She was by no means a pretty child. Her clear auburn hair was thrust carelessly into a net with broken meshes, and her limbs encased in a suit of rusty, scanty mourning. In her appearance, in spite of her childish innocence and grief, there was something undeniably vulgar. "She looks as if she belonged to a circus troupe," Roger said to himself. Her face, however, though without beauty, was not without interest. Her forehead was symmetrical and her mouth expressive. Her eyes were light in color, yet by no means colorless. A sort of arrested, concentrated brightness, a soft introversion of their rays, gave them a remarkable depth. "Poor little betrayed, unfriended mortal!" thought the young man.
"What is your name?" he asked.
"Nora Lambert," said the child.
"How old are you?"
"Twelve."
"And you live in St. Louis?"
"We used to live there. I was born there."
"Why had your father come to the East?"
"To make money."
"Where was he going to live?"
"Anywhere he could find business."
"What was his business?"
"He had none. He wanted to find some."
"You have no friends nor relations?"
The child gazed a few moments in silence. "He told me when he woke me up and kissed me, last night, that I had not a friend in the world nor a person that cared for me."
Before the exquisite sadness of this statement Lawrence
