The happening came about in this way: Aunt Elizabeth had promised to take Edna to see some poor little children who, she said, might make Edna feel how highly favored she was. Aunt Elizabeth Horner was a good woman, although she was rather hard on little people, having been brought up in a very strict way herself; but she was interested in many charities and missions, was always making warm clothing for the poor, and many a time sat up late at night, after a busy day, in order to fashion pretty cornucopias, boxes, and other fancy articles for some fair in which she was interested. She was one of the managers of an institution called “The Home of the Friendless,” and favored it more than any of her other charities. The name appealed strongly to Edna, and she was very anxious to see the little children.

“We want to build a nice big new home for these poor wanderers who have no other home and no friends, so we are going to hold a fair,” said Aunt Elizabeth, as they stopped at the door of a quiet-looking house on a little side street. “This is too small a place for the many little children who should be provided for.”

Edna was very much interested in seeing the little waifs, in hearing them sing, and in seeing where they ate and slept. She was very thoughtful as she sat perched up on the seat of the car by her aunt’s side during their homeward journey.

“I wish I could do something for them,” she said, after a while.

“So you can, my dear,” replied Aunt Elizabeth. “You can help me to make something for the fair.”

“Do you think I really could?” cried Edna, delightedly.

“I am quite sure of it; if you are willing to give up some of your playtime, you can help me a great deal by cutting out the paper for my cornucopias, and perhaps you could do some of the pasting yourself.”

This was surely a pleasant prospect, and the little girl was much pleased at it. She was a warm-hearted child, and a generous one, too. So she not only helped to make the pretty things, but brought all her pennies to her aunt to spend in materials.

“I will tell you what we can do with the pennies,” said Aunt Elizabeth. “We will buy a lot of little dolls, and you can help dress them. I will have a great big shoe at my table, in which we can have the old woman who had ‘so many children she didn’t know what to do.’”

“Where will you get the old woman?” asked Edna, her face beaming.

Louis was standing by. “O, Aunt Elizabeth!” he said, becoming interested in the plan, “let me give the money for the old woman.” So it was settled, and Edna gave up every spare moment to helping. All her thoughts were upon the fair, and she thought nothing more beautiful than the pretty things which Aunt Elizabeth’s deft fingers turned out. There were little mugs and boats and pitchers, all made of pasteboard and fancy papers; these were to be filled with candy, and made a fine show as they stood on a table ready to be sent away.

One afternoon Aunt Elizabeth wanted some ribbon in a hurry. “I am going to send you downtown, Edna,” she said. “You are big enough to find your way alone. Hurry back, for I want the ribbon as soon as I can get it.”

“Can’t Louis go with me?”

“No; he has to study one of his lessons, which he missed this morning. It is high time you were learning to be more self-reliant. I will tell you just how and where to go.”

Edna’s heart fluttered at this undertaking. She had never been downtown alone, and she was much afraid that she could not find the way, but she decided to do the best she could, especially as she knew her aunt would consider any objection in the light of disobedience.

It was all very easy to get in the car, pay her fare, and ask the conductor to let her out at such a street; so she managed very easily to reach the shop and get the ribbon; but to take the car home she was obliged to cross the street, and here came trouble, for there were horses dashing up and down, trolley cars coming this way and that, and, altogether, it was a very confusing point. Therefore Edna stood a long time on the curb before she dared to venture across, but finally she summoned up courage when the way seemed tolerably clear, and she managed to reach the opposite side; but looking back at a trolley car which seemed close at hand she hurried faster than her stout little legs could be relied upon to take her, and down she went in the mud of the gutter. She picked herself up in an agony of shame, lest she should be laughed at, and ran on as fast as she could up the street, but, unfortunately, in the wrong direction; for when she stood still and looked about her there were no blue cars to be seen, and it all looked strange.

She felt in her pocket for her parcel; it was safe, but her car fare was gone, and she stood a pitiful, mud-besmeared little object. Then the big tears began to come as she walked along very fast. “O dear, I’m lost!” she said to herself, “and I’ll have to walk home, and Aunt Elizabeth is in a hurry, and she’ll scold me! O dear! O dear! I want my own home, I do, I do.” She began then to run along very fast again, to hide her tears from passers-by, and presently she came bump up against another little girl who had also been running.

