"It is surely Miriam
at last!"
But it was not Miriam. It was a dirty-faced boy--a tatter-demalion of
fourteen years--with sharp, knowing black eyes. Those intelligent orbs
fixed on the young lady at once.
"Be you Miss Dane--Miss Mollie Dane--miss?"
"Yes," said Mollie. "Who are you?"
"Sammy Slimmens, miss. Miss Miriam sent me, miss--she did."
"Miriam? Are you sure? Why didn't she come herself?"
"Couldn't, miss," nodding sagaciously. "She's very bad, she is. Got
runned over, miss."
"Run over!" Mollie cried, in horror.
"Corner Fulton Street, miss, and Broadway. Yesterday morning 'twas. I
told the policeman where she lived, and he fetched her home. Won't live,
they say, and she's sent for you. Got something very 'ticular to tell
you, miss."
"I will go at once," Mollie said, unutterably distressed. "My poor
Miriam! I might have known something had happened, or she would have
been here before this."
She flew upstairs and was back again, dressed for the street, in ten
minutes.
"Permit me to accompany you, Miss Dane," said Hugh Ingelow, stepping
forward.
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