Jessica, clinging to the
Sister of Mercy's succouring hand, was gently led from the silence of
the streets to the still greater silence of an attic in a quiet byway.
Here, seated by the remains of a small fire in a narrow grate, she
watched with awkward interest, that was much like indifference, the
efforts of her rescuer to revive the dying embers. Soup was warmed for
her, but for a time she refused to take it.
"I am not hungry," she said. "Only tired--so tired! Why did you wake me,
lady?"
"I awoke you because you were unhappy, and it was dangerous for one so
young as you to lie asleep in the streets," replied the meek-eyed woman.
"But you must not call me 'lady'; I am not a lady. Call me 'Sister.'"
"But you are not my sister," said Jessica petulantly. "I haven't any
sister or brother, or father or mother."
"Poor thing!" said the woman, who by this time had made up a bed, plain
enough it is true, but luxurious after the cold doorsteps, and she now
helped Jessica to undress. "Poor thing, you are quite cold; and what are
all these bruises? Ah! why will men be so cruel, when Heaven is so
kind?"
"I don't know," said Jessica, who took the question as directed to
herself.
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