“This girl tells me that her father is dying, and they have no fire, nor anything to eat. Do you know her?” Editha asked, calling his attention to her companion.
“Oh, this is Milly Loker,” he said, recognizing her at once. “Yes, I know her well, and I reckon she’s told you the truth, for they’ve had a hard time of it along back.”
“If this is the case I will go home with her and see what I can do to relieve their suffering. I am alone, and it is growing dark, so if you will please have an eye upon this vicinity for the next half-hour or so, I shall be obliged to you,” Editha said, as she turned to go with Milly.
“Yes, miss; I’ll see that no harm comes to you, and the house is only a few steps from here,” he answered respectfully.
“Thank you. And now, my poor child, I will see what I can do for your comfort,” Editha said, turning to the girl.
She found her wiping away the great tears with a corner of her shawl, and her heart was deeply touched at the sight.
Without saying anything in reply, she turned and walked toward a miserable-looking tenement-house only a few steps away. The door hung swinging upon one hinge, making a dismal, creaking noise that sent the chills anew over Editha.
Passing up a flight of dirty, broken stairs, Milly opened another door, which led into a bare and wretched-looking apartment, having only one window, and that broken in several places, the holes being stuffed with rags. Upon a rude bed in one corner lay the wasted form of a man; his hollow and unshaven face making an unsightly spectacle against the not too clean pillow on which it lay.
He was sleeping, and a woman, scarcely less wretched in appearance, sat in a broken chair by his side, her elbows resting upon her knees, and her head bowed upon her hands. A small, cracked stove, upon which there was a broken-nosed tea-kettle, was the only other piece of furniture in the room.
“Mother,” whispered Milly, as soon as Editha had entered and she had closed the door, “here is a lady who says she will help us.”