“The poor young man is not very brilliant, but I think I would rather marry him than Curtis Waring.”
“I’ve seen him, too. He’s got dark hair and a dark complexion, and a wicked look in his eye.”
“You, too, have noticed that?”
“I’ve seen such as him before. He’s a bad man.”
“Do you know anything about him?” asked Florence, eagerly.
“Only his looks.”
“I am not deceived,” murmured Florence, “it’s not wholly prejudice. The boy distrusts him, too. So you see, Dodger,” she added, aloud, “I am not a rich young lady, as you suppose. I must leave this house, and work for my living. I have no home any more.”
“If you have no home,” said Dodger, impulsively, “come home with me.”
“To the home you have described, my poor boy? How could I do that?”
“No; I will hire a room for you in a quiet street, and you shall be my sister. I will work for you, and give you my money.”