"So I think when it comes. And the birds I hear! Oh!" cried the little creature, holding out her hand and looking up, "how they sing!"
As Jenny talked in this way, with her hand raised, and her eyes wide and bright, she looked quite beautiful, Lizzie thought. They sat silent for some moments, until they heard a shaky, shuffling step on the sidewalk.
Then Jenny spoke in such a different voice. "That's my child coming home, and my child's a bad, troublesome child."
Jenny was speaking of her drunken father. She always called him her child. It seemed as if the little creature felt that the name "father" would in some way be wronged and spoiled in her own thoughts if she gave it to the poor wretch who stumbled over the door-sill where they sat. The name "child" seemed to give her a sort of patience to bear her trouble.
"I would rather you didn't see my child," Jenny said; and Lizzie rose and went up stairs.
[to be continued.]
