“Good-night, little Sally!” said Simon; “put up your bars, and so put up my bars.  Now there’s a fine speech for you!—­if my name were Philip Withers, you’d call it poetry.”

The strange woman actually stamped with her foot twice, and moved a step nearer to the window.  Miss Wimple took it for a gesture of impatience, and at once arose to accost her.  Simon eyed her curiously, and somewhat suspiciously, as he passed; but, taking her attire for his clue, he thought he recognized one of a class with whom Miss Wimple was accustomed to cope successfully; so he took his leave unconcerned.

Miss Wimple approached the stranger.  “What will you have?” she asked.  But the woman only followed Simon with her eyes, not heeding the question.

“Do you hear me?” repeated she; “I say, what will you have, Madam?”

By that time, Simon had disappeared among the distant shadows of the street.  The woman turned suddenly and confronted Miss Wimple.

“Look at me,” she said.

Miss Wimple looked, and saw a pale and haggard, almost fierce, face, that had once been fair,—­one that she might, she fancied, have met somewhere before.

“You seem to have suffered,—­to suffer now.  What can I do for you?”

“Look at me!”

“I see; you are very wretched, and you were not always as you are now.  You are cold; are you hungry also?  I, too, am very poor; but I will do all I can.  I will warm you and give you food.”

The woman walked to where the bright camphene lamp hung, and stood under it.

“Now look at me, Miss Wimple.”

“I have looked enough; desperation on a young woman’s face is not a pleasant sight to see.  If you have a secret, best keep it.  I have to deal only with your weariness, your hunger, and your half-frozen limbs.  If I can do nothing for those, you must go.—­Merciful Heaven!  Miss Madeline Splurge!”

“Yes!—­Now hide me, quick, or some one will be coming; and warm me, and feed me, or I shall surely die on your hands.”

Not another word said Miss Wimple,—­asked no question, uttered no exclamation of surprise; but straightway ran and closed the windows, put up the bars, adjusted the shutters in the glass door, and screwed them down.  Next she took Madeline’s hand and led her up the narrow staircase to the nest, seated her in the little Yankee rocking-chair, and wrapped her in the scanty, faded shawl that served for a coverlet.  Then she ran quickly down into the cellar, and, with a hammer, broke in pieces an old packing-box;—­it was a brave achievement for her tender hands.  Back to the nest again with the sticks;—­Madeline slept in the chair, poor heart!

Miss Wimple made a fire in her little stove, and when some water was hot, she roused her guest with a kiss.  Silently, languidly, and with closed eyes, Madeline yielded herself to the kind offices of her gentle nurse, who bathed her face and neck, her hands and feet, and dressed her hair; and when that was done, she placed a pillow under the wanderer’s head, and, with another kiss, dismissed her to sleep again.