Years passed. Lady Mercy's first youth was over; her eyes had lost the
light of hope--a wild, sorrowful expression filled them. She had never
gone back to the country; she could not return to the happy home of her
childish ideals, the joyless, broken-hearted creature she was now.
She drove out one day in September. Gaily dressed women were shopping.
Flower stalls of roses, carnations, marguerites, gave a foreign look to
the city. A wild west wind, fragrant with the breath of autumn, rushed
through the streets.
Suddenly there was some confusion in the road. A policeman battled among
a host of prancing horses and grand carriages. A victoria containing two
gorgeously dressed ladies had run over a mongrel dog. One of its owners,
a ragged girl, sobbed on the pavement, as her half-starved brother
elbowed his way to the officer's side.
"Our paw Jack; 'is leg's broke."
"You should not let him run about in crowded streets," said one of the
smart occupants of the victoria.
"End yer shouldn't let yer cussed 'osses droive over the paw beast,"
replied the boy, taking it in his arms and trying to soothe its cries.
"I was going to give you money, boy, but I shall not for your
impertinence."
Lady Mercy stood on the pavement comforting the little girl.
"Never moind, Puddles," said her brother, coming up with the dog in his
arms. "Our Prince will cure 'im."
"Prince is doying, brother, you know thet."
"Who is Prince, my boy?" asked Lady Mercy.
"'E's our only friend. 'E's father and mother to all hus poor."
"Is he beautiful?" she asked eagerly.
"What, in the faice? Rather not."
"Ah! then it cannot be he," said Lady Mercy sadly. "Why do you call him
Prince?"
"Becos 'e is Prince--the Prince of Pity. 'E's ill now; but 'e says 'e
can't doi till something 'appens."
"What?"
"Oi der know. Somethink."
"Where does he live?"
"Hover there," said the boy, with a vague wave of his hand.
"I will take you there if you will let me. Will you get into the
carriage?"
"What, in there?"
"Yes."
"Rather. Come on, Puddles."
Lady Mercy helped the two forlorn creatures into her carriage, and
placed the dog tenderly on the front seat.
"Will you tell the coachman where to go?"
"Yaas, droive ter Greenleaf Court."
The Prince of Pity lay dying of want in one of the poorest quarters of
the great city. His face was gaunt and weather-beaten, his eyes glazed
and dull. A young child sat on the floor nursing a half-starved
cat--both waifs of the street rescued from utter misery by the good
Samaritan.
Sorrow was always with the poor of Greenleaf Court; but now their
affliction was more bitter than ever. Their dear master, who had devoted
his life to them, and had given away all his worldly goods until he was
as poor and destitute as they, the man who told them of sweet flowers
and green meadows and silver streams, he who made peace in their
quarrels, divided his scanty earnings among them, taught the children,
he, their only stay in a world of suffering and want, was leaving them
for ever.