tood at the mouth
of an alley close by, waiting for a chance to grab something. I'd seen
her there when I went by before, and mistrusted she was up to some
mischief; as I turned the corner, she put out her hand and cribbed an
apple. She saw me the minute she did it, but neither dropped it nor
ran, only stood stock still with the apple in her hand till I came up.

"'This won't do, my girl,' said I. I never could be harsh with 'em,
poor things! She laid it back and looked up at me with a miserable
sort of a smile, that made me put my hand in my pocket to fish for a
ninepence before she spoke.

"'I know it won't,' she says. 'I didn't want to do it, it's so mean,
but I'm awful hungry, sir.'

"'Better run home and get your supper, then.'

"'I've got no home.'

"'Where do you live?'

"'In the street.'

"'Where do you sleep?'

"'Anywhere; last night in the lock-up, and I thought I'd get in there
again, if I did that when you saw me. I like to go there, it's warm
and safe.'

"'If I don't take you there, what will you do?'

"'Don't know. I could go over there and dance again as I used to, but
being sick has made me ugly, so they won't have me, and no one else
will take me because I have been there once.'

"I looked where she pointed, and thanked the Lord that they wouldn't
take her. It was one of those low theatres that do so much damage to
the like of her; there was a gambling place one side of it, an eating
saloon the other. I was new to the work then, but though I'd heard
about hunger and homelessness often enough, I'd never had this sort of
thing, nor seen that look on a girl's face. A white, pinched face hers
was, with frightened, tired-looking eyes, but so innocent! She wasn't
more than sixteen, had been pretty once, I saw, looked sick and
starved now, and seemed just the most helpless, hopeless little thing
that ever was.

"'You 'd better come to the Station for to-night, and we'll see to you
to-morrow,' says I.

"'Thank you, sir,' says she, looking as grateful as if I'd asked her
home. I suppose I did speak kind of fatherly. I ain't ashamed to say I
felt so, seeing what a child she was; nor to own that when she put her
little hand in mine, it hurt me to feel how thin and cold it was. We
passed the eating-house where the red lights made her face as rosy as
it ought to have been; there was meat and pies in the window, and the
poor thing stopped to look. It was too much for her; off came her
shawl, and sh