With an instinctive movement of annoyance and disgust, he shook her off indignantly.
Bolton, however, stopped and turned, and faced the woman. The light of a street lamp showed a face, dark, wild, despairing, in which the history of sin and punishment were too plainly written. It was a young face, and one that might once have been beautiful; but of all that nothing remained but the brightness of a pair of wonderfully expressive eyes. Bolton advanced a step towards her and laid his hand on her shoulder, and, looking down on her, said:
"Poor child, have you no mother?"
"Mother! Oh!"
The words were almost shrieked, and then the woman threw herself at the foot of the lamp-post and sobbed convulsively.
"Harry," said Bolton, "I will take her to the St. Barnabas; they will take her in for the night."
Then, taking the arm of the woman, he said in a voice of calm authority, "Come with me."
He raised her and offered her his arm. "Child, there is hope for you," he said. "Never despair. I will take you where you will find friends."
A walk of a short distance brought them to the door of the refuge, where he saw her received, and then turning he retraced his steps to Harry.