In this realization there was a touch of self-reproach.  She knew, in her own heart, that she would be glad to do no more work of that sort.  Experience had made her hopeless, and she had none of the spiritual support that made women like St. Catherine of Sienna.  But, if experience had robbed her of her illusions, she knew, too, that it had set a seal of pain on all the future for her.  She could never forget the misery she had seen.  So it had been a little in a desire to give one more sop to her conscience, that she had dedicated her last afternoon to freedom to her friends in the very worst part of the town.

If her mother had remained at home, she would never have been allowed to go.  All the more reason for returning in good season, and here it was dark!  Worse still, the trip had been in every way unsuccessful.  She had turned her face homeward, simply asking herself, as she had done so many times before, if it were “worth while,” and answered the question once more with:  “Neither to me nor to them.”  She had already learned, though too young for the lesson, that each individual works out his own salvation,—­that neither moral nor physical growth ever works from the surface inward.  Opportunity—­she could perhaps give that in the future, but she was convinced that those who may give of themselves, and really help in the giving, are elected to the task by something more than the mere desire to serve.  In her case the gift of her youth and her illusions had done others no real good, and had more or less saddened her life forever.  If she were to really go on with the work, it would only be by giving up the world—­her world,—­abandoning her life, with its luxury, its love, everything she had been bred to, and longed for.  She did not feel a call to do that, so she chose the existence to which she had been born; the love of a man in her own set,—­but the shadow of too much knowledge sat on her like a shadow of fear.

She was impatient with herself, the world, living,—­and there was no cab in sight.

She looked at her watch.  Half past four.

It was foolish not to have driven over, but she had felt it absurd, always, to go about this kind of work in a private carriage, and to-day she could not, as she usually did, take a street car for fear of meeting friends.  They thought her queer enough as it was.

An impatient ejaculation escaped her, and like an echo of it she heard a child’s voice beside her.

She looked down.

It was a poor miserable specimen.  At first she was not quite sure whether it were boy or girl.

Whimpering and mopping its nose with a very dirty hand, the child begged money for a sick mother—­a dying mother—­and begged as if not accustomed to it—­all the time with an eye for that dread of New England beggars, the man in the blue coat and brass buttons.

Miss Moreland was so consciously irritated with life that she was unusually gentle.  She stooped down.  The child did not seem six years old.  The face was not so very cunning.  It was not ugly, either.  It was merely the epitome of all that Miss Moreland tried to forget—­the little one born without a chance in the world.