Few better were to be found.
His worst fault, perhaps, was in being a little reckless, or over-brave and independent.
None could insult him with impunity, nor could he nor would he stand by and silently witness anybody being imposed upon. He invariably took the part of the under dog in the fight.
Hardly had Mat finished speaking, when the door opened and a girl entered; a girl whom both mother and son greeted with glances of affection.
Her name was Helen Dilt.
Five years before, when the circumstances of the Morris family had been better, they had taken her from the street—found starving and freezing there on a cold winter's night—and had cared for her.
Mr. Morris had died only a year later, since which time Helen had clung to them, doing what little she could to keep the roof above their heads.
She was not yet sixteen—a slight and winsome little creature; not beautiful, but with a sweet face that when lighted by a smile was remarkably winning.
Of her history she knew nothing.
Her knowledge of herself could be summed up in a few words.