Chester looked up, and a smile illuminated his face. Always willing to look on the bright side of human nature, his generous heart smote him for having perhaps judged too harshly. The little hand which he was chafing began to warm with life; this relieved him of the terrible excitement which the moment before had rendered his words, if just, more than imprudent. "Thank you, sir, she _is_ better," he said, with an expression of frank gratitude beaming over every feature, "I think she will live now, so we will only trouble you a few minutes longer." "My family are in bed--and these street beggars are so little to be relied upon," observed the Mayor, evidently wishing to offer some excuse for his former harshness, without doing so directly; "but this seems a case of real distress." Chester was subdued by this speech. More and more he regretted the excitement of his former language. He longed to make some reparation to a man who, after all, might be only prudent, not unfeeling. "If," said he, looking at the child, whose features began to quiver in the glowing fire-light, "if I had a drop of wine now." "Oh, we are temperance people here, you know," replied the Mayor, coldly. "Or anything warm," persisted Chester, as the child opened her eyes with a famished look. "You can get wine at the station-house. My girls are in bed." "I am afraid she will have small hopes of help at the station-house. The Common Council make no provision for medical aid where the sick or starving are brought in at night. It is a great omission, sir." "The Common Council cannot do everything," replied the Mayor, becoming impatient, but still subduing himself. "I know sir, but its first duty is to the poor." "Oh, yes, no one denies that;" replied the Mayor, observing with satisfaction that Chester was preparing to remove the little intruder. "You will not have a very long walk," he added. "The station-house is not more than eight or ten blocks off. She will be strong enough, I fancy, to get so far." "Don't, don't take me there! I am not a thief!" murmured the child, and two great tears rolled over her cheek slowly, as if the fire-light had with difficulty thawed them out from her heart. They were answered--God bless the policeman--they were answered by a whole gush of tears that sprang into his fine eyes, and sparkled there like so many diamonds. "No," he said, taking off his overcoat, and wrapping it around the child, his hands and arms shaking with eager pity as he lifted her from the chair. "She shall go home with me for one night at least. I will say to my wife, 'Here is a little hungry thing whom God has sent you from the street.' She will be welcome, sir. I am sure she will be as welcome as if I were to carry home a casket of gold in my bosom. Will you go home with me, little girl?" The child turned her large eyes upon him; a smile of ineffable sweetness floated over her face, and drawing a deep breath, she said: "Oh, yes, I will go!"