One cold winter night when Jo was shivering near his crossing, a stranger passed him; turned, looked at him intently, then came back and began to ask him questions from which he found out that Jo had not a friend in the world.

“Neither have I, not one,” added the man, and gave him the price of a supper and lodging.  And from that day Jo was no longer friendless, for the stranger often spoke to him, and asked him whether he slept sound at night, and how he bore cold and hunger; and whether he ever wished to die; and other strange questions.  Then when the man had no money he would say, “I am as poor as you to-day, Jo,” but when he had any he always shared it with Jo.

But there came a time not long after this, when the stranger was found dead in his bed, in the house of Crook, the rag-and-bottle merchant, where he had lodgings; and nothing could be found out about his life or the reason for his sudden death.  So a jury had to be brought together to ferret out the mystery, if possible, and to discover whether the man’s death was accidental or whether he died by his own hand.  No one knew him, and he had never been seen talking to a human soul except the boy that swept the crossing, down the lane over the way, round the corner,—­otherwise Jo.

So Jo was called in as a witness at the inquest.  Says the coroner, “Is that boy here?”

Says the beadle, “No, sir, he is not here.”

Says the coroner, “Go and fetch him then.”

“Oh, here’s the boy, gentlemen!”

Here he is, very muddy, very hoarse, very ragged.  Now, boy!  But stop a minute.  Caution.  This boy must be put through a few preliminary paces.

Name Jo.  Nothink else that he knows on.  Don’t know that everybody has two names.  Don’t know that Jo is short for a longer name.  Thinks it long enough for him.  Spell it?  No.  He can’t spell it.  No father, no mother, no friends.  Never been to school.  What’s home?  Knows a broom’s a broom, and knows it’s wicked to tell a lie.  Don’t recollect who told him about the broom or about the lie, but knows both.  Can’t exactly say what’ll be done to him after he’s dead if he tells a lie to the gentleman here, but believes it’ll be something wery bad to punish him, and so he’ll tell the truth.  “He wos wery good to me, he wos,” added the boy, wiping his eyes with his wretched sleeves.  “When I see him a-laying so stritched out just now, I wished he could have heerd me tell him so.  He wos wery good to me, he wos.”

The jury award their verdict of accidental death, and the stranger is hurried into a pine box and into an obscure corner of that great home for the friendless and unmourned,—­the Potter’s field,—­and night falls, hiding from sight the new-made grave.

With the night comes a slouching figure through the tunnel court, to the outside of the iron gate of the Potter’s field.  It holds the gate with its hands, and looks in between the bars.  Stands looking in for a little while.  It then takes an old broom it carries, softly sweeps the step, and makes the archway clean.  It does so very busily and trimly; looks in again a little while, and so departs.