economy of his household, the Chief Magistrate of New York mounted
a chair and turned off four of the six burners that had been lighted
in the chandelier. Another sharp ring brought him to the carpet, and
to the street-door again. There he found Chester with the little
beggar girl in his arms, her eyes shut and her face pale as death,
save where a faint violet color lay about the mouth.

"Sir, this child, you have driven her from your door--she is dying!"
said Chester, passing with his burden into the hall and moving towards
the drawing-room, from which the light of an anthracite fire glowed
warm; and ruddily "she needs warmth. I believe in my soul she is
starving!"

"Well, sir, why do you bring her here--who are you? Is there no
station-house? I do not receive beggars in my drawing-room!" said
the Mayor, following the policeman.

Chester, heedless of his remonstrance, strode across the carpet and
laid the wretched child tenderly into the great crimson chair which
"his honor" had just so reluctantly abandoned. Wheeling the chair
close to the fire, he knelt on the rug and began to chafe those thin
purple hands between his own.

"I could not take her anywhere else--she was dying with cold--a minute
was life or death to her," said Chester, lifting his fine eyes to
the sullen countenance of the Mayor, and speaking in a tone of
apology.

The Mayor bent his eyes on that manly face, so warm and eloquent with
benevolent feeling; then, just turned his glance over the deathly