This seemed so reasonable that Edith, who could not get over the nervous tremors occasioned by what she had already seen and encountered, readily consented to leave the matter for the present in Mr. Paulding's hands.
“If you will come here to-morrow,” said the missionary, “I will tell you all I can about the baby.”
Out of a region where disease, want and crime shrunk from common observation, and sin and death held high carnival, Edith hurried with trembling feet, and heart beating so heavily that she could hear it throb, the considerate missionary going with her until she had crossed the boundary of this morally infected district.
Mr. Dinneford met Edith at the door on her arrival home.
“My child,” he exclaimed as he looked into her face, back to which the color had not returned since her fright in Briar street, “are you sick?”
“I don't feel very well;” and she tried to pass him hastily in the hall as they entered the house together. But he laid his hand on her arm and held her back gently, then drew her into the parlor. She sat down, trembling, weak and faint. Mr. Dinneford waited for some moments, looking at her with a tender concern, before speaking.
“Where have you been, my dear?” he asked, at length.
After a little hesitation, Edith told her father about her visit to Briar street and the shock she had received.
“You were wrong,” he answered, gravely. “It is most fortunate for you that you took the child's advice and called at the mission. If you had gone to Grubb's court alone, you might not have come out alive.”
“Oh no, father! It can't be so bad as that.”