"Who are those two?" he said, as the little girlish white hand steadied the feeble fingers of the old man. "That is an interesting case. The girl has been the salvation of the old man; he is her grandfather. They belonged to a miserable set, the lowest of the low, but there seemed to be something more than human about the child. Her father was killed in a drunken broil, and her mother lay drunk at the time, and died soon after; but she clung to this old man, followed him everywhere, even to rum holes. She got mixed in with a mission Sabbath-school about that time, started down in that vile region where she lived; that was a great thing, too; it was sustained principally by an earnest young man by the name of Birge--and, by the way, I have heard that he has since become a minister and is preaching in Cleveland." "He is my pastor," answered Theodore, while his eyes sparkled. "Is it possible! Well, now, if that isn't a remarkable coincidence!" Theodore knew of some more coincidences quite as remarkable, but he only said: "And what further about this child?" "Why, I really think she became a Christian, then and there, young as she was--not more than five or six. After that she followed up her grandfather more closely than ever. People have seen her kneel right down in the street, and ask God to 'make grandpa come home with her right away.' The old man gave up his rum after a time, though no one ever thought he would. He has since been converted, and they two are the most active temperance reformers that we have in the city. They are at every meeting, and are constantly signing pledges and leading up others to do so." "What are their names?" "He is Grandfather Potter--used to be known as 'old Toper Potter;' and she is known throughout the city as 'Little Kitty McKay.'" "Why! she lived--" exclaimed Theodore; then he stopped. What possible use could there be in telling the chairman of this great meeting that "little Kitty McKay" lived in the attic of a certain house on Rensselaer Street at the same time that he lived in the basement; that her father was killed on the same night in which his mother died, and that in consequence of the fight and the murder, both of which took place in his father's rum cellar, he and his father had hurriedly decamped in the night, and wandered aimlessly for two years, thereby missing Mr. Birge's little mission school? "What did you say, sir?" said the chairman, bending deferentially toward the distinguished orator of the evening. "She lived in Albany during this time, did you say?" "Oh yes, sir; she has never been out of this city."