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.