Here, seated by the remains of a small fire in a narrow grate, she watched with awkward interest, that was much like indifference, the efforts of her rescuer to revive the dying embers. Soup was warmed for her, but for a time she refused to take it. "I am not hungry," she said. "Only tired--so tired! Why did you wake me, lady?" "I awoke you because you were unhappy, and it was dangerous for one so young as you to lie asleep in the streets," replied the meek-eyed woman. "But you must not call me 'lady'; I am not a lady. Call me 'Sister.'" "But you are not my sister," said Jessica petulantly. "I haven't any sister or brother, or father or mother." "Poor thing!" said the woman, who by this time had made up a bed, plain enough it is true, but luxurious after the cold doorsteps, and she now helped Jessica to undress. "Poor thing, you are quite cold; and what are all these bruises? Ah! why will men be so cruel, when Heaven is so kind?" "I don't know," said Jessica, who took the question as directed to herself. "I don't know anything. Besides, all men ain't cruel. _He_ wasn't; he was kind--oh, so kind!" "He--whom?" said the Sister. Then, as the girl did not reply, she looked hard at her and sighed again. "Now you will sleep," she said, "Will you kiss me?" With the impulsiveness of girlhood Jessica threw her arms round the linen-banded neck and kissed the Sister's pale face." "Good-night," she said. The Sister smoothed the coarse pillow, covered her up, and went softly from the room. When Jessica awoke the woman was again beside her with a cup of tea, and some bread-and-butter. But the girl refused to eat. "I am not hungry. I am not tired now, either, and I will go." The Sister put her hand on the girl's arm. "Not yet," she said. "Where have you to go?" "Nowhere," Jessica answered listlessly. "Then stay with me," said the woman kindly. "See"--she brought a basket to the bedside--"here's some work. I will teach you to do this, and we will live together. Will you not stay?" Jessica looked at the work, and silently nodded acquiescence. But nevertheless she sighed. To a nature such as hers freedom was life itself, and she was bartering it away for mere food. Besides, how could she now follow the one who had been so kind to her? But she stayed, and patiently worked all day, striving earnestly to catch the knack of the needle, and emulating the tireless industry of the Sister, who worked thus during daylight that she might pursue her mission of mercy and succour at night. Thus passed some days, and then Jessica's blood grew restless; the narrow room seemed to her stifling and unendurable, and she pined for the open air, as a caged blackbird longs for its native woods. The longing grew so irresistible that at last she succumbed to it; and one day, finding herself alone, she threw down the piece of work on which she was employed, and rising, snatched up her weather-stained hat.