"On the streets, like myself, begging her bread and going to ruin," he answered in dogged despair.
"How old is she?" cousin Bessie asked, with renewed interest.
"Maybe thirteen or thereabout, ma'am, poor, small thing," he replied with a dash of fatherly love.
"Can she read or write?" was cousin Bessie's next query.
"I couldn't say, ma'am. I never taught her. I've been a heartless wretch and didn't mind about her much."
"I am afraid you have done her a great injustice," said cousin Bessie, turning to re-enter the house. "I hope you will try to make some amends. Begin your work, like a good fellow, and I will see you again before you go."
She came back to her duties in the kitchen with a thoughtful face and a slow, measured step.
"Is your hero in rags at his work?" I asked playfully, when she had closed the door behind her.
"Yes, I am glad to say," she answered, "manual labor is what these fellows want. I shall keep him busy until evening, now that he has started, it will only cost me a few pence, and it will keep him out of so much harm."
There was a pause of a few moments after this. Cousin Bessie then looked up and said, half regretfully: