“How old are you?” he asked.
“Seven, sir,” she replied.
“Do you like that mush?” he continued, politely.
She paused with spoon uplifted, “It is simply delicious, sir.”
Titus got up and took a turn to the sideboard. His grandfather eyed him warningly. He had laughed enough.
Suddenly the clock struck ten, and as it struck the child lost her quietly contented air and, blushing painfully, counted the strokes as they rang out.
“O, sir,” she cried, with a guilty start and laying down her spoon, “I’m an hour late. I must get to work—the boss will be so angry.”
The Judge stared at her. The light died out of his own eyes, an iron hand gripped his heart.
In the face of that tiny child, in her start, her fear of consequences, he suddenly felt the pain of the world. Outraged childhood with its bleeding wounds stood before him.
A great lump rose in his throat. For a minute it seemed as if his agony could not be borne.