"If I had a little mate like that alongside, I know my luck would turn."

CHAPTER II.

A wild December night, with bitter wind and blinding snow, reigned outside the long, rude building, lighted only by furnace fires, that went roaring up the tall chimneys, whence poured clouds of smoke and showers of sparks, like beacons through the storm. No living thing appeared in that shadowy place except a matronly gray cat, sitting bolt upright upon an old rug spread over a heap of sand near one of the fires. A newspaper and a tin pail were beside her, and she seemed to have mounted guard, while the watchman of the Foundry went his rounds.

A door stood half-open upon the sheltered side of the building; and suddenly, as if blown thither like a storm-driven bird, a little figure came fluttering in, breathless, half-frozen, and quite bewildered by a long struggle with the pitiless gale. Feebly brushing away the snow that blinded her, the poor thing looked about her with frightened eyes; and, seeing no one but the cat, seemed to take courage and crept toward the fire, as if suffering for the moment conquered fear.

"Oh! p.u.s.s.y, let me warm myself one minute, for I'm perished with the cold," she whispered, stretching two benumbed hands to the blaze.

The cat opened her yellow eyes, and, evidently glad to meet one of her own s.e.x, began to purr hospitably as she rustled across the newspaper to greet her guest. There was something inexpressibly comforting in the sound; and, rea.s.sured by it, the girl pushed back her drenched hat, shook her snowy garments, and drew a long breath, like one nearly spent.

Yet, even while she basked in the warmth that was salvation, her timid eyes glanced about the great, gloomy place, and her att.i.tude was that of one ready to fly at a moment's warning.

Presently a step sounded on a flight of stairs leading to some loft above. The wanderer started like a hare, and, drawing nearer to the door, paused as if to catch a glimpse of the approaching face before she fled away into the storm, that howled just then with a violence which might well daunt a stouter heart.

A tall man, in a rough coat, with grizzled hair and beard under an old fur cap, came slowly down the steps, whistling softly to himself, as he swung his lantern to and fro.

"An old man, and the cat is fond of him. I guess I'll dare to ask my way, or I'll never get home," thought the girl, as her eye scanned the new-comer with a woman's quickness.

An involuntary rustle of her dress caught his ear, and, lifting the lantern, he saw her at once; but did not speak, as if afraid of frightening her still more, for her pale face and the appealing gesture of the outstretched hand told her fear and need better than her hurried words,--

"Oh! please, I've lost my way and am nearly frozen. Could I warm myself a bit and find out where I am?"

"Of course, you may. Why, bless your heart, I wouldn't turn a dog out such a night as this, much less a poor little soul like you," answered the man, in a hearty tone, that rang true on the listening ear of the girl.

Then he hung up the lantern, put a stool nearer the fire, and beckoned her to approach. But even the kindly words and act failed to win the timid creature; for she drew back as he advanced, gave a glance at the door, and said, as if appealing to the best instincts of the man, whom she longed yet feared to trust,--

"Thank you; but it's getting late, and I ought to be getting on, if I knew the way. Perhaps you've got some girls of your own, so you can understand how scared I am to be lost at night and in such a strange place as this."

The man stared, then laughed, and, shaking the snow from his curly hair and beard, showed himself to be a young and pleasant-looking fellow, with a merry eye, an honest brown face, and a hearty voice.

"You thought I was an old chap, did you? Wish I was, if it would be any comfort to you. I've got no little girls, neither, more's the pity; but you needn't be afraid of me, though it is late and lonely. Why, Lord love you, child, I'm not a brute! Sit down and thaw out, while you tell me where you want to go."

The half-indignant tone of the man made his guest feel as if she had insulted him; and she obeyed with a docility which appeased his anger at once. Seating herself upon the stool, she leaned toward the fire with an irrepressible shiver, and tried to keep her teeth from chattering as she told her little story.

"I want work badly, and went a long way, hoping to get some. But I didn't find it, and that discouraged me very much. I had no money, so had to walk, and the storm got so bad I lost my way. Then I was scared and half-frozen, and so bewildered I think I'd have died if I hadn't seen the light and come in here."

"I guess you would. And the best thing you can do now is to stop till the storm lifts. Shouldn't wonder if it did about midnight," said the man, stirring up the red embers, as if anxious to do something for her comfort.

"But that is so late, and I must be ever so far away from home; for I came over the wrong bridge. Oh, me! What shall I do?" And the poor thing wrung her hands in dismay.

"Won't your folks go to look for you?"

"I haven't any one in the world to care for me. The woman where I board won't trouble herself; or she'll think I've run away, because I owe her money. I might be dead in the river, and no one would mind!" sighed the girl, leaning her head on her hands, while some bright, dishevelled hair fell over her face, as if to hide its youth and innocence from a world that seemed to have no shelter for either.

