flagging, murky doorways,
broken steps and broken windows stuffed with rags, and the smell of the
sewers let loose had Apple Blossom Court.

Glad, with the wealth of the pork and ham shop and other riches in her
arms, entered a repellent doorway in a spirit of great good cheer and
Dart followed her. Past a room where a drunken woman lay sleeping with
her head on a table, a child pulling at her dress and crying, up a
stairway with broken balusters and breaking steps, through a landing,
upstairs again, and up still farther until they reached the top. Glad
stopped before a door and shook the handle, crying out:

"'S only me, Polly. You can open it." She added to Dart in an
undertone: "She 'as to keep it locked. No knowin' who'd want to get in.
Polly," shaking the door-handle again, "Polly's only me."

The door opened slowly. On the other side of it stood a girl with a
dimpled round face which was quite pale; under one of her childishly
vacant blue eyes was a discoloration, and her curly fair hair was tucked
up on the top of her head in a knot. As she took in the fact of Antony
Dart's presence her chin began to quiver.

"I ain't fit to--to see no one," she stammered pitifully. "Why did you,
Glad--why did you?"

"Ain't no 'arm in 'IM," said Glad. "'E's one o' the friendly ones. 'E
give me a suvrink. Look wot I've got," hopping about as she showed her
parcels.

"You need not be afraid of me," Antony Dart said. He paused a second,
staring at her, and suddenly added, "Poor little wretch!"

Her look was so scared and uncertain a thing that he walked away from
her and threw the sack of coal on the hearth. A small grate with broken
bars hung loosely in the fireplace, a battered tin kettle tilted
drunkenly near it. A mattress, from the holes in whose ticking straw
bulged, lay on the floor in a corner, with some old sacks thrown over
it. Glad had, without doubt, borrowed her shoulder covering from the
collection. The garret was as cold as the grave, and almost as dark;
the fog hung in it thickly. There were crevices enough through which it
could penetrate.

Antony Dart knelt down on the hearth and drew matches from his pocket.

"We ought to have brought some paper," he said.

Glad ran forward.

"Wot a gent ye are!" she cried. "Y' ain't never goin' to light it?"

"Yes."

She ran back to the rickety table and collected the scraps of paper
which had held her purchases. They were small, but useful.

"That