“I am freezing. Let me come in and sit by the fire, if only for a moment. I shall die upon your steps.” The old man deliberated. “You’re sure you’re not trying to get in after my money, what little I have? There isn’t any one with you, is there?” “No one. There is only me. Oh, sir, do let me in! I am so cold!” The bolt was cautiously withdrawn; and Martin, opening a crack, peered forth suspiciously. But the only object that met his gaze was a little girl, of ten years of age, crouching on the steps in a way to avail herself of all the natural warmth she had. “Will you let me come in?” said she, imploringly. “You had better go somewhere else. I haven’t much of a fire. I don’t keep much, it burns out fuel so fast. You had better go where they keep better fires.” “Oh, sir, the least fire will relieve me so much! and I haven’t strength to go any farther.” “Well, you may come in, if you’re sure you haven’t come to steal any thing.” “I never steal: it’s wicked.” “Umph! Well, I hope you’ll remember it. This is the way.” He led her into a little room which he occupied. She sprang to the fire, little inviting as it was, and eagerly spread out both hands before it. She seemed actually to drink in the heat, scanty as it was, so welcome did it prove to her chilled and benumbed limbs. A touch of humanity came to the miser, or perhaps his own experience of the cold stimulated him to the act; for, after a few minutes’ deliberation, he took two sticks from the pile of fuel, and threw them upon the fire. They crackled and burnt; diffusing, for a time, a cheerful warmth about the apartment. The little girl looked up gratefully, and thanked him for what she regarded as an act of kindness to herself. “Fuel’s high, very high; and it takes a fearful quantity to keep the fire agoing.” “But what a pleasant fire it makes!” said the little girl, as she looked at the flames curling aloft. “Why, yes,” said Martin, in a soliloquising tone, “it is comfortable; but it would not do to have it burn so bright. It would ruin me completely.” “Then you are poor?” said the little girl, looking about the room. The furniture was scanty; consisting only of the most indispensable articles, and those of the cheapest kind. They had all been picked up, at second-hand stores, for little or nothing. It was no wonder that little Floy asked the question. Nevertheless, the miser looked suspiciously at her, as if there was some covert meaning in her words. But she looked so openly and frankly at him as quite to disarm any suspicions he might entertain. “Poor?” he at length answered. “Yes, I am; or should be, if I plunged into extravagant living and expenses of every kind.” And he looked half regretfully at the sticks which had burned out, and were now smouldering in the grate. “Well,” said Floy, “I am poor too, and so were father and mother. But I think I am poorer than you; for I have no home at all, no house to live in, and no fire to keep me warm.”