Lois was Lois in town or country. Some subtile power lay in the
coarse, distorted body, in the pleading child's face, to rouse,
wherever they went, the same curious, kindly smile. Not, I
think, that dumb, pathetic eye, common to deformity, that cries,
"Have mercy upon me, O my friend, for the hand of God hath
touched me!"--a deeper, mightier charm, rather: a trust down in
the fouled fragments of her brain, even in the bitterest hour of
her bare life,--a faith faith in God, faith in her fellow-man,
faith in herself. No human soul refused to answer its summons.
Down in the dark alleys, in the very vilest of the black and
white wretches that crowded sometimes about her cart, there was
an undefined sense of pride in protecting this wretch whose
portion of life was more meagre and low than theirs. Something
in them struggled up to meet the trust in the pitiful
eyes,--something which scorned to betray the trust,--some
Christ-like power in their souls, smothered, dying, under the
filth of their life and the terror of hell. A something in them
never to be lost. If the Great Spirit of love and trust lives,
not lost!
Even in the cold and quiet of the woman walking by her side the
homely power of the poor huckster was wholesome to strengthen.
Margret left her, turning into the crowded street leading to the
part of the town where the factories lay. The throng of
anxious-faced men and women jostled and pushed, but she passed
through them with a different heart from yesterday's.
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