night?"

"I don't know where; I haven't got any home. I'll sleep out where I can
see the stars. But it'll be cold, won't it?"

"My goodness! You'll freeze to death, child."

"Well, what'll become of me, then?"

"The Lord only knows!"

True looked at Gerty in perfect wonder. He could not leave her there on
such a cold night; but he hardly knew what he could do with her at home,
for he lived alone, and was poor. But another violent coughing decided
him to share with her his shelter, fire, and food, for one night, at
least. "Come," said he, "with me;" and Gerty ran along by his side,
never asking whither.

True had a dozen lamps to light before his round was finished. Gerty
watched him light each with as keen an interest as if that were the only
object for which she was in his company; and it was only after they had
walked on for some distance without stopping, that she inquired where
they were going.

"Going home," said True.

"Am I going to your home?" said Gerty.

"Yes," said True, "and here it is."

He opened a little gate leading into a small yard, which stretched along
the whole length of a two-storied house. True lived in the back part of
it; and both went in. Gerty was trembling with the cold; her little bare
feet were quite blue with walking on the pavements. There was a stove in
the room, but no fire in it. True immediately disposed of his ladder,
torch, etc., in an adjoining shed, and bringing in a handful of wood, he
lit a fire. Drawing an old wooden settle up to the fire, he threw his
great-coat over it, and lifting little Gerty up, he placed her gently
upon the seat. He then prepared supper; for True was an old bachelor,
and did everything for himself. He made tea; then, mixing a great mugful
for Gerty, with plenty of sugar and all his milk, he brought a loaf of
bread, cut her a large slice, and pressed her to eat and drink as much
as she could; for he concluded, from her looks, that she had not been
well fed; and so much pleased did he feel in her enjoyment of the best
meal she had ever had, that he forgot to partake of it himself, but sat
watching her with a tenderness which proved that he was a friend to
everybody, even to the most forlorn little girl in the world.

Trueman Flint was born in New Hampshire; but, when fifteen years old,
being left an orphan, he had made his way to Boston, where he supported
himself by whatever employment he could obtain; having been a
newspaper-carrier, a cab-d