Chapter XIII - Page 2

"How old is the baby?" asked Edith, hardly able to keep the tremor out of her voice.

"It's a little thing," answered the child. "I don't know how old it is; maybe it's six months old, or maybe it's a year. It can sit upon the floor."

"Why does your mother think it has been stolen?"

"Because two bad girls have got it, and they pay a woman to take care of it. It doesn't belong to them, she knows. Mother says it would be a good thing if it died."

"Why does she say that?"

"Oh she always talks that way about babies--says she's glad when they die."

"Is it a boy or a girl?"

"It's a boy baby," answered the child.

"Does the woman take good care of it?"

"Oh dear, no! She lets it sit on the floor 'most all the time, and it cries so that I often go up and nurse it. The woman lives in the room over ours."

"Where do you live?"

"In Grubb's court."

"Will you show me the way there after school is over?"

The child looked up into Edith's face with an expression of surprise and doubt. Edith repeated her question.

"I guess you'd better not go," was answered, in a voice that meant all the words expressed.

"Why not?"

"It isn't a good place."

"But you live there?"

"Yes, but nobody's going to trouble me."

"Nor me," said Edith.

"Oh, but you don't know what kind of a place it is, nor what dreadful people live there."

"I could get a policeman to go with me, couldn't I?"

"Yes, maybe you could, or Mr. Paulding, the missionary. He goes about everywhere."

"Where can I find Mr. Paulding?"

"At the mission in Briar street."

"You'll show me the way there after school?"

"Oh yes; it isn't a nice place for you to go, but I guess nobody'll trouble you."

After the school closed, Edith, guided by the child, made her way to the Briar st. mission-house. As she entered the narrow street in which it was situated, the aspect of things was so strange and shocking to her eyes that she felt a chill creep to her heart. She had never imagined anything so forlorn and squalid, so wretched and comfortless. Miserable little hovels, many of them no better than pig-styes, and hardly cleaner within, were crowded together in all stages of dilapidation. Windows with scarcely a pane of glass, the chilly air kept out by old hats, bits of carpet or wads of newspaper, could be seen on all sides, with here and there, showing some remains of an orderly habit, a broken pane closed with a smooth piece of paper pasted to the sash. Instinctively she paused,