June moved a slight distance as the rim of the child’s old dusty straw hat came in contact with the bright little daisies of her own, and though her heart was filled with pity she could not prevent the feeling of disgust as she looked at the child’s dirty and somewhat torn garments, but when she looked into the great black eyes and they softened under her words of kindness, she could scarcely keep back the tears, for June’s heart was wonderfully tender, and she could not look unmoved on suffering humanity.
The girl settled back on the soft cushions of the carriage, and looking out of the window the great tears rolled slowly down her cheeks.
“What is your name?” June asked.
“Zula,” she answered in a choked voice.
“What makes you cry? Are you not glad to get out of that horrid place?”
“Oh, yes, but it makes me cry to think.”
“Well, then, don’t think,” June said, with a merry little laugh, “and be happy because you are free again. And now tell me what made you wicked?”
Zula brushed the tears away with her little brown hand, and a look full of wonder passed over her face as she asked:
“Was I wicked? What do you mean?”