Of course, they couldn't have all Queer Street in their waiting rooms, these railway people; and the man's words were rougher than his voice. But these were two children, who wanted cherishing! The slink in the boy's eye worked down, and became a sneak and a shuffle, toward the door. The girl was following. "Stop!" called a woman's voice, sharp and authoritative. "Don't you stir a single step, either of you, till you get warm! If there isn't any other way to fix it, I'll buy you both a ticket somewhere and then you'll be passengers." It was a tall, thin, hoopless woman, with a carpetbag, a plaid shawl, and an umbrella; and a bonnet that, since other bonnets had begun to poke, looked like a chaise top flattened back at the first spring. In a word, Mehitable Sampson. Something twitched at the corners of the man's mouth as he glanced round at this sudden and singular champion. Something may have twitched under his comfortable waistcoat, also. At any rate, he passed on; and the children--the brief battledore over in which they had been the shuttlecocks--crept back, compliant with the second order, much amazed, toward the stove. Miss Sampson began to interrogate. "Why don't you take your little sister home?" "This one ain't my sister." Children always set people right before they answer queries. "Well--whoever she is, then. Why don't you both go home?" "'Cause it's cold there, too. And we was sent to find sticks." "If she isn't your sister, who does she belong to?" "She don't belong to nobody. She lived upstairs, and her mother died, and she came down to us. But she's goin' to be took away. Mother's got five of us, now. She's goin' to the poorhouse. She's a regular little brick, though; ain't yer, Jo?" The pretty, childish lips that had begun to grow red and lifelike again, parted, and showed little rows of milk teeth, like white shells. The blue eyes and the baby smile went up, confidingly, to the young ragamuffin's face. There had been kindness here. The boy had taken to Jo, it seemed; and was benevolently evincing it, in the best way he could, by teaching her good-natured slang. "Yes; I'm a little brick," she lisped. Miss Sampson's keen eyes went from one to the other, resting last and long on Jo. "I shouldn't wonder," she said, deliberately, "if you was Number Four!" "Whereabouts do you live?" suddenly, to the boy. "Three doors round the corner. 'Tain't number four, though. It's ninety-three." "What's your name?" "Tim Rafferty." "Tim Rafferty! Did anybody ever trust you with a carpetbag?" "I've carried 'em up. But then they mostly goes along, and looks sharp." "Well, now I'm going to leave you here, with this one. If anybody speaks to you, say you was left in charge. Don't stir till I come back. And--look here! if you see a young woman come in, with bright, wavy hair, and a black gown and bonnet, and if she comes and speaks to you, as most likely she will, tell her I said I shouldn't wonder if this was Number Four!"