"I'll show you," she answered, regaining confidence.
She drew from her pocket a miscellaneous collection of pennies and silver pieces, which Martin counted, and found to amount to sixty-eight cents.
"Do you make as much every day, little gal?" he asked.
"Sometimes more," she answered.
"Pretty good business, isn't it? How long's your mother been sick?"
"Most a year," said the little girl, hesitating.
"What's the matter with her?"
"I don't know. She can't set up," said the girl, again hesitating, for she was a professional mendicant, and the sick mother was a sham, being represented in reality by a lazy, able-bodied woman, who spent most of the charitable contributions collected by her daughter on drink.
"Oh, yes, I understand," said Martin, with a wink. "Good-by, little gal. Give my love to your poor sick mother, and tell her I'd come round and inquire after her health if I had time."
As he said this he turned to go away.