“I—I wanted to talk to you,” she faltered, looking at the Saint. She traced a pattern with her toe in the sand and seemed undecided just what else to say.
“I think I understand,” nodded the Saint. “You want to learn and you think I am capable of teaching you. Is that it?”
“Yes,” eagerly. “Preacher Bill taught me—some. But he’s gone now—and I—I wondered. He wasn’t a good man like you, but he wanted to help me. You see, I have never been to a regular school.”
The Saint turned his head slowly and looked at Duke Steele. Somehow it did not seem funny to them. The Saint turned back to her and said, “And why do you think I am better than Preacher Bill?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted softly, “I don’t know how I know you are—but I do. Preacher Bill had a Bible, with pictures in it, and you look like one of them. Preacher Bill said it was the picture of a saint.”
The Saint lifted his head and stared up the Alley, shutting his eyes against the glare of the reflected light, while the girl watched him eagerly. He turned and looked at her.
“Why don’t your father send you where there are schools? He can afford it.”
Luck shook her head.
“Preacher Bill wanted him to send me away, but he only laughs and says he can’t afford to lose his luck. He says I bring him luck. I guess he believes this. He talks about it so much that nobody ever calls me Nola any more.”
“Where is your mother, child?” asked the Saint.