The bells had rung in the elementary schools; all respectable boys and girls were indoors, deep in the afternoon session, and she had heard of attendance officers, those prowling foes.
At the end of Pollard's Row--a squalid street of tenement houses--she suffered indeed a terrible scare.

A benevolent-looking middle-aged lady--a district visitor, in fact--emerging from one of these houses and arrested perhaps at sight of the crutch or of the boy's strange rags, stopped her and asked where she was going.
Tilda fell back on the truth.

It was economical.
"To the 'orspital," she answered, "the Good Samaritan." Then she blundered.
"It's 'ereabouts, ain't it, ma'am ?" "Not very far," replied the lady; "two or three streets only.

Shall I show you the way?
I have plenty of time." "Thank you," said Tilda (she was suffering a reaction, and for a moment it dulled the edge of her wits), "but I know the Good Samaritan, an' they know all about me." "What's the matter ?" "'Ip trouble, ma'am.

I been treated for it there these three weeks." "That is strange," said the lady.