“I will,” answered Dodger, heartily. “Come, Miss Florence, if you don’t mind walking over to Fourth Avenue, we’ll take the horse cars.”
So, under strange guidance, Florence Linden left her luxurious home, knowing not what awaited her. What haven of refuge she might find she knew not. She, like Dodger, was adrift in New York.
Chapter VIII.
A Friendly Compact.
Florence, as she stepped on the sidewalk, turned, and fixed a last sad look on the house that had been her home for so many years. She had never anticipated such a sundering of home ties, and even now she found it difficult to realize that the moment had come when her life was to be rent in twain, and the sunlight of prosperity was to be darkened and obscured by a gloomy and uncertain future.
She had hastily packed a few indispensable articles in a valise which she carried in her hand.
“Let me take your bag, Miss Florence,” said Dodger, reaching out his hand.
“I don’t want to trouble you, Dodger.”
“It ain’t no trouble, Miss Florence. I’m stronger than you, and it looks better for me to carry it.”
“You are very kind, Dodger. What would I do without you?”
“There’s plenty that would be glad of the chance of helping you,” said Dodger, with a glance of admiration at the fair face of his companion.