Before I had time to say anything, Harvey went on:
“He lives round in Blake’s Court and hasn’t any mother. I found him on a doorstep feeding birds.”
My eyes rested on the child’s face while my boy said this. It was a very sad little face, thin and colorless, not bold and vicious, but timid and having a look of patient suffering. Harvey held him firmly by the hand with the air of one who bravely protects the weak.
“No mother!” said I, in tones of pity.
“No, ma’am; he hasn’t any mother. Have you, Jim?”
“No,” answered the child.
“She’s been dead ever so long; hasn’t she, Jim?”
“Yes, ever since last winter,” he said as he fixed his eyes, into which I saw the tears coming, upon my face. My heart moved toward him, repulsive as he was because of his rags and dirt.
“One of God’s little lambs straying on the cold and barren hills of life,” said a voice in my heart. And then I felt a tender compassion for the strange, unlovely child.
“Where do you live?” I asked.