prise and fear. Pinky kept her eyes upon
him. His hands were laid across his breast and held against it tightly.
They had not gone far before Pinky saw great tear-drops falling upon the
little hands.

"Stop crying!" she whispered, close to his ear; "I won't have it! You're
not going to be killed."

Andy tried to keep back the tears, but in spite of all he could do they
kept blinding his eyes and falling over his hands.

"What's the matter with your little boy?" asked a sympathetic, motherly
woman who had noticed the child's distress.

"Cross, that's all." Pinky threw out the sentence in at snappish,
mind-your-own-business tone.

The motherly woman, who had leaned forward, a look of kindly interest on
her face, drew back, chilled by this repulse, but kept her eyes upon the
child, greatly to Pinky's annoyance. After riding for half a mile, Pinky
got out and took another car. Andy was passive. He had ceased crying,
and was endeavoring to get back some of the old spirit of brave
endurance. He was beginning to feel like one who had awakened from a
beautiful dream in which dear ideals had almost reached fruition, to
the painful facts of a hard and suffering life, and was gathering up
his patience and strength to meet them. He sat motionless by the side of
Pinky, with his eyes cast down, his chin on his breast and his lips shut
closely together.

Another ride of nearly half a mile, when Pinky left the car and struck
away from the common thoroughfare into a narrow alley, down which she
walked for a short distance, and then disappeared in one of the small
houses. No one happened to observe her entrance. Through a narrow
passage and stairway she reached a second-story room. Taking a key from
her pocket, she unlocked the door and went in. There was a fire in
a small stove, and the room was comfortable. Locking the door on the
inside she said to Andy, in a voice changed and kinder,

"My! your hands are as red as beets. Go up to the stove and warm
yourself."

Andy obeyed, spreading out his little hands, and catching the grateful
warmth, every now and then looking up into Pinky's face, and trying with
a shrewder insight than is usually given to a child of his age to read
the character and purposes it half concealed and half made known.

"Now, Andy," said Pinky, in a mild but very decided way--"your name's
Andy?"

"Yes, ma'am," answered the child, fixing his large, intelligent eyes on
her face.

"Well, Andy, if you'll b