to turn her thoughts to. After
what seemed a very long drive, they reached the shabby court and
shabbier house where the Wrights lived.

Charlotte had heard of such places before, but had never visited them.
Shabby women, and dirty and squalid children surrounded the young lady
as she descended to the pavement. The children came very close indeed,
and some even stroked her dress. One mite of three years raised, in the
midst of its dirt and neglect, a face of such sweetness and innocence,
that Charlotte suddenly stooped down and kissed it. That kiss, though it
left a grimy mark on her lips, yet gave the first faint touch of
consolation to her sorely bruised heart. There was something good still
left on God's earth, and she had come to this slum, in the East end of
London, to see it shine in a baby's eyes.

"Ef you please, Miss, I think we had better keep the cab," said Hester
Wright; "I don't think there's any cabstand, not a long way from yere."

Charlotte spoke to the cabby, desired him to wait, then she followed
Hester into the house.

"No, I have no children," said the woman in answer to a question of the
young lady's; "thank God fur that; who'd want to have young 'uns in a
hole like this?"

By this time they had reached their destination. It was a cellar; Hester
was not so very far wrong in calling it a hole. It was damp, dirty, and
ill-smelling, even to the woman who was accustomed to it; to Charlotte
it was horrible beyond words. For a time, the light was so faint she
could distinguish nothing, then on some straw in a corner she saw a man.
He was shrunken, and wasted, and dying, and Charlotte, prepared as she
was for a great change, could never have recognized him. His wife,
taking Charlotte's hand in hers, led her forward at once.

"You'd never ha' guessed, Dan, as I'd have so much luck," she said. "I
met our young lady in the street, and I made bold to 'ax her and come
and see you, and she come off at once. This is our Miss Harman, Dan
dear."

"Our Miss Harman," repeated the dying man, raising his dim eyes. "She's
changed a goodish bit."

"Don't call me yours," said Charlotte. "I never did anything for you."

"Ay, but you tried," said the wife. "Dan and me don't furget as we heerd
you cryin' fit to break yer heart outside the study door, and him
within, wid a heart as hard as a nether mill-stone, would do nought. No,
you did yer werry best; Dan and me, we don't furget."

"No, I don't furget," said th