My heart aches to write down here the true record that out of those scores of women only three even smiled or spoke to the little fellow.  Only one gave him money.  My own sympathies had been so won by his face and manner that I found myself growing hot with resentment as I watched woman after woman wave him off with indifferent or impatient gesture.  His face was a face which no mother ought to have been able to see without a thrill of pity and affection.  God forgive me!  As if any mother ought to be able to see any child, ragged, dirty, poor, seeking help and finding none!  But his face was so honest, and brave, and responsive that it added much to the appeal of his poverty.

One woman, young and pretty, came into the room, bringing in her arms a large toy horse, and a little violin.  “Oh,” I said to myself, “she has a boy of her own, for whom she can buy gifts freely.  She will surely give this poor child a penny.”  He thought so, too; for he went toward her with a more confident manner than he had shown to some of the others.  No!  She brushed by him impatiently, without a word, and walked to the ticket-office.  He stood looking at the violin and the toy horse till she came back to her seat.  Then he lifted his eyes to her face again; but she apparently did not see him, and he went away.  Ah, she is only half mother who does not see her own child in every child!—­her own child’s grief in every pain which makes another child weep!

Presently the little basket-boy went out into the great hall.  I watched him threading his way in and out among the groups of men.  I saw one man—­bless him!—­pat the little fellow on the head; then I lost sight of him.

After ten minutes he came back into the Ladies’ Room, with only one basket in his hand, and a very happy little face.  The “sterner sex” had been kinder to him than we.  The smile which he gave me in answer to my glad recognition of his good luck was the sunniest sunbeam I have seen on a human face for many a day.  He sank down into the red-velvet stocks, and twirled his remaining basket, and swung his shabby little feet, as idle and unconcerned as if he were some rich man’s son, waiting for the train to take him home.  So much does a little lift help the heart of a child, even of a beggar child.  It is a comfort to remember him, with that look on his face, instead of the wistful, pleading one which I saw at first.  I left him lying back on the dusty velvet, which no doubt seemed to him unquestionable splendor.  In the cars I sat just behind the woman with the toy-horse and the violin.  I saw her glance rest lovingly on them many times, as she thought of her boy at home; and I wondered if the little basket-seller had really produced no impression whatever on her heart.  I shall remember him long after (if he lives) he is a man!

A Genius For Affection.

The other day, speaking superficially and uncharitably, I said of a woman, whom I knew but slightly, “She disappoints me utterly.  How could her husband have married her?  She is commonplace and stupid.”