But she did not know that.  She hurried on,
trying to comfort herself in that queer way of
hers by pretending and "supposing,"--but really
this time it was harder than she had ever found it,
and once or twice she thought it almost made her
more cold and hungry instead of less so.  But she
persevered obstinately.  "Suppose I had dry
clothes on," she thought.  "Suppose I had good
shoes and a long, thick coat and merino stockings
and a whole umbrella.  And suppose--suppose, just
when I was near a baker's where they sold hot buns,
I should find sixpence--which belonged to nobody. 
Suppose, if I did, I should go into the shop and
buy six of the hottest buns, and should eat them
all without stopping."

Some very odd things happen in this world sometimes. 
It certainly was an odd thing which happened
to Sara.  She had to cross the street just as
she was saying this to herself--the mud was
dreadful--she almost had to wade.  She picked
her way as carefully as she could, but she
could not save herself much, only, in picking her
way she had to look down at her feet and the mud,
and in looking down--just as she reached the
pavement--she saw something shining in the gutter. 
A piece of silver--a tiny piece trodden upon by
many feet, but still with spirit enough to shine
a little.  Not quite a sixpence, but the next
thing to it--a four-penny piece!  In one second
it was in her cold, little red and blue hand. 
"Oh!" she gasped.  "It is true!"

And then, if you will believe me, she looked
straight before her at the shop directly facing her. 
And it was a baker's, and a cheerful, stout,
motherly woman, with rosy cheeks, was just
putting into the window a tray of delicious hot
buns,--large, plump, shiny buns, with currants in them.

It almost made Sara feel faint for a few seconds--the
shock and the sight of the buns and the delightful
odors of warm bread floating up through the baker's
cellar-window.

She knew that she need not hesitate to use the
little piece of money.  It had evidently been lying
in the mud for some time, and its owner was
completely lost in the streams of passing people
who crowded and jostled each other all through
the day.

"But I'll go and ask the baker's woman if she
has lost a piece of money," she said to herself,
rather faintly.

So she crossed the pavement and put her wet
foot on the step of the shop; and as she did so
she saw something which made her stop.

It was a little figure more forlorn than her own
--a little figure which was not much more than a
bundle of rags, from which small, bare, red and
muddy feet peeped out--only because the rags
with which the wearer was trying to cover them
were not long enough.  Above the rags appeared
a shock head of tangled hair and a dirty face,
with big, hollow, hungry eyes.

Sara knew they were hungry eyes the moment
she saw them, and she felt a sudden sympathy.

"This," she said to herself, with a little sigh,
"is one of the Populace--and she is hungrier
than I am."

The child--this "one of the Populace"--stared up
at Sara, and shuffled herself aside a little, so
as to give her more room.  She was used to being
made to give room to everybody.  She knew that if
a policeman chanced to see her, he would tell her
to "move on."

Sara clutched her little four-penny piece, and
hesitated a few seconds.  Then she spoke to her.

"Are you hungry?" she asked.

The child shuffled herself and her rags a little more.

"Ain't I jist!" she said, in a hoarse voice.
"Jist ain't I!"

"Haven't you had any dinner?" said Sara.

"No dinner," more hoarsely still and with more
shuffling, "nor yet no bre'fast--nor yet no supper
--nor nothin'."

"Since when?" asked Sara.