“No, sir. He died twelve years ago. And mother has been ill for four years.” “What do you do for a living?” “Sell flowers, papers, or do anything that will bring me a few cents. Sometimes I run errands or carry gentlemen’s bundles.” The kind-hearted deacon groaned, while she resumed: “After I had parted with the old gent I found a flashily dressed young man, who wanted me to run an errand for him, and when I got back he gave me a silver quarter. It seemed so much for him to pay for so little work that I wanted him to take a part of it back, and he took my ten-cent piece. From that time until noon I earned only three cents; but, with my quarter, I felt quite well pleased. So I thought to buy something real nice for mother and go home. When I come to pay for the rolls and cake the man said the money was bad. I could not believe it, and while I tried to explain to him how I got it, he called in the police, when I was taken to the recorder’s court and kept there until you found me.” “The sinfulness of this sinful city!” exclaimed the deacon. “And to think they were going to take you to the workshop.” “I wish to thank you for your kindness, sir. You see, Rob and I used to be old cronies; but we have not seen each other for over two years. But here we are at home. How glad mother will be to see me, and you, too, Rob, and Deacon Cornhill, I am sure. But, dear me! here I have not brought her a crumb to eat. How could I have forgotten it?” “Is it possible you live here, Joey? But go right in with Deacon Cornhill, while I go after something for her and you to eat. I will be back soon. Chick can shift for himself.” “Buy something good,” said Mr. Cornhill, pulling out his well-filled pocketbook and handing Rob a five-dollar bill, which, however, he made the exchange for one of a smaller denomination. If Deacon Cornhill had learned to like bluff, hearty Little Hickory, he was not less pleased with the bravehearted girl, whose only name, as far as he had found out, had that decided masculine ring of Joe. “If the leetle one is willing, I’ll step in and see her mother.” “Of course, sir; come right in. But you must be prepared to find scanty room. Our house is so small--that is, narrow, our rooms are not more than three feet wide. Still, now we have got used to them, we get along quite comfortably.” Deacon Cornhill, by this time, was prepared to be surprised at nothing in New York; but this dwelling fairly staggered his senses. The entire width of this building, which was four stories in height, was scarcely five feet, outside measure. Was it a wonder the man, fresh from the country, where space is a matter of small consideration, was amazed at this peculiar structure, with its long, narrow apartments, where he could barely turn around? It seemed that at some time the land upon which it stood had been a matter of contention, until finally the owner, to spite his neighbor, had erected this tall, narrow building on his limited grounds.