“Is this your little child, madam?” said one of the women, respectfully.
“‘No,’ I replied, ‘but I know her. Where did you get her?’
“‘The woman who takes care of the waiting room told us that she had been left here. Her mother missed her when the last train passed through for Boston. She asked us to take charge of her, and we consented.’
“‘Why is she dressed like a boy?’ I asked, severely.
“The young woman shrugged her shoulders. ‘She is just as we found her.’
“Bethany, who had been following our conversation with much interest, at this piped up, and pointing to a suit case that one of them carried said, ‘Bethany’s clothes are in there.’
“A very ugly look came over the young woman’s face. She knew that she was trapped. I saw her glance at the other. Out of the mouth of a little child they had been condemned. O, Judge, I looked for some sign of softening, some regret, some tender feeling. There was nothing.
“Why are you dressed like a little boy?” I asked.
“We heard a dull roar in the distance. The train was coming in. The women looked at each other again. They were uncertain just what to do. I think they had concluded that I was a chance passer-by and had made up their minds to rush for the train in the confusion. I had seized Bethany tightly by the hand. They knew they could not take her with them.