She had been praying her morning prayer near the open window, begging for strength to bear her sorrows, and for as many as might be to be taken from her, when Betty's voice quavered right up to her window.
She looked down, and there was the small singer's curly brown head. She looked longer, and saw Betty clasp a bare foot in one hand and stand on one foot, drop the foot from her hand and reverse the action.
It was merely a habit of Betty's, but the woman found in it a sign that the child was worn and weary—worn and weary before seven o'clock in the morning.
She drew her dressing-gown around her, searched her dress pocket for her purse, and leaning out dropped sixpence upon the pavement close to the little singer.
Betty stopped at once and looked around her, down the street and around the corner; at the shop shutters and door, but never once so high as the windows.
"Poor little mite," she said. "I must remember even the little children have their griefs! It should make me grumble less."
Betty ran along the street in the direction John had taken. She felt she must tell some one. Then, as a thought struck her, she ran back to the house, looked up to the second story and saw a smiling face, and then set off again, running down the street for John.
Not seeing him, she stopped at the next corner and examined her coin lovingly. Then she looked up at that corner window and began to sing again.
But this time her reward came from the street. Three bluejackets were walking down the street to the Quay, lurching over the pavement as they walked. The child's song touched and stirred that latent sentimentality of theirs.