She could not rest. She tossed and turned. What could Thomas be about with that man? What mischief might he not take him into? Good women, in their supposed ignorance of men's wickedness, are not unfrequently like the angels, in that they understand it perfectly, without the knowledge soiling one feather of their wings. They see it clearly--even from afar. Now, although Lucy could not know so much of it as many are compelled to know, she had some acquaintance with the lowest castes of humanity, and the vice of the highest is much the same as the vice of the lowest, only in general worse--more refined, and more detestable. So, by a natural process, without knowing how, she understood something of the kind of gulf into which a man like Molken might lead Thomas, and she could not bear the thoughts that sprung out of this understanding. Hardly knowing what she did, she got up and put on her bonnet and shawl, and went down stairs. "Where on earth are you going, Lucy?" asked her grandmother, in some alarm. Lucy did not know in the least what she meant to do. She had had a vague notion of setting out to find Thomas somewhere, and rescue him from the grasp of Moloch, but, save for the restlessness with which her misery filled her, she could never have entertained the fancy. The moment her grandmother asked her the question, she saw how absurd it would be. Still she could not rest. So she invented an answer, and ordered her way according to her word. "I'm going to see little Mattie," she said. "The child is lonely, and so am I. I will take her out for a walk." "Do then, my dear. It will do you both good," said the grandmother. "Only you must have a cup of tea first." Lucy drank her cup of tea, then rose, and went to the book-shop. Mr. Kitely was there alone. "How's Mattie to-night, Mr. Kitely? Is she any better, do you think?" she asked. "She's in the back room there. I'll call her," said the bookseller, without answering either of Lucy's questions. "Oh! I'll just go in to her. You wouldn't mind me taking her out for a little walk, would you?" "Much obliged to you, miss," returned the bookseller, heartily. "It's not much amusement the poor child has. I'm always meaning to do better for her, but I'm so tied with the shop that--_I_ don't know hardly how it is, but somehow we go on the same old way. She'll be delighted." Lucy went into the back parlor, and there sat Mattie, with her legs curled up beneath her on the window-sill, reading a little book, thumbed and worn at the edges, and brown with dust and use. "Well, Miss Burton," she cried, before Lucy had time to speak, "I've found something here. I think it's what people call poetry. I'm not sure; but I'm sure it's good, whatever it is. Only I can't read it very well. Will you read it to me, please, miss? I do like to be read to." "I want you to come out for a walk with me, Mattie," said Lucy, who was in no humor for reading.