“What’s this?” he asked.
“Please, Mr. Dan’el,” she answered, “it dropped, and you didn’t hear it.”
“Jess,” he said sternly, “tell me all about it.”
“Oh, please,” she sobbed, “I never had a penny of my own but once; and it rolled close to my foot; and you didn’t see it; and I hid it up sharp; and then I thought how kind you’d been, and how good the coffee and buns are, and how you let me warm myself at your fire; and, please, I couldn’t keep the penny any longer. You’ll never let me come again, I guess.”
Daniel turned away for a moment, busying himself with putting his cups and saucers into the basket, while Jessica stood by trembling, with the large tears rolling slowly down her cheeks. The snug, dark corner, with its warm fire of charcoal and its fragrant smell of coffee, had been a paradise to her for these two brief spans of time; but she had been guilty of the sin which would drive her from it. All beyond the railway-arch the streets stretched away, cold and dreary, with no friendly face to meet hers and no warm cups of coffee to refresh her; yet she was only lingering sorrowfully to hear the words spoken which should forbid her to return to this pleasant spot. Mr. Daniel turned round at last, and met her tearful gaze, with a look of strange emotion upon his own solemn face.
“Jess,” he said, “I could never have done it myself. But you may come here every Wednesday morning, as this is a Wednesday, and there’ll always be a cup of coffee for you.”
She thought he meant that he could not have hidden the penny under his foot, and she went away a little saddened and subdued, notwithstanding her great delight in the expectation of such a treat every week; while Daniel, pondering over the struggle that must have passed through her childish mind, went on his way, from time to time shaking his head, muttering to himself, “I couldn’t have done it myself: I never could have done it myself.”
CHAPTER III.
AN OLD FRIEND IN A NEW DRESS.
