"My mother told me so, sir."
Words how impressive! manner how child-like, and yet so wise!
John Harvey had had a praying mother. His chest labored for a moment— the sobs that struggled for utterance could be heard even in their depths—and still those large, soft, lustrous eyes, like magnets impelled his glance toward them.
"Child you must have a pair of shoes." John Harvey's voice was husky.
Hands were thrust in pockets, purses pulled out, and the astonished child held in her little palm more money than she had ever seen before.
"Her father is a poor, consumptive organ-grinder," whispered one. "I suppose he's too sick to be out tonight."
Along the soggy street went the child, under the protection of John Harvey, but not with shoes that drank the water at every step. Warmth and comfort were hers now. Down in the deep den-like lanes of the city walked the man, a little cold hand in his. At an open door they stopped; up broken, creaking stairs they climbed. Another doorway was opened, and a wheezing voice called out of the dim arch, "Carletta!"
"O Father! Father! see what I have brought you! Look at me! Look at me" and down went the silver, and venting her joy, the poor child fell; crying and laughing together, into the old man's arms.
Was he a man?
A face dark and hollow, all overgrown with hair black as night and uncombed—a pair of wild eyes—a body bent nearly double—hands like claws.