Amy, trembling, asked if she would direct her. The lady looked at her
keenly as she gave the needed information, and then added kindly, "You
are evidently not acquainted in Cleveland."
Amy admitted that she was a stranger.
"And where is your home?"
"I have none," was the sad reply.
"You are stopping with friends, I suppose?"
Amy shook her head and faltered, "No, I know no one in the city."
The woman grew very kind. "You poor child," she said, "you look as
though you were in distress. Can't I help you?"
Tears filled the brown eyes that were lifted pleadingly to the face
of the questioner, and a dry sob was the only answer.
"Come with me, dear," said the woman, taking her kindly by the arm.
"This is my car. Come and let me help you."
They boarded the car, and after a long ride, entered a finely furnished
house in a part of the city far from Amy's boarding place. The woman
took Amy to her own apartments, and after giving her a clean bath and
a warm supper, sat with her before the fire, while the girl poured out
her story to the only sympathetic listener she had met.
When she had finished, the woman said, "You have not told me your
name."
"You may call me Amy. I have no other name."
Again the woman spoke slowly: "You cannot find work. No one will receive
you. But why should you care? You are beautiful."
Amy looked at her in wonder, and the woman explained how she had many
girls in her home, who with fine dresses and jewels, lived a life of
ease and luxury.
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