“You have a mother, then. My father and mother are dead; there are only the babies and I,” said little Mary, sorrowfully.
“Are they?” cried Berty, drawing nearer to Mary with a shy feeling of sympathy. “So are mine, too; and there are only the children and me, except uncle Gottlieb in the old country; and we cannot hear from him since mother died.”
“What!” cried Mary, in amazement. “Have you nobody to take care of you? no grandmother, or cousin, or aunt?”
“No, Miss; we have only each other.”
“But who feeds you, then? Who buys your clothes for you?”
“We have not much, Miss,” said Berty, simply. “But what we have we get ourselves, my brother and I; the others are too little.”
“But how can you?” cried Mary, utterly unable to understand such destitution. “You are too little to work yourself, and your brother,” glancing at Tim, “is not very big. How can you take care of so many?”
“We pick things from the gutters, Miss,” said Berty, “and sometimes we sweep the crossing; and Mrs. Flanagan forgives us the rent.”
“Oh, it is very sad!” cried Mary, clasping her hands; “it is much worse than us. Cousin John said there were others much worse off than I, but I did not see how it could be. He said I could help them. Can I help you? I have not any money here, but I have some at home. Will you come there and let me give you some? I should like so much to help you if I might.”
Berty scarcely knew how to answer these eager questions, so unexpected and so kind. What answer she would have made I cannot tell; for, while she was considering, a stage stopped in front of the gate, and Mary called out eagerly, “There is cousin John! Oh, cousin John! have you found the pocket-book? have you some money with you? Here is a little girl who has no father or mother, and I want—”