wards night-fall, into the roar and tumult and wretchedness of the great city! Mud, mud, everywhere; every one hurrying towards a shelter; but none for him!

Was this London ?—the end of his laborious journey?—his hope in his despair? Why, here no one stopped so much as to look at him; here, whom could he venture to ask for a night's lodging? There were no friendly places of shelter anywhere, no fields, no barns or out-houses by the way-side; hard stones formed the road, and the noise bewildered still more the confused and heartwrung child.

"Perhaps I have made a mistake after all! This wretched place can't be London!"

Thinking thus he made timid inquiries in a poor-looking baker's shop as to his whereabouts, and heard that he was indeed in London.

"You're from the country, I 'spose, and have tramped up? Then I'm sorry for you, my boy," said the man who was serving in the shop. "Work? no, I don't know what such as you can find to do at this time of year. Everybody's wanting work and money too; trade's slack; everybody's complaining; you're fitter to work on a country farm; that's what you should try for. Best go back to your own village again, where

people know you, for you are a respectable boy, I'm sure, by the look of you. Here take this; and take my advice, and get back home as fast as you can." And the man offered him a stale loaf, which Robert accepted mechanically, for he felt dazed. Was this what he had travelled so far to hear? His head throbbed wildly, and his heart ached with agony as he left the baker's shop. But he would make more inquiries; surely there must be something to do in London. Why, if that were all, he could sweep a crossing. "You get enough to live on, don't you?" asked he of a bare-footed boy whom he had noticed sweeping the muddy stones as he crossed.

"Hey?" said the little fellow. "Enough to live on, d'ye say? If ye call it livin' to live as I, and sich as me lives. No dinner this week, only scraps, and sometimes not them. There's not enough for us as are here a'ready, let alone any new uns comin' our way. And, I tell ye what, we've all agreed to drive a new boy away with our brooms, so don't you try that dodge, my fine fellow. You go off where you comes from!"

With this speech the crossing-sweeper flourished his broom, and whistled to another boy employed like himself. Robert saw they both meant to set on him, and being too weak to show fight, wisely

made off to a grocer's shop near. Despair alone gave him courage to ask "if they wanted an errand boy, or a boy to do anything?" No-be off-we've got our own boys. Be off out of the shop!" This was the sort of reply he got at more than a dozen different places; he was now utterly broken down; for in the comfortless streets, among the hurrying passengers, there was no place of even momentary rest. But at length fatigue overpowered him, and he sank down on a door-step. "Move on!" said a policeman at his elbow, "move on! you can't stay here, boy; it's nigh on eleven o'clock at night!"

"I can't go on!" said Robert, looking up. “I really can't; I've walked so far."

"You can't stay here all night," said the policeman gruffly. "You'd best go to a cheap lodginghouse if you've got a few pence in your pocket. Fourpence a night they charge."

"A bed for fourpence!" Yes, he still had more than that, and if he did not get rest and sleep, he began to feel he should die in the streets. "Will tell me, you if you please, sir, where I can find the lodging?" asked the boy.

"I'll show you," replied the man compassionately, "that'll be the best way, for you're not a London boy-that I can see!'