In passing through a narrow alley to shorten the distance and catch a car, the above words had fallen upon her ears.
No bread, no fire this cold, dismal night, she thought, with a shudder, as a blue, emaciated hand was extended to receive the pittance craved.
Editha involuntarily stopped and turned toward the voice, and found herself face to face with a young girl of about fourteen years of age.
She was tall for her age, and painfully thin, and very scantily clad. A thin and tattered shawl was wrapped around her shoulders, and one end also served for a covering for her head.
Her stockings were nothing but a covering to hide the nakedness of her limbs, while through the gaping shoes, which had never been mates, Editha could plainly see her cold and purple toes.
The sad face was blue and pinched, with such a hungry, appealing look in the large, dark eyes that it went straight to Miss Dalton’s heart.
For an instant, as she stood there beside the forlorn little waif, her own rich furs and elegant velvet cloak, with its costly trimmings, brushing that scantily-clad figure, a feeling of shame and self-condemnation rushed over her that so much should be lavished upon herself while one of Christ’s poor was in want and suffering so near.
“How cold you look, my poor child! Why don’t you go home, instead of staying here in the dismal street?” she asked, pityingly. The girl shivered.
“We haven’t got any fire at home. If some one would only give me a dime!” she pleaded.
“No fire on this wretched day?” Editha repeated, sorrowfully.