“That’s a lie,” the child announced, with a faint patch of colour on either thin cheek.  “Mr. Needles sold them.”  The man decided to ignore such issues; his sole wish now was to take Eunice away as speedily as possible.  “Well,” he directed impatiently, “get a shawl, something to wrap her in.”  He regretted vainly that he had not come for the child in a carriage.  He paid without a question what the woman said was owing; and, with Eunice folded in a ragged plaid, prepared to depart.  “I guess,” the child decided, in a strangely mature voice, “we’d better take my medicine.”  She turned toward a mantel, Mrs. Needles made a quick movement in the same direction, but the small shape was before her.  Jasper Penny took a bottle from the diminutive, cold hand.  The label had been obliterated; but, impelled by a distrustful curiosity, he took out the cork.

Laudanum!

He was at the point of an indignant condemnation when the words perished without utterance—­not the haggard woman before him, but himself, Jasper Penny, was entirely guilty.  He, in reality, had given the drug to his daughter, placed her in this sorry and bitter poverty.  “Come, Eunice,” he said, taking her by the hand, his face grey and stony.

Once more in the city he walked with the child to the ferry and foot of Chestnut Street, where they found places in The Reaper, a stage brightly painted with snowy ships and drawn by four sorrel horses.  His first concern was to purchase proper clothes for his daughter; then he would face the problem of her happier disposal.  They passed the columned facade of the Philadelphia Bank, the Custom House with its wide steps set back from the street, hedged dwellings, and the United States Hotel to Independence Square and Sixth Street, where he lifted the child from the stage.  They stopped before an entrance between bowed windows which had above it the sign, The Misses Dunlop, Millinery.

Jasper Penny had had no idea that it would be so difficult to procure clothes for a girl of seven.  At first he was told that the necessary garments could not be furnished, when discussion revealed the fact that a nearly complete, diminutive wardrobe, especially ordered from Paris and neglected by the customer, was to be had.  In a surprisingly short while a sentimental saleswoman had apparelled Eunice in black velvet with rows of small bows and gold buckles and a lace collar, cambric pantaloon ruffles swinging about her ankles, a quilted pink satin bonnet tied, like those of her elders’, with a bow under her right cheek, and a muff and tippet of ermine.  Other articles—­a frock of rose gros de chine, with a flounced skirt, a drab velvet bonnet turned in green smocked silk, and sheer underthings—­he ordered delivered at Sanderson’s Hotel.