"Mother, we never saw people like that in Medwayville." "No." "Why are they here, and not there?" "You must ask Mr. Digby." "I don't want to ask Mr. Digby!--There are two boys; ragged;--and barefooted. I don't know what they are out for; they have nothing to do; they are just playing round an ash-barrel. I should think they'd be at home." "Such people's home is often worse than the streets." "But you don't know how it blows to-day. I should think, mother," said Rotha slowly, "New York must want a great many good people in it." "There are a great many good people in it." "What are they doing, then?" "Looking out for Number One, mostly," Mrs. Cord answered, who happened to be in the room. "But it wants people rich enough to look out for Number One, and for Number Two as well." Mrs. Carpenter sighed. She knew there were more sides to the problem than the simple "one and two" which appeared to Rotha. "There comes a coal cart, mother; that has to go, I suppose, for somebody wants it. I should hate to drive a coal cart! Mother, who wants it here? It is backing down upon our sidewalk." "Mrs. Marble, I suppose." "No, she don't; she has got her coal all in; and this isn't her coal at all; it is in big lumps some of it, like what came for the grate, and it isn't shiny like the stove coal. It must be for you, I guess." Rotha ran down to see, and came back with the receipt for her mother to sign. Mrs. Carpenter signed with a trembling hand, and Rotha flew away again. "It is a whole cart-load, mother," she said coming back. "There is one good rich man in New York," said Mrs. Carpenter tremulously. "Do you think he is rich?" "I fancy so." "He hasn't spent so very much on us, has he?" asked Rotha consideringly. "It seems much to me. More than our share, I am afraid." "Our share of what?" "His kindness." "Who has the other shares?" "I cannot tell. Other people he knows, that are in need of it." "Mother, we are not in _need_ of it, are we? We could get along without oysters, I suppose. But what I am thinking of is, if he gives other people as good a share of his time as he gives us, he cannot live at home much. Where _does_ Mr. Digby live, Mrs. Cord?" "I don't know as I can say, Rotha. It is a hotel somewheres, I believe." "I should not think anybody would live in a hotel," said Rotha, remembering her own and her mother's experience of the "North River." "Now here comes another cart the carts have to go in all sorts of times; but O how the dust blows about! This cart is carrying something--I can't see what it's all wrapped up." "My dear Rotha," said her mother, "I am not interested to know what the carts in the street are doing. Are you?" "This one is stopping, mother. It is stopping _here!_" "Well, my dear, what if it is. It is no business of ours."