If she were to say "me," it would
be only foolish, while if she called back, "I am Huldah Bate," her
hearer would not know who Huldah Bate was. However, she had to say
something, so she called back pleadingly, "I am a little girl, Huldah
Bate, and please, ma'am, I'm starving, and--and please open the door.
I can't hurt you, I am too little."
It was her voice even more than her words which induced Martha Perry
to open her door to the suppliant. It was such a childish voice, and
so weak, and pleading, and tired. So the bolts were drawn back, and
the door was opened. It was only opened a few inches, but wide
enough to let out a stream of light, which brought some comfort and
hope to the child's heart and the dog's heart. Huldah stepped
forward into the light to show herself.
"You are sure you 'aven't got anybody with you?" asked the woman,
with nervous suspicion.
"No, ma'am, no one but Dick."
"Who's Dick?" hastily pushing the door close, in her alarm.
"Dick's my dog. He--he followed me. He's starving, too," and a sob
broke from Huldah's throat. "We wouldn't hurt you, ma'am, for
anything; we couldn't, we're dead-beat. I haven't had anything to
eat since yesterday, and we've come miles and miles. I don't want to
come in, ma'am," she pleaded, more and more eagerly, as the door
remained rigidly closed, except for about three inches.
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