The child spoke simply, and as if all she said was a matter of course; but the minister shuddered, and he looked through the broken window to the little patch of gloomy sky overhead.
“What can I do?” he cried mournfully, as though speaking to himself.
“Nothing, please, sir,” said Jessica, “only let me come to hear you of a Sunday, and tell me about God. If you was to give me fine clothes—like your little girls’—mother ’ud only pawn them for gin. You can’t do any thing more for me.”
“Where is your mother?” he asked.
“Out on a spree,” said Jessica. “She wont be home for a day or two. She’d not hearken to you, sir. There’s the missionary came, and she pushed him down the ladder till he was nearly killed. They used to call mother ‘the vixen’ at the theatre, and nobody durst say a word to her.”
The minister was silent for some minutes, thinking painful thoughts, for his eyes seemed to darken as he looked round the miserable room, and his face wore an air of sorrow and disappointment. At last he spoke again.
“Who is Mr. Daniel, Jessica?” he inquired.
“Oh,” she said cunningly, “he’s only a friend of mine as gives me sups of coffee. You don’t know all the folks in London, sir!”
“No,” he answered, smiling, “but does he keep a coffee-stall?”
Jessica nodded her head, but did not trust herself to speak.