“Then where do you live?” asked the miser. “I don’t live anywhere,” said the child, simply. “But where do you stay?” “Where I can. I generally walk about the streets in the daytime; and, when I feel cold, I go into some store to warm myself. They don’t always let me stay long. They call me ragged, and a beggar. I suppose,” she continued, casting a glance at her thin dress, which in some places was torn and dirty from long wearing,—“I suppose it’s all true; but I can’t help it.” “Where do you think of going to-night?” asked Martin, abruptly. “I don’t know. I haven’t any place to go to; and it’s very cold. Won’t you let me stay here?” asked the child, imploringly. The miser started. “How can you stay here? Here is only one room, and this I occupy.” “Let me lie down on the floor, anywhere. It will be better than to go out into the cold streets.” The miser paused. Even he, callous as his heart had become, would not willingly thrust out a young girl into the street, where in all probability, unless succor came, she would perish from the severity of the weather. After a little consideration, he took the fragment of a candle which was burning on the table, and, bidding Floy follow him, led the way into a room near by, which was quite destitute of furniture, save a small cot-bed in the corner. It had been left there when Martin Kendrick first took possession of the house, and had remained undisturbed ever since. A quilt, which, though tattered, was still thick and warm, was spread over it. “There,” said Martin, pointing it out to Floy, who followed him closely,—“there is a bed. It hasn’t been slept on for a great many years; but I suppose it will do as well as any other. You can sleep there, if you want to.” “Then I shall have a bed to sleep in!” said Floy, joyfully. “It is some time since I slept on any thing softer than a board, or perhaps a rug.” Martin was about to leave her alone, when he chanced to think the room would be dark. “You can undress in the dark, can’t you?” he inquired. “I haven’t got but one light. I can’t afford to keep more.” “Oh! I sha’n’t take off my clothes at all,” said the young girl. “I never do.” She got into bed, spread the quilt over her, and was asleep in less than five minutes. Martin Kendrick went back to his room. He did not immediately retire to bed, but sat for a few minutes, pondering on the extraordinary chance—for in his case it was certainly extraordinary—which had thrown a young girl, as it were, under his protection, though but for a limited time. He was somewhat bewildered, so unexpectedly had the event happened, and could scarcely, even now, realize that it was so.