"Where do you live?" I was firing these questions one after the other without the slightest interest in either the boy or his welfare. My mind was on my lecture, and the impatient look on the faces of the audience, and the consulted watch of the chairman of the committee, followed by the inevitable: "You are not very prompt, sir," etc. "Our people have been in their seats," etc. If the boy had previously replied to my question as to where he lived, I had forgotten the name of the town. "I live"---- Then he stopped. "I live in---- Do you mean now?" he added simply. "Yes." There was another pause. "I don't know, sir; maybe they won't let me stay." Another foolish question. Of course, if he had left home for good, and was now on his way to the asylum for the first time, his present home was this hack. But he had won my interest now. His words had come in tones of such directness, and were so calm, and gave so full a statement of the exact facts, that I leaned over quickly, and began studying him a little closer. I saw that this scrap of a boy wore a gray woolen suit, and I noticed that the cap was made of the same cloth as the jacket, and that both were the work of some inexperienced hand, with uneven, unpressed seams--the seams of a flat-iron, not a tailor's goose. Instinctively my mind went back to what his earlier life had been. "Have you got any brothers and sisters, my boy?" "Yes, sir." "Where are they?" "I don't know, sir; I was too little to remember." The pathos of this answer stirred me all the more. "Who's been taking care of you ever since your father left you?" I had lowered my voice now to a more confidential tone. "A German man." "What did you leave him for?" "He had no work, and he took me to the priest." "When?" "Last week, sir." "What did the priest do?" "He gave me these clothes. Don't you think they're nice? The priest's sister made them for me--all but the stockings; she bought those." As he said this he lifted his arms so I could look under them, and thrust out toward me his two plump legs. I said the clothes were very nice, and that I thought they fitted him very well, and I felt his chubby knees and calves as I spoke, and ended by getting hold of his soft wee hand, which I held on to. His fingers closed tightly over mine, and a slight smile lighted up his face. It seemed good to him to have something to hold on to. I began again:-- "Did the priest send you here?" "Yes, sir. Do you want to see the letter?" The little hand--the free one--fumbled under the jacket, loosened the two lower buttons, and disclosed a white envelope pinned to his shirt. "I'm to give it to 'em at the asylum. But I can't unpin it. He told me not to." "That's right, my boy. Leave it where it is." "You poor little rat," I said to myself. "This is pretty rough on you. You ought to be tucked up in some warm bed, not out here alone in this storm."