“Loney! And where’s your father and mother?”
“Dead, I guess. I can just remember them, and that’s all,” said the child.
“I had a child once, a boy—he is dead, I guess, and I can just remember him. A little boy who loved me. A baby whom I had taught to pray—but now he is gone with all the rest.”
“Mein poor vomans. Vot has brought you to dis?”
“Gin, or the want of it. Send the children away, and I will tell you.”
“Dot’s a good girl, Dora; take de Loney und go py der oder room, der laty vants to make a secrets.”
“Yes, papa,” said Dora, looking sympathetically at the unfortunate woman, “call me if you want me.”
The shoemaker looked at Dora, then in her girlish grace and purity, and then at the poor creature on the bench, and held out his arm to Dora.
“Come here, mein child. Kiss de fader. If anyt’ing shall efer happen to you, mein daughter—dot vould kill your fader!”
“But nothing—like this—will ever happen to me, father,” said Dora, kissing him fondly and smiling at him bravely.