“Why,”—­fires that God never lighted blazing in her eyes,—­“I thought you wanted me to sing!  I’ll sing.  We’ll have a hymn.  It’s Christmas, you know.”

She staggered.  Liquor, or some subtler poison, was in her veins.  Then, catching by the lintel, she broke into that most deep of all adoring cries,—­

“I know that my Redeemer liveth.”

A strange voice.  The men about her were musical critics:  they listened intently.  Low, uncultured, yet full, with childish grace and sparkle; but now and then a wailing breath of an unutterable pathos.

“Git out wid you,” muttered the negro, who had his own religious notions, “pollutin’ de name ob de Lord in yer lips!”

Lot laughed.

“Just for a joke, Joe. My Redeemer!”

He drove her down the stairs.

“Do you want to go to jail, Lot?” he said, more kindly.  “It’s orful cold out to-night.”

“No.  Let me go.”

She went through the crowd out into the vacant street, down to the wharf, humming some street-song,—­from habit, it seemed; sat down on a pile of lumber, picking the clay out of the holes in her shoes.  It was dark:  she did not see that a man had followed her, until his white-gloved hand touched her.  The manager, his uncertain face growing red.

“Young woman”—­

Lot got up, pushed off her bonnet.  He looked at her.

“My God!  No older than Susy,” he said.

By a gas-lamp she saw his face, the trouble in it.

“Well?” biting her finger-ends again.

“I’m sorry for you, I”—­

“Why?” sharply.  “There’s more like me.  Fifteen thousand in the city of New York.  I came from there.”

“Not like you, child.”

“Yes, like me,” with a gulping noise in her throat.  “I’m no better than the rest.”

She sat down and began digging in the snow, holding the sullen look desperately on her face.  The kind word had reached the tortured soul beneath, and it struggled madly to be free.

“Can I help you?”

No answer.

“There’s something in your face makes me heart-sick.  I’ve a little girl of your age.”

She looked up quickly.

“Who are you, girl?”

She stood up again, her child’s face white, the dark river rolling close by her feet.

“I’m Lot.  I always was what you see.  My mother drank herself to death in the Bowery dens.  I learned my trade there, slow and sure.”

She stretched out her hands into the night, with a wild cry,—­

“My God!  I had to live!”

What was to be done?  Whose place was it to help her? he thought.  He loathed to touch her.  But her soul might be as pure and groping as little Susy’s.

“I wish I could help you, girl,” he said.  “But I’m a moral man.  I have to be careful of my reputation.  Besides, I couldn’t bring you under the same roof with my child.”