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figure was completely lost in the gloom of the great church, and then turned again vaguely to the altar.

"Pray for her!" she thought. "I! As if I could pray!" And she smiled bitterly. Again she looked at the statue in the shrine; it had no meaning at all for her. She had never heard of Christianity save through the medium of a tract, whose consoling title had been "Stop! You are going to Hell!" Religion of every sort was mocked at by those among whom her lot was cast; the name of Christ was only used as a convenience to swear by; and therefore this mysterious, smiling, gently inviting marble figure was incomprehensible to her mind.

"As if I could pray!" she repeated with a sort of derision. Then she looked at the broad silver coin in her hand and the sleeping baby in her arms. With a sudden impulse she dropped on her knees.

"Whoever you are," she muttered, addressing the statue above her, "it seems you've got a child of your own; perhaps you'll help me to take care of this one. It isn't mine; I wish it was! Anyway I love it more than its own mother does. I daresay you won't listen to the likes of me, but if there was a God anywhere about I'd ask Him to bless that good soul that's lost her baby. I bless her with all my heart, but my blessing ain't good for much. Ah!" and she surveyed anew the Virgin's serene white countenance, "you look just as if you understood me, but I don't believe you

do! Never mind, I've said all I wanted to say this time."

Her strange petition or rather discourse concluded, she rose and walked away. The great doors of the church swung heavily behind her as she stepped out and stood once more in the muddy street. It was raining steadily-a fine, cold, penetrating rain. But the coin she held was a talisman against outer discomforts, and she continued to walk on till she came to a cleanlooking dairy where for a couple of pence she was able to replenish the infant's long ago emptied feeding bottle; but she purchased nothing for herself. She had starved all day and was now too faint to eat. Soon she entered an omnibus and was driven to Charing Cross, and alighting at the great station, brilliant with its electric lamps, she paced up and down outside it, accosting several of the passers-by and imploring their pity. One man gave her a penny; another young and handsome, with a flushed intemperate face and a look of his fastfading boyhood still about him, put his hand in his pocket and drew out all the loose coppers it contained, amounting to three pennies and an odd farthing, and dropping them into her outstretched palm, said half gaily, half boldly:

"You ought to do better than that with those big eyes of yours!" She drew back and shuddered; he broke into a coarse laugh and went his way. Standing The Hired Baby, etc.

where he had left her, she seemed for a time lost in wretched reflections; the fretful wailing cry of the child she carried roused her, and hushing it softly, she murmured: "Yes, yes, darling, it is too wet and cold for you; we had better go." And acting suddenly on her resolve, she hailed another omnibus, this time bound for Tottenham Court Road, and was, after some dreary jolting, set down at her final destination-a dirty alley in the worst part of Seven Dials. Entering it she was hailed with a shout of derisive laughter from some rough-looking men and women who were standing grouped round a low gin-shop at the corner.

"Here's Liz!" cried one. "Here's Liz and the bloomin' kid!"

"Now, old gel, fork out! How much 'ave yer got, Liz? Treat us to a drop all round!”

Liz walked past them steadily; the conspicuous curve of her upper lip came into full play and her eyes flashed disdainfully, but she said nothing. Her silence exasperated a tangle-haired, cat-faced girl of some seventeen years, who, more than half drunk, sat on the ground clasping her knees with both arms and rocking herself lazily to and fro. "Mother Mawks!" cried she, "Mother Mawks! You're wanted! Here's Liz come back with yer babby!"

As if her words had been a powerful incantation to summon forth an evil spirit, a door in one of the

miserable houses was thrown open and a stout woman, nearly naked to the waist, with a swollen, blotched and most hideous countenance, rushed out furiously, and darting at Liz, shook her violently by the arm.

"Where's my shullin'?" she yelled, "where's my gin? Out with it! Out with my shullin' and fourpence! None of your sneakin' ways with me; a bargain's a bargain all the world over! You're makin' a fortin' with my baby-yer know y'are; pays yer a deal better than yer old trade! Don't say it don't-yer knows it do. Yer'll not find such a sickly kid anywheres, an' it's the sickly kids wot pays an' moves the 'arts of the kyind ladies and good gentlemen,"-this with an imitative whine that excited the laughter and applause of her hearers. "You've got it cheap, I kin tell yer, an' if yer don't pay up reg'lar, there's others that'll take the chance, and thankful too!"

She stopped for lack of breath and Liz spoke quietly:

"It's all right, Mother Mawks," she said with an attempt at a smile; "here's your shilling, here's the four pennies for the gin. I don't owe you anything for the child now." She stopped and hesitated looking down tenderly at the frail creature in her arms, then added almost pleadingly, "It's asleep now. May I take it with me to-night?"

Mother Mawks, who had been testing the coins Liz

had given her by biting them ferociously with her large yellow teeth, broke into a loud laugh.

"Take it with yer! I like that! Wot imperence! Take it with yer!" Then with her huge red arms akimbo, she added with a grin, "Tell yer wot, if yer likes to pay me 'arf-a-crown, yer can 'ave it to cuddle an' welcome!"

Another shout of approving merriment burst from the drink-soddened spectators of the little scene, and the girl crouched on the ground removed her encircling hands from her knees to clap them loudly, as she exclaimed:

"Well done, Mother Mawks! One doesn't let out kids at night for nothing! "T ought to be more expensive than day-time!"

The face of Liz had grown white and rigid.

"You know I can't give you that money," she said slowly. “I have not tasted bit or drop all day. I must live, though it doesn't seem worth while. The child," and her voice softened involuntarily, "is fast asleep; it's a pity to wake it, that's all. It will cry and fret all night, and—and I would make it warm and comfortable if you'd let me." She raised her eyes hopefully and anxiously. "Will you?"

Mother Mawks was evidently a lady of an excitable disposition. The simple request seemed to drive her nearly frantic. She raised her voice to an absolute

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