"That's hard! But don't you be down-hearted, child. Things often mend when they seem worst. I know; for I've been through the mill, and had friends raised up to me when I'd about done with living, as a bad job. I can't leave here till sunrise; but I'll do the best I can for you till then. Sam will be along early, and he'll see to you, if you can't trust me; for he is as gray as a badger, and he's got six girls of his own, if that's a recommendation. I've got nothing but a cat; and she trusts me.

Don't you, old Sally?"

As he spoke, the man sat down upon the sand-heap, and Sally leaped to his knee, rubbing her head against his cheek, with a soft sound of confidence and contentment which seemed to afford her friend great satisfaction. The girl smiled faintly, and said, in an apologetic tone, for there had been something like reproach in the man's voice, as he asked the dumb animal to vouch for his character,--

"I don't believe I'd have dared to come in here if I hadn't seen p.u.s.s.y.

But I thought anyone who was good to her would be good to me; and now I'm sure of it."

"That's right. You see, I'm a lonesome sort of a chap and like something to pet. So I took old Sally, and we get on capitally. She won't let the other fellows touch her, but always comes and sits with me when I am alone here nights. And it's surprising what good company she is."

He laughed as he spoke, as if half-ashamed of the amiable weakness, yet anxious to put his guest at her ease. He evidently succeeded; for she stretched two shabby little boots toward the fire and leaned her head against a grimy beam, saying, with a sigh of weariness,--

"It is very comfortable; but the heat makes me feel queer and dizzy."

"You're just about used up; and I'm going to give you a cup of hot coffee. That'll bring you round in a jiffy. It's time for supper. Hey, Sally?"

As he spoke, the man set his pail in the hot ashes, unfolded a parcel of bread and meat, and, laying a rude sandwich on a clean bit of paper, offered it with a hospitable--

"Have a bit. Do, now. You've had a hard pull and need something to set you up."

Leaning forward to give and take, two faces came into the clear red glow of the furnace-fire, and a look of recognition flashed into each so suddenly that it startled both man and maid into involuntary frankness of expression.

"Why, it's little Letty!"

"And you are my tramp!"

A change so rapid as to be almost ludicrous came over the pair in the drawing of a breath. She smoothed back her hair and hid the shabby boots, yet sat more erect upon the stool, as if she had a right there and felt no longer any fear. He pulled off his cap, with a pleasant mixture of respect, surprise, and satisfaction in his manner, as he said, in a half-proud, half-humble tone,--

"No, miss; for, thanks to you, I'm a decent man now."

"Then you did find work and get on?" she exclaimed, with a bright, wistful look, that touched him very much.

"Didn't you get my letter?" he asked eagerly. "I sent you the first dollar I earned, and told you and the old lady I was all right."

Letty shook her head, and all the light pa.s.sed out of her face, leaving it pathetic in its patient sorrow.

"Aunt Liddy died a week after you were there, so suddenly that every thing was in confusion, and I never got the letter. I wish _she_ had known of it, because it would have pleased her so. We often talked about you and hoped you'd do well. We led such quiet lives, you see, that any little thing interested us for a long time."

"It was a little thing to you, I dare say; but it was salvation to me.

Not the money or the food only, but the kindness of the old lady, and--and the look in your sweet face, miss. I'd got so far down, through sickness and bad luck, that there didn't seem any thing left for me but deviltry or death. That day it was a toss-up between any bad job that came along first and drowning, like my dog. That seemed sort of mean, though; and I felt more like being revenged somehow on the world, that had been so hard on me."

He stopped short, breathing hard, with a sudden spark in his black eyes and a nervous clenching of the strong hands that made Letty shrink; for he seemed to speak in spite of himself, as if the memory of that time had left its impress on his life.

"But you didn't do any thing bad. I'm sure you didn't; for Aunt Liddy said there was the making of a man in you, because you were so quick to feel a little bit of kindness and take good advice."

The soft, eager voice of the girl seemed to work the miracle anew, for a smile broke over his face, the angry spark was quenched, and the clenched hand opened to offer again all it had to give, as he said, with a characteristic mingling of fun and feeling in his voice,--

"I don't know much about angels; but I felt as if I'd met a couple that day, for they saved me from destruction. You cast your bread upon the waters, and it's come back when, maybe, you need it 'most as much as I did then. 'Tisn't half as nice as yours; but perhaps a blessing will do as well as b.u.t.ter."

Letty took the brown bread, feeling that he had said the best grace over it; and while she ate he talked, evidently moved to open his heart by the memory of the past, and eager to show that he had manfully persisted in the well-doing his angels had advised.