She felt faint before she reached the tenement-house, and only the
consciousness that she must not give way to illness in this neighborhood
gave her strength to proceed.
Once inside, she dropped down on the lowest step of the stairway,
regardless of dust, until she had recovered somewhat, then wearily
climbed the steps. Half-way up she met a rough-looking man, who scowled
at her, but said nothing; and she hurried by him, glad to see he kept on
his way without looking back.
Reaching the third floor finally, she saw a rather pretty little girl
standing in one of the many open doors, and asked which led to Miss
Bertha Gillette's room.
"She ain't got no room," said the child shrilly; "she's in old Mis'
Pierce's room, down thar," pointing to a closed door; "that's whar they
took her when they brung her in. There wan't no room anywheres else."
"Oh! Was she taken ill on the street?"
The child nodded.
"Got a sunstroke, I guess," and Sara hurried on to the designated door.
She knocked lightly, then opened it and entered. It was a bare little
room, with one window, but decently clean, and the sash was entirely
removed, being replaced by a mosquito-netting tacked to the frame, so
the air was not foul. On the old bed in the corner lay the young girl,
white and still, and beside her sat an elderly woman with a kind,
weather-beaten visage, who looked up inquiringly.
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