“Where do you live, little girl?” she asked, softening her voice as much as practicable, so as not to alarm the child.
“I live there,” said the little girl, pointing to the house the woman had just quitted.
“Yes, yes,” muttered the latter to herself; “you’re the child of that proud lady that refused me what I asked. Perhaps she may repent it.”
“Would you like to go with me?” she asked, turning once more to the child. “I will show you where there are flowers a great deal prettier.”
“Yes,” said the unsuspecting child, gaining her feet, and placing her hand in the woman’s.
Was there no magic in the soft touch of that little hand that could turn away that bad woman from her wicked purpose?
Alas! when the heart becomes familiar with crime, all the gentler parts of the nature become hard and callous.
“Would you like to have me take you in my arms, and then we should get there quicker?” said the woman, who knew it would not do to accommodate herself to the child’s slow pace.
The latter made no resistance; and, with the little girl in her arms, the woman walked swiftly along. She soon turned aside from the street, for fear of attracting a degree of observation,—which, under present circumstances, would be embarrassing to her,—and took her way, by a less frequented road, to the city.