“No one. There is only me. Oh, sir, do let me in! I am so cold!”
The bolt was cautiously withdrawn; and Martin, opening a crack, peered forth suspiciously. But the only object that met his gaze was a little girl, of ten years of age, crouching on the steps in a way to avail herself of all the natural warmth she had.
“Will you let me come in?” said she, imploringly.
“You had better go somewhere else. I haven’t much of a fire. I don’t keep much, it burns out fuel so fast. You had better go where they keep better fires.”
“Oh, sir, the least fire will relieve me so much! and I haven’t strength to go any farther.”
“Well, you may come in, if you’re sure you haven’t come to steal any thing.”
“I never steal: it’s wicked.”
“Umph! Well, I hope you’ll remember it. This is the way.”
He led her into a little room which he occupied. She sprang to the fire, little inviting as it was, and eagerly spread out both hands before it. She seemed actually to drink in the heat, scanty as it was, so welcome did it prove to her chilled and benumbed limbs.
A touch of humanity came to the miser, or perhaps his own experience of the cold stimulated him to the act; for, after a few minutes’ deliberation, he took two sticks from the pile of fuel, and threw them upon the fire. They crackled and burnt; diffusing, for a time, a cheerful warmth about the apartment. The little girl looked up gratefully, and thanked him for what she regarded as an act of kindness to herself.