“Oh, that is too bad; well, come into my house and I will have Mary fix it up for you.”
She led Zula to the kitchen, where Mary, the servant girl, was busy finishing up the supper work.
“Well, now, Mrs. Platts, who have you got there?” Mary asked, in surprise.
“Why, it’s a little girl whom some rude boy ran against with his wheel, and you see how badly he has hurt her.”
The tears were still lingering on Zula’s cheeks.
“Poor dear,” Mary said; “why it’s terribly scratched. Where do you live, little girl?”
“I don’t live anywhere,” Zula answered, the tears again coming to her eyes.
“Well, then, where do you stay?”
“I don’t stay anywhere. I hain’t got anywhere to stay. Can’t I stay here to-night? I’ll sleep in the woodshed, and you can lock the door so I can’t steal anything.”