoke cross to her. When I spoke to her she looked like this,” said June, drawing her mouth down in the most pitiful manner.