Allen drew forth from his pocket a small phial, the contents of which were a chemical solution whose power immediately destroyed the colouring tincture with which her face and hands had been stained. Her tattered cloak and ragged dress were soon removed, and in a few minutes she appeared in her usual flaunty attire. In endeavouring to take off the beautiful frock from the child, her impatience caused the strings to become entangled in a firm knot. "Bring the knife," she said, "and cut this string-we need not be over careful about spoiling her fine dress; for her ladyship, like a young nun, has from this day forsworn the pomps and vanities of this wicked world."

Allen did as he was desired; but in drawing away the knife, he gave Ida a dreadful cut on the thumb. She screamed with pain, and dashed the infant on the earth. "Brute!" she exclaimed; "see how you have maimed me." It was a severe cut, and bled profusely. She tore off the child's frock and with it endeavoured to staunch the wound. Allen went much more methodically to work. From the frock he cut a long narrow slip, then bringing the edges of the wound carefully together, most artistically bandaged it round. "There," said he, "the best medicines for a simple cut like this are, its own blood and a little patience-leave it as it is for a day or two, and all will be sound again!-Here, let me be her ladyship's lady's-maid; it's true I'm better at dressing a wound than at dressing a young miss; but if she's to wear these wretched things," and he held up some very ragged clothes, "I don't think my want of practice will be any great drawback to her general appearance."

The infant was soon equipped in the clothes taken from the bundle; and having wrapped up the child's own things in the cloak and gown worn by Ida as the gipsy, they secreted them among the weeds and underwood of a dry ditch close by. Having done this, they took their way towards town. The child, to prevent observation, had been enveloped in a handsome shawl, and was carried most reluctantly by Allen Ray.

By the time they had reached the heart of London, the night had become perfectly dark. They now stopped at the end of a court in St. Giles's. Allen Ray gave up his charge to Ida, and then left her. Ida, with the child, entered the court.

Those who have never witnessed such scenes can little imagine from any written picture, however graphic in its delineation, the heartsickening wretchedness of the abodes of the really poor. In many houses, found in the neighbourhood we are now about to visit, eight, ten, or a dozen families occupy a single tenement. But that which makes the eye of pity weep with scalding tears, and morality stand like a ghost trembling upon the brink of its own grave, is where, from abject want, two or three men, with their wives and children, are

huddled together of a night in the same room. Even the sacred privacy of wedded life the poor are thus compelled to sacrifice. It appears that, without money, we should also be without feeling. To such a scene of degrading wretchedness, DISEASE alone is wanting to fill up the distance, and thus add perfection to the frightful picture. Now, Disease, like a demon, revels most where least the heart can bear it-where poverty is greatest, there is he quickest found: even the little power that money lends to drive it hence, here must be sought in vain! The aching head can know no quiet-the sigh of grief is drowned in the drunkard's laugh. Hark! from yonder corner of the room arises the first cry of the new-born infant, as wailing o'er its own misfortune, in being brought into a world whose heritage is little else but woe. Hush, hush! do not speak now; for see, on the other side, lying on a bed formed of some rags laid over a few shavings, is a dying man, and as the last breath passes through those lips they smile their long farewell, as happy at being rid of that which but sustained for years a life of misery.

Let those who doubt the truth of this sad picture, let them but go the daily rounds of the parish doctor, in some densely populated poverty-stricken neighbourhood, and not a day shall pass but they will witness scenes equally frightful, deplorable, heartbreaking.

Think of this, ye would-be philanthropists, and be stirring. Ida walked up the court until she reached a house, from beneath the parlour window of which slanted out a cellar door. This was open; and against the side of the way down were two or three small shelves, ostentatiously displaying, by the light of a melancholy candle stuck in a piece of clay, a few old shoes.

From out the mouth of this pit of Acheron issued the most heartrending cries of children, mixed with the sharp sound of blows and the sharper voice of an enraged female. Ida called down to the woman, but not being able to make herself heard, she descended.

The cellar was occupied by an old woman, in the act of forcing something down the throat of a child, who appeared to be in the agonies of suffocation. At the side of the fire-place sat a blind young woman, neatly dressed, but having a most ghost-like appearance, for she was entirely in white; on her breast was pinned a written label, calling upon the charitable to relieve her forlorn state: five or six children, of various ages, were crouching in different parts of the room, trembling with fear and all in tears.

"There," bawled out the old beldam to the choking child, "you'll rob me again, will you?-take that, and that," and at each word she struck the little helpless thing on either side of the head: "and now stop your squalling, or I'll give you ten times worse."

Every child at once endeavoured to stifle its own cries, by forcing

some part of its ragged attire into its mouth, for each of them appeared to know that such a threat was not likely to be neglected by the wretch with whom they lived.

"Why, Meggy," said Ida, addressing the old woman, who had been too busy until that moment to heed a stranger's presence, "why, Meggy, what has ruffled your sweet temper so much to-night? Has your preparatory school become so rebellious that even the strong hand of my old nurse is at fault in keeping it in subjection? Old age, I suppose, Meggy, has reduced your strength since my young days; it was a strong hand once; at least, it seemed such to me then."

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"Why, little Ida," replied the old woman, softening down in an instant, my pretty Ida, is that you? How kind to come and see the poor old beggar-woman in her miserable home? But we knew better days once, child; did we not? and may do so again, eh?"

"It will be long first, I fear," replied Ida; "all seems to conspire to thwart me, and favour him. Oh, what a fool was I to let my passions overcome my sense! But no more of that now, but to the business which has brought me here."

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Silence," again roared out the old woman to the child she had been ill-using, and who, appearing to be in great agony, could no longer repress its cries.

"Meggy, what have you been doing to that child?-see, its little face is swollen and black."

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'All the better," said the hag; "it will be a lesson to every one of them. You little know the ingratitude of children; do what you will for them, it's all the same. These children never seem to remember that it is I who give them shelter and food and clothes; to be sure, the clothes are but rags, yet those, being a part of their stock in trade, are invaluable. No, they forget all this, and I may starve for what they care. Not a penny has either of them brought home to-night; do they think I am going to encourage idleness?" As she said this she fixed upon the children a look that made them quail with fear. "Not I; if they work not, they feed not. That little wretch, too, would have robbed me- -ha, ha, me!

Did she think I was to be done

by a thing like that? I had carefully examined every one of them, to find out whether they had not hidden money about them; when forcing open her mouth, what should I see between her teeth and her cheek but a bran-new farthing! What! said I, a mouthful of copper? Well, well, if you 're so fond of it, you shall have a bellyful too, if it kill you."

"Surely," said Ida, disgusted, "you never

"I did though; I made her swallow it! ha, ha, ha! There's no way so certain to sicken children of anything as to give them their fill."

Ida looked upon the child she had brought with her, as if for a moment doubting whether she could muster courage sufficient to leave it in such a den of misery.

This transient feeling of a rising pity was not diminished by the sight which presented itself to her view as the children went to what the old woman called "bed." It was merely some hay bands pulled to pieces, and strewed on the floor of a small inner cellar. The poor little creatures huddled themselves together upon it, with no other covering than a wretched piece of worn out carpet; the door was closed upon them and bolted.

"There," said the old woman, 66 when you have earned your breakfast to-morrow, you shall have it but not before." Then turning round she threw herself back into an old easy chair, as if quite overcome by mental and bodily exertion.

Ida, who had been for several minutes lost in thought, as if still uncertain what course to pursue, at last said,

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Meggy, I have brought with me a child that you must for the present take charge of. For some length of time it must be kept entirely out of sight, for soon there will be a hue and cry after it, that may even penetrate to this