"A weak little child," pleaded Compassion. "Don't be hard with her.
Speak kindly."
Compassion prevailed. Her voice had awakened into life some old and
long sleeping memories. Markland was himself, for a moment, a child,
full of pity, tenderness and loving-kindness. Compassion had already
uncovered the far away past, and the sweetness of its young blossoms
was reviving old delights.
"Well, little one, what is wanted?"
Markland hardly knew his own voice, it was so gentle and inviting.
How the, pale, pure face of the child warmed and brightened!
Gratefully with trust and hope in her eyes, she looked up to the
merchant. There was no answer on her lips, for this unexpected
kindness had choked the coming utterance. Rebuff, threat, anger, had
met her so often, that soft words almost surprised her into tears.
"Well, what can I do for you?"
Compassion held open the door through which she gained an entrance,
and already Good-will, Kindness and Satisfaction had come in.
"Mother is sick," said the child.
"A lying vagrant!" exclaimed Suspicion, jarring the merchant's
inward ear.
"There is truth in her face," said Compassion, pleading, and, at the
same time, she unveiled an image, sharply cut in the past of
Markland's life--an image of his own beloved, but long sainted
mother, pale and wasted, on her dying bed.
"Give this to your mother," he said, hastily, taking a coin from his
pocket.
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