The two children coming to such an abrupt standstill stared at each other. Edna saw a poor, ragged, dirty, pale-faced child with wild locks; and the little girl saw Edna with the tears still coursing down her cheeks, her pretty coat and frock stained with mud, and her hat knocked very much to one side.

It was the ragged girl who smiled first.

“I ’most knocked ye down, didn’t I?” she said. “Where was ye going so fast?”

“I am going home,” replied Edna, “only I don’t know how to get there.”

“Yer lucky.”

Edna stared. “I think I’m very unlucky. What makes you say that?”

“Yer lucky ter have any home ter go ter. I ain’t. Yer live somewhere, if ye don’t know where it is, an’ I don’t live nowhere, if I know where that is.”

Edna smiled at this. “Why,” she said, “where are your father and mother?”

“I ain’t got none. Mis’ Ryan she bound me out to Mis’ Hawkins, an’ I ain’t goin’ to stay there, I ain’t. She starves me an’ beats me;” and the child’s voice shrilled out again, “I ain’t goin’ ter stay, I ain’t.”

“And haven’t you any grandparents, or aunts or uncles?”

The child shook her head.

“Nor great-aunts? I think maybe you have a great-aunt like my Aunt Elizabeth,” continued Edna.

But another shake of the head was the reply.

“And you haven’t any friends. O, do say you haven’t any friends,” urged Edna, a pleased look coming into her face. “If you just say you haven’t any friends I’ll know just what to do.”

“There’s Moggins,” said the child.

“Who is Moggins?” Edna asked, her face falling.

“My cat. Mis’ Hawkins won’t let me let him indoors; but he knows me an’ comes when I call him.”

“O, well,” replied Edna, “of course a cat is a friend, but I don’t believe he’ll count. Anyhow, we’ll take him, too.”

“Where?” asked the girl, in astonishment.

“Why, to the Home of the Friendless, of course; aren’t you friendless, and you haven’t any home. It’s just the place made for you;” and Edna smiled, well pleased. “Can you get Moggins? Is he far away?”

“Down there,” and the child jerked her head in the direction of a narrow court near by.

“I’ll wait here for you,” said Edna, decidedly. “Tell me your name and I’ll tell you mine. I’m Edna Conway.”

“I’m Maggie Horn. You wait for me;” and Maggie darted away, leaving Edna on the corner.

All thoughts of the ribbon, car fare, and all else faded away before this great new interest. The saving from homelessness and friendlessness this little street child whom Edna had met in such an unexpected way seemed to her more important than anything else in the world, and she eagerly waited Maggie’s return.

She did not have to wait long, for very soon Maggie came running back with a forlorn, miserable, half-starved kitten cuddled up in her arms.

“Here he is!” she cried, exultantly. “I ketched him; he was a-settin’ in the sun. Let’s hurry, so Mis’ Hawkins won’t git me.” Edna patted Mogg’s head, the little cat looking at her with scared eyes until he was reassured by Maggie’s coaxing voice.

“Ye see,” said Maggie, “he’s kinder skeert o’ most folks, ’cause they’ve tret him so bad. The way I come to git him was when Annie Flynn an’ Han Murphy had him a-swingin’ him round by one paw and then flingin’ him off ter see if he’d light on his feet; one of his legs has been queer ever since. I give ’em my supper fur lettin’ me have him, but I have a time ter keep the boys from gittin’ him. Come, let’s go to the place. Where is it?”

Edna came to a halt, looking doubtfully up and down the street. “I don’t just know,” she said, “but I’ll know it when I see it, for there’s a sign over the door with ‘Home for Friendless Children’ on it.”

“Ho!” exclaimed Maggie, “we might walk all day in this big place, and then not get there.”

“If I hadn’t lost the ten cents I had for car fare we might ride and tell the conductor to let us off when we got there,” said Edna, naively.

Maggie laughed. She was sharper than Edna. “How’d ye know which car to take?”

“That’s so,” was the reply; “we’ll have to ask a policeman.”

“No! no!” cried Maggie. “I’m skeered o’ the perlice.”

