Hands were thrust in pockets, purses pulled out, and the astonished child held in her little palm more money than she had ever seen before. "Her father is a poor, consumptive organ-grinder," whispered one. "I suppose he's too sick to be out tonight." Along the soggy street went the child, under the protection of John Harvey, but not with shoes that drank the water at every step. Warmth and comfort were hers now. Down in the deep den-like lanes of the city walked the man, a little cold hand in his. At an open door they stopped; up broken, creaking stairs they climbed. Another doorway was opened, and a wheezing voice called out of the dim arch, "Carletta!" "O Father! Father! see what I have brought you! Look at me! Look at me" and down went the silver, and venting her joy, the poor child fell; crying and laughing together, into the old man's arms. Was he a man? A face dark and hollow, all overgrown with hair black as night and uncombed--a pair of wild eyes--a body bent nearly double--hands like claws. "Did he give you all this, my child?" "They all did, Father; now you shall have soup and oranges." "Thank you, sir--I'm sick, you see--all gone, sir!--had to send the poor child out, or we'd starve. God bless you, sir! I wish I was well enough to play you a tune," and he looked wistfully towards the corner where stood the old organ, baize-covered, the baize in tatters. One month after that the two men met again as if by agreement, and walked slowly down town. Treading innumerable passages they came to the gloomy building where lived Carletta's father. No--not _lived there_, for as they paused a moment out came two or three men bearing a pine coffin. In the coffin slept the old organ-grinder. "It was very sudden, sir," said a woman, who recognized his benefactor. "Yesterday the little girl was took sick and it seemed as if he drooped right away. He died at six last night." The two men went silently up stairs. The room was empty of everything save a bed, a chair and a nurse provided by John Harvey. The child lay there, not white, but pale as marble, with a strange polish on her brow. "Well my little one, are you better?" "Oh no, sir; Father is gone up there and I am going." Up _there_! John Harvey turned unconsciously towards his friend. "Did you ever hear of Jesus?" asked John Harvey's friend. "Oh yes." "Do you know who he was?" "_Good Jesus_," murmured the child. "Hawkins, this breaks me down," said John Harvey and he placed his handkerchief to his eyes. "Don't cry, don't cry; I can't cry, I'm so glad," said the child exultingly. "What are you glad for, my dear?" asked John Harvey's friend.