Miss Powell smiled. "Well, perhaps so. We cannot always judge for other people. What is your name?"
"Nelly Ryan."
"And do you live here?" asked the young lady, glancing at the house. Nelly looked at it too, and, somehow, as she followed the direction of Miss Powell's eye, she seemed to see, as she had never done before, what a miserable place it was, how black and dirty the floor looked through the open door, and what quantities of old bones, old shoes and other rubbish were littered about the door-yard. The bitter feeling came up in her heart again, as she answered,—
"Yes; I live here with my grandmother. It is a mean old place, but I can't help it. It's the best we've got, anyhow."
"Well, Nelly, I cannot stop any longer now, but I shall perhaps see you again some day, and we will have a talk about these things." She opened the book which she carried, as she spoke, and took out a beautiful little picture printed in colours and representing a string of girls, something like those Nelly had just seen, passing two-by-two into a church-door. There was a hymn under the picture, and a coloured border all round it.
"Would you like this little card?" she asked.
Nelly's eyes brightened. She thought she had hardly ever seen any thing so pretty.
"You may keep it,—and these flowers too, if you like," said Miss Powell. "They will stay fresh and sweet a long time if you give them clean water every day."
Nelly took the flowers and the card without speaking. Miss Powell bade her good-morning and walked on; but presently she heard some one running behind her, and turned around. There was Nelly, almost out of breath.
"I—I only wanted to say, Thank you, ma'am," stammered Nelly; and then, as though almost ashamed of what she had done, she turned and ran back again.