"Turned you out of doors! Where is your father? Can't he take care of you?" "I have no father--he is dead." No father, no vote! The little beggar had not the most indirect claim for sympathy or forbearance from the Mayor of New York. He could afford to be angry with her; nay, better, to seem angry also, and that was an uncommon luxury with him. "Well, why didn't you go to the basement?" "It was dark there--and through that window everything looked so warm--I could not help it!" "Could not help it, indeed! Go away! I never encourage street beggars. It would be doing a wrong to the people who look up to me for an example. Go away this minute--how dare you come up to this door? You are a bad little girl, I dare say!" "No sir--no--no, I am _not_ bad! Please not to say that. It hurts me worse than the cold!" said the child, raising her sweet voice and clasping her little wan hands, while over her features many a wounded feeling trembled, though she gave no signs of weeping. What a contrast there was between the heartless face of that man, and the meek, truthful look of the child! How cold and harsh seemed his voice after the troubled melody of hers! "I tell you, there is no use in attempting to deceive me. Station houses are built on purpose for little thieves that prowl about at night!" and the cold-hearted man half closed the door, adding, "go away--go away! Some policeman will take you to a station house, though I dare be sworn you know how to find one without help." The door was closed with these words, shutting the desolate child into the cold night again. She neither complained nor wept; but sinking on the stone, gathered her frail limbs in a heap and buried her face in the old cloak. Chester heard the whole conversation; he saw the expression of meek despair which fell upon the child as the door closed against her, and with a swelling heart mounted the steps. "My little girl," he said very gently, touching the crouching form with his hand, "my poor, little girl!" The child looked up wildly, for the very benevolence of his voice frightened her, she was so unused to anything of the kind; but the instant her eyes fell upon his bosom, where the silver star glittered in the moonlight, she uttered a faint shriek. "Oh, do not--do not take me--I am not a thief--I am not wicked!" and she shrunk back into a corner of the iron railing shuddering, and with her wild eyes bent upon him like some little wounded animal hunted down by fierce dogs. "Don't be frightened--I will take care of you--I"-- "They took _her_--the policemen, I mean. Where is she? What have you done with her?" "But I wish to be kind," said Chester, greatly distressed; she interrupted him, pointing to his star with her finger. "Kind? see--see. I tell you I am not a thief!" "I know, I am sure you are not," was the compassionate answer. "Then why take me up if I am not a thief?" "But you will perish with the cold!"