Glad, with the wealth of the pork and ham shop and other riches in her arms, entered a repellent doorway in a spirit of great good cheer and Dart followed her.  Past a room where a drunken woman lay sleeping with her head on a table, a child pulling at her dress and crying, up a stairway with broken balusters and breaking steps, through a landing, upstairs again, and up still farther until they reached the top.  Glad stopped before a door and shook the handle, crying out: 

“’S only me, Polly.  You can open it.”  She added to Dart in an undertone:  “She ‘as to keep it locked.  No knowin’ who’d want to get in.  Polly,” shaking the door-handle again, “Polly’s only me.”

The door opened slowly.  On the other side of it stood a girl with a dimpled round face which was quite pale; under one of her childishly vacant blue eyes was a discoloration, and her curly fair hair was tucked up on the top of her head in a knot.  As she took in the fact of Antony Dart’s presence her chin began to quiver.

“I ain’t fit to—­to see no one,” she stammered pitifully.  “Why did you, Glad—­why did you?”

“Ain’t no ’arm in ’im,” said Glad. “‘E’s one o’ the friendly ones.  ’E give me a suvrink.  Look wot I’ve got,” hopping about as she showed her parcels.

“You need not be afraid of me,” Antony Dart said.  He paused a second, staring at her, and suddenly added, “Poor little wretch!”

Her look was so scared and uncertain a thing that he walked away from her and threw the sack of coal on the hearth.  A small grate with broken bars hung loosely in the fireplace, a battered tin kettle tilted drunkenly near it.  A mattress, from the holes in whose ticking straw bulged, lay on the floor in a corner, with some old sacks thrown over it.  Glad had, without doubt, borrowed her shoulder covering from the collection.  The garret was as cold as the grave, and almost as dark; the fog hung in it thickly.  There were crevices enough through which it could penetrate.

Antony Dart knelt down on the hearth and drew matches from his pocket.

“We ought to have brought some paper,” he said.

Glad ran forward.

“Wot a gent ye are!” she cried.  “Y’ ain’t never goin’ to light it?”

“Yes.”

She ran back to the rickety table and collected the scraps of paper which had held her purchases.  They were small, but useful.

“That wot was round the sausage an’ the puddin’s greasy,” she exulted.

Polly hung over the table and trembled at the sight of meat and bread.  Plainly, she did not understand what was happening.  The greased paper set light to the wood, and the wood to the coal.  All three flared and blazed with a sound of cheerful crackling.  The blaze threw out its glow as finely as if it had been set alight to warm a better place.  The wonder of a fire is like the wonder of a soul.  This one changed the murk and gloom to brightness, and the deadly damp and cold to warmth.  It drew the girl Polly from the table despite her fears.  She turned involuntarily, made two steps toward it, and stood gazing while its light played on her face.  Glad whirled and ran to the hearth.