She was quiet now.

“I know.  There’s not one of those Christian women up in the town yonder ’ud take Lot into their kitchens to give her a chance to save herself from hell.  Do you think I care?  It’s not for myself I’m sorry.  It’s too late.”

Yet as this child, hardly a woman, gave her soul over forever, she could not keep her lips from turning white.

“There’s thousands more of us.  Who cares?  Do preachers and them as sits in the grand churches come into our dens to teach us better?”

Pumphrey grew uneasy.

“Who taught you to sing?” he said.

The girl started.  She did not answer for a minute.

“What did you say?” she said.

“Who taught you?”

Her face flushed warm and dewy; her eyes wandered away, moistened and dreamy; she curled her hair-softly on her finger.

“I’d—­I’d rather not speak of that,” she said, low.  “He’s dead now. He called me—­Lottie,” looking up with a sudden, childish smile.  “I was only fifteen then.”

“How old are you now?”

“Four years more.  But I tell you I’ve seen the world in that time.”

It was Devil Lot looked over at the dark river now.

He turned away to go up the wharf.  No help for so foul a thing as this.  He dared not give it, if there were.  She had sunk down with her old, sullen glare, but she rose and crept after him.  Why, this was her only chance of help from all the creatures God had made!

“Let me tell you,” she said, holding by a fire-plug.  “It’s not for myself I care.  It’s for Benny.  That’s my little brother.  I’ve raised him.  He loves me; he don’t know.  I’ve kept him alone allays.  I don’t pray, you know; but when Ben puts his white little arms about me ’t nights and kisses me, somethin’ says to me, ‘God loves you, Lot.’  So help me God, that boy shall never know what his sister was!  He’s gettin’ older now.  I want work, before he can know.  Now, will you help me?”

“How can I?”

The whole world of society spoke in the poor manager.

“I’ll give you money.”

Her face hardened.

“Lot, I’ll be honest.  There’s no place for such as you.  Those that have made you what you are hold good stations among us; but when a woman’s once down, there’s no raising her up.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

She stood, her fair hair pushed back from her face, her eye deadening every moment, quite quiet.

“Good bye, Lot.”

The figure touched him somehow, standing alone in the night there.

“It wasn’t my fault at the first,” she wandered.  “Nobody teached me better.”

“I’m not a church-member, thank God!” said Pumphrey to himself, and so washed his hands in innocency.

“Well, good bye, girl,” kindly.  “Try and lead a better life.  I wish I could have given you work.”

“It was only for Benny that I cared, Sir.”