“You’re sick?  Or”—­

“It’ll not last long, now.  I only keep myself alive eating opium now and then.  D’ ye know?  I fell by your hall to-day; had a fit, they said.  It wasn’t a fit; it was death, Sir.”

He smiled.

“Why didn’t you die, then?”

“I wouldn’t.  Benny would have known then, I said,—­’I will not.  I must take care o’ him first.’  Good bye.  You’d best not be seen here.”

And so she left him.

One moment she stood uncertain, being alone, looking down into the seething black water covered with ice.

“There’s one chance yet,” she muttered.  “It’s hard; but I’ll try,”—­with a shivering sigh; and went dragging herself along the wharf, muttering still something about Benny.

As she went through the lighted streets, her step grew lighter.  She lifted her head.  Why, she was only a child yet, in some ways, you know; and this was Christmas-time; and it wasn’t easy to believe, that, with the whole world strong and glad, and the True Love coming into it, there was no chance for her.  Was it?  She hurried on, keeping in the shadow of the houses to escape notice, until she came to the more open streets,—­the old “commons.”  She stopped at the entrance of an alley, going to a pump, washing her face and hands, then combing her fair, silky hair.

“I’ll try it,” she said again.

Some sudden hope had brought a pink flush to her cheek and a moist brilliance to her eye.  You could not help thinking, had society not made her what she was, how fresh and fair and debonair a little maiden she would have been.

“He’s my mother’s brother.  He’d a kind face, though he struck me.  I’ll kill him, if he strikes me agin,” the dark trade-mark coming into her eyes.  “But mebbe,” patting her hair, “he’ll not.  Just call me Charley, as Ben does:  help me to be like his wife:  I’ll hev a chance for heaven at last.”

She turned to a big brick building and ran lightly up the stairs on the outside.  It had been a cotton-factory, but was rented in tenement-rooms now.  On the highest porch was one of Lot’s rooms:  she had two.  The muslin curtain was undrawn, a red fire-light shone out.  She looked in through the window, smiling.  A clean, pure room:  the walls she had whitewashed herself; a white cot-bed in one corner; a glowing fire, before which a little child sat on a low cricket, building a house out of blocks.  A brave, honest-faced little fellow, with clear, reserved eyes, and curling golden hair.  The girl, Lot, might have looked like that at his age.

“Benny!” she called, tapping on the pane.

“Yes, Charley!” instantly, coming quickly to the door.

She caught him up in her arms.

“Is my baby tired waiting for sister?  I’m finding Christmas for him, you know.”

He put his arms about her neck, kissing her again and again, and laying his head down on her shoulder.

“I’m so glad you’ve come, Charley! so glad! so glad!”