“There she comes,” murmured one of the clerks, in the board of water-works offices.

“Who?” murmured the other clerk.

“The beggar-girl,” responded the first one.

The chairman of the board heard them, and looked fearfully over his shoulder.

Roger, Tom, and Bonny knew that Berty’s frequent visits to the city hall had gained for her a nickname, occasioned by the character of her visits. She was always urging the claims of the poor, hence she was classed with them. They carefully shielded from her the knowledge of this nickname, and supposed she knew nothing of it.

However, she did know. Some whisper of the “beggar-girl” had reached her ears, and was a matter of chagrin to her.

The chairman of the board of water-works knew all about her. He knew that if the clerks had seen[218] her passing along the glass corridor outside his office she was probably coming to him; she probably wanted something.

One clerk was his nephew, the other his second cousin, so he was on terms of familiarity with them, and at the present moment was in the outer office discussing with them the chances that a certain bill had of passing the city council.

The door of his own inner office stood open, but of what use to take refuge there? If the beggar-girl really wished to see a man on business, she always waited for him.

He looked despairingly about him. A high, old-fashioned desk stood near. Under it was a foot-stool. As a knock came at the door, he ungracefully folded his long, lank limbs, quickly sat down on the foot-stool, and said, in a low voice, “I’ve gone to Portland for a week!” Then he fearfully awaited results.

Berty, followed by her friend, the mongrel pup, walked into the room and asked if Mr. Morehall were in.

“No,” said the second cousin, gravely, “he has been called to Portland on important business—will be gone a week.”

The girl’s face clouded; she stood leaning against[219] the railing that separated the room into two parts, and, as she did so, her weight pushed open the gate that the second cousin had just hastily swung together.

The pup ran in, and being of quick wits and an inquiring disposition wondered what that man was doing curled up in a corner, instead of being on his feet like the other two.

He began to sniff round him. Perhaps there was something peculiar about him. No—he seemed to be like other men, a trifle anxious and red-faced, perhaps, but still normal. He gave a playful bark, as if to say, “I dare you to come out.”

Berty heard him, and turned swiftly. “Mugwump, if you worry another rat, I’ll never give you a walk again.”

The two young men were in a quandary. Whether to go to the assistance of their chief, or whether to affect indifference, was vexing their clerical souls. Berty, more quick-witted than the pup, was prompt to notice their peculiar expressions.

“Please don’t let him worry a rat,” she said, beseechingly, “it makes him so cruel. Rats have a dreadfully hard time! Oh, please call him off. He’s got it in his mouth. I hear him.”

The chairman, in his perplexity, had thrown him[220] a glove from his pocket, and Mugwump was mouthing and chewing it deliciously.

“He’ll kill it,” exclaimed Berty. “Oh! let me in,” and before the confused clerks could prevent her, she had pushed open the gate and had followed the dog.

Her face was a study. Low down on the floor sat the deceiving chairman, with Mugwump prancing before him.

“Mr. Morehall!” she exclaimed; then she stopped.

The chairman, with a flaming face, unfolded his long limbs, crawled out of his retreat, stumbled over the dog, partly fell, recovered himself, and finally got to his feet. After throwing an indignant glance at the two clerks, who were in a pitiable state of restrained merriment, he concentrated his attention on Berty. She blushed, too, as she divined what had been the case.

“You were trying to hide from me,” she said, after a long pause.

He could not deny it, though he stammered something about it being a warm day, and the lower part of the desk being a cool retreat.

“Now you are telling me a story,” said Berty, sternly, “you, the chairman of the board of water-works—a city official, afraid of me!”

[221]

He said nothing, and she went on, wistfully, “Am I, then, so terrible? Do you men all hate the beggar-girl?”

Her three hearers immediately fell into a state of shamefacedness.

“What have I done?” she continued, sadly, “what have I done to be so disliked?”

No one answered her, and she went on. “When I lived on Grand Avenue and thought only of amusing myself, everybody liked me. Why is it that every one hates me since I went to River Street and am trying to make myself useful?”

To Mr. Morehall’s dismay, her lip was quivering, and big tears began to roll down her cheeks.

“Come in here,” he said, leading the way to his own room.

Berty sat down in an armchair and quietly continued to cry, while Mr. Morehall eyed her with distress and increasing anxiety.

“Have a glass of water, do,” said the tall man, seizing a pitcher near him, “and don’t feel bad. Upon my word, I didn’t know what I was doing.”

“It—it isn’t you only,” gasped Berty. “It is everybody. Please excuse me, but I am tired and worried this morning. I’ve had some sick friends on our street—that’s what I came to see you about.[222] The autumn is starting in so dry that we are almost choked with dust. River Street hasn’t been watered for a week.”

“Hasn’t it?” said Mr. Morehall, slowly.

“Grand Avenue was always watered,” continued Berty, as she rested her head against the back of the chair, “even soaked. I never thought about dust in summer. Why is River Street neglected?”

“River Street citizens don’t pay such heavy taxes,” suggested Mr. Morehall.

“But they pay all they can, sir.”

“Poor people are shiftless,” said the official, with a shrug of his shoulders.

“That’s what everybody says,” exclaimed Berty, despairingly. “All well-to-do people that I talk to dismiss the poorer classes in that way. But poor people aren’t all shiftless.”

“Not all, perhaps,” said Mr. Morehall, amiably, and with inward rejoicing that Berty was wiping away her tears.

“And there must be poor people,” continued Berty. “We can’t all be rich. It’s impossible. Who would work for the prosperous, if all were independent?”

“What I meant,” replied Mr. Morehall, “was[223] that poverty is ve............