I took his hand in mine, and we went out into the storm.
He was not more than six years old, and had a bright, intelligent, but pale and peaked face. He wore thin, patched trowsers, a small, ragged cap, and large, tattered boots, and over his shoulders was a worn woolen shawl. I could not see the remainder of his clothing, but I afterward discovered that a man's waistcoat was his only other garment.
As I have said, it was a bleak, stormy night. The rain, which had fallen all the day, froze as it fell, and the sharp, wintry wind swept down Broadway, sending an icy chill to my very bones, and making the little hand I held in mine tremble with cold. We passed several blocks in silence, when the child turned into a side-street.
'My little fellow,' I said, 'this is not Anthony street—that is further on.'
'I know it, sir; but I want to get mother some bread, sir. A good gentleman down here sells to me very cheap, sir.'
We crossed a couple of streets and stopped at a corner-grocery.
'Why, my little 'un,' said the large, red-faced man behind the counter, 'I didn't know what had become of ye! Why haven't ye bin here to-day?'
'I hadn't any money, sir,' replied the little boy.
'An' haven't ye had any bread to-day, sonny?'
'Mother hasn't had any, sir; a little bit was left last night, but she made me eat that, sir.'