“Then we’ll go to that drug store and ask,” concluded Edna, wisely; and with childlike confidence she turned to the shop in question.

“The ‘Home of the Friendless,’” said the clerk, with a smile, as he looked at the queer little pair. “Let me see, I can soon tell you;” and he turned over the pages of a big book on the counter. “It is on Pearl Street, N.”

“Is it a long way?” asked Edna.

“It’s pretty long to walk. You’d better ride.”

“O no, we can’t; we’ll walk. I can, can’t you, Maggie?”

“Sure,” replied Maggie, forcibly, if not elegantly.

Thanking the clerk who gave them some further instructions the little girls started out on their journey.

“We must go up this street to Market, and out Market to Pearl,” said Edna; and they trotted along chatting as if the proceeding were not an unusual one.

It was a long, tiresome walk, but the place was reached at last; and Edna, standing on tiptoe, rang the bell, which was answered by one of the little inmates of the house.

Edna smiled as she recognized one of the children she had seen when she visited the place with her aunt. “O, how do you do?” she said; “I have brought Maggie to live here with you.” And she stepped into the hall, followed by Maggie, who still held the scraggy little kitten hugged close.

The child who opened the door stared. “I’ll go call Miss Barnes,” she said. The sweet-faced teacher looked a little curiously at the visitors, but Edna was confident of a welcome. “I’ve brought Maggie,” she informed the lady, with a bright smile. “She hasn’t any home, nor any friend but Moggins, and Moggins hasn’t any friends but her. So, you know, that’s why they both had to come.”

“But, my dear,” interrupted Miss Barnes, “we cannot take in little people without knowing something more about them. The case will have to go before the Board of Managers, and then if it is all right we’ll be very glad to have this little girl. The Board meets the first Friday in each month.”

Edna looked distressedly at Maggie. “O dear,” she sighed, “and we’ve come such a long way, and we’re so hungry, at least I am. I expected to be back by dinner time.”

Miss Barnes was looking at her more closely.

“Why,” she exclaimed, “aren’t you the little girl who came with one of our managers not long ago? Aren’t you Mrs. Horner’s niece?”

“Why, yes,” replied Edna. “Didn’t you know me? I knew you right away. I’m awfully muddy, ’cause I tumbled down. I lost my car fare, and we’ve walked and walked.”

“You poor little child,” said Miss Barnes, “let me go and call the matron, and we’ll talk this over.”

“Maggie can’t go back,” decided Edna. “She would be beat to death, and so would Moggins.”

After a long consultation with the matron, and innumerable questions, it was arranged that Maggie should remain till Miss Barnes had seen Mrs. Horner. “And Moggins, too,” stipulated Edna.

But the matron shook her head. “Then I’ll have to take him home with me,” said Edna, though in her heart she had many misgivings as to what Aunt Elizabeth would say.

Poor little Maggie stood with quivering lips as she saw her only friends depart; but the good matron set before her a generous bowl of mush and milk and the half-starved child, after receiving the assurance that all possible should be done for her, accepted matters quietly.

It was a very weary little girl whom Miss Barnes held by the hand as the two stopped at the door of the four-story house opposite the square.

“Shure! it’s yersel’,” cried Ellen, as she answered the bell. “Mrs. Horner’s called out a-suddint, me dear, an’ phwat’ll she say to yer shtayin’ so long? Phwat’s that ye have?”

“O, it’s Moggins; won’t you take him and give him some milk? And, O Ellen, I’m so hungry!”

“The pore dear,” returned Ellen, taking the kitten tenderly.

“I’ll find Uncle Justus,” said Edna, as she ushered Miss Barnes into the sitting-room, and, having brought her uncle, she ran to get something to eat from Ellen, for the kind-hearted maid had saved the child’s dinner for her.

Having satisfied her appetite, and having heard the front door open and shut, Edna began to be seized with fear; and she stood tremblingly by the door as she heard Uncle Justus approach. But he only asked, “Have you had some dinner, little girl?” Then he laid his hand gently on her head and walked on. Next the front door again opened, and Edna heard Aunt Elizabeth’s voice. Should she stay or go? Fear overcame her, and she took to her heels, never resting till she was up in her little room, where with beating heart she sat at the window overlooking the harbor.