“How? how?”
“I’d know who did the killin’.”
And he leaned forward, took the bottle from Mamma’s reluctant hand, and drained it to the last drop, while Papa and Mamma looked into each other’s eyes, some new thought sending a flush of excitement to the face of each.
“Ah, Franzy,” murmured Mamma, casting upon him a look of pride, such as a tiger might bestow upon her cub, “ye’ll be a blessin’ to yer old mother yet!”
Then she turns her head and listens, while Franz, casting a wistful look at the now empty bottle, rises to his feet the movement betraying the fact that he is physically intoxicated, although his head as yet seems so clear.
Again footsteps approach, and Mamma hastens to the door, listens a moment, opens it cautiously, and peers out.
“It’s that gal,” she mutters, setting the door wide open. “Come in, you Nance! Where have you been, making yourself a nuisance?”
Then she falls back a pace, staring stupidly at the strangely-assorted couple who stand in the doorway.
A girl, a woman, young or old you can hardly tell which; with a face scarcely human, so bleared are the eyes, so sodden, besotted and maudlin the entire countenance; clad in foul rags and smeared with dirt, she reels as she advances, and clings to the supporting arm of a black-robed Sister of Mercy, who towers above her tall and slender, and who looks upon them all with sweet, brave eyes, and speaks with sorrowful dignity:
“My duty called me into your street, madam, and I found this poor creature surrounded by boisterous children, and striving to free herself from them. They tell me that this is her home; is she your daughter?”