Down a narrow street she turned from the great thoroughfare, walking with quick steps, and shivering a little as the penetrating east wind sent a chill of dampness through the thin shawl she drew closer and closer about her shoulders.  Nothing could be in stronger contrast than the rows of handsome dwellings and stores that lined the streets through which she had just passed, and the forlorn, rickety, unsightly and tumble-down houses amid which she now found herself.

Pinky had gone only a little way when the sharp cries of a child cut the air suddenly, the shrill, angry voice of a woman and the rapid fall of lashes mingled with the cries.  The child begged for mercy in tones of agony, but the loud voice, uttering curses and imprecations, and the cruel blows, ceased not.  Pinky stopped and shivered.  She felt the pain of these blows, in her quickly-aroused sympathy, almost as much as if they had been falling on her own person.  Opposite to where she had paused was a one-story frame house, or enclosed shed, as unsightly without as a pig-pen, and almost as filthy within.  It contained two small rooms with very low ceilings.  The only things in these rooms that could be called furniture were an old bench, two chairs from which the backs had been broken, a tin cup black with smoke and dirt, two or three tin pans in the same condition, some broken crockery and an iron skillet.  Pinky stood still for a moment, shivering, as we have said.  She knew what the blows and the curses and the cries of pain meant; she had heard them before.  A depraved and drunken woman and a child ten years old, who might or might not be her daughter, lived there.  The child was sent out every day to beg or steal, and if she failed to bring home a certain sum of money, was cruelly beaten by the woman.  Almost every day the poor child was cut with lashes, often on the bare flesh; almost every day her shrieks rang out from the miserable hovel.  But there was no one to interfere, no one to save her from the smarting blows, no one to care what she suffered.

Pinky Swett could stand it no longer.  She had often noticed the ragged child, with her pale, starved face and large, wistful eyes, passing in and out of this miserable woman’s den, sometimes going to the liquor-shops and sometimes to the nearest policy-office to spend for her mother, if such the woman really was, the money she had gained by begging.

With a sudden impulse, as a deep wail and a more piteous cry for mercy smote upon her ears, Pinky sprang across the street and into the hovel.  The sight that met her eyes left no hesitation in her mind.  Holding up with one strong arm the naked body of the poor child—­she had drawn the clothes over her head—­the infuriated woman was raining down blows from a short piece of rattan upon the quivering flesh, already covered with welts and bruises.

“Devil!” cried Pinky as she rushed upon this fiend in human shape and snatched the little girl from her arm.  “Do you want to kill the child?”