"She was starving," said the woman.  "Many's the
time she's told me of it since--how she sat there
in the wet, and felt as if a wolf was a-tearing at
her poor young insides."

"Oh, have you seen her since then?" exclaimed Sara. 
"Do you know where she is?"

"I know!" said the woman.  "Why, she's in
that there back room now, miss, an' has been for
a month, an' a decent, well-meaning girl she's
going to turn out, an' such a help to me in the
day shop, an' in the kitchen, as you'd scarce believe,
knowing how she's lived."

She stepped to the door of the little back parlor
and spoke; and the next minute a girl came out
and followed her behind the counter.  And actually
it was the beggar-child, clean and neatly clothed,
and looking as if she had not been hungry for a
long time.  She looked shy, but she had a nice face,
now that she was no longer a savage; and the wild
look had gone from her eyes.  And she knew Sara in
an instant, and stood and looked at her as if she
could never look enough.

"You see," said the woman, "I told her to
come here when she was hungry, and when she'd
come I'd give her odd jobs to do, an' I found she
was willing, an' somehow I got to like her; an'
the end of it was I've given her a place an' a home,
an' she helps me, an' behaves as well, an' is as
thankful as a girl can be.  Her name's Anne--she
has no other."

The two children stood and looked at each
other a few moments.  In Sara's eyes a new
thought was growing.

"I'm glad you have such a good home," she said. 
"Perhaps Mrs. Brown will let you give the buns
and bread to the children--perhaps you would
like to do it--because you know what it is to
be hungry, too."

"Yes, miss," said the girl.

And somehow Sara felt as if she understood her,
though the girl said nothing more, and only stood
still and looked, and looked after her as she
went out of the shop and got into the carriage
and drove away.

[End.]
.