The skies grew dark without. He was cramped because he had sat for hours
in one position, fearing to waken her. But when he moved she did not
waken--he did not understand how soundly childhood can sleep. He laid
her on the foot of the narrow bed and looked about the room, shielding
a match with his hands. He had resolved to carry her out of that fetid,
overcrowded babel of a tenement. Where? He did not know. He hunted to
find her belongings. He found a few clothes. There was no receptacle in
which he could pack them. He folded them and crowded the articles in his
pockets. He stuffed in the doll and the rude playthings and hooked the
basket doll-carriage upon his arm. She did not waken when he picked her
up. He tiptoed down the stairs and nobody noticed him, In his own dizzy
mind he could not determine whether he felt most like a thief or a
lunatic. At any rate, he found himself walking the streets of the mill
city at ten o'clock at night, carrying a little girl in his arms and all
her earthly possessions in his pockets.

It came over him at last that the longer he kept her the more uncertain
he became as to what disposal he should make of her, or else he was more
loath to part with her; he didn't exactly know which.

Then she woke and spoke for the first time. "Me is te'bble hungry--and
firsty," she mourned.

"Good Lord! What's the matter with me?" grunted the young man. "If I had
found a cat or a dog, the first thing I would have done would be to give
'em something to eat. I reckon I must have thought I had picked up an
angel." To her he said, smoothing her hair with his free hand. "We'll
have sumpin for baby's tummy mighty quick." He flushed at sound of that
baby prattle from his lips. But it had popped out in the most natural
manner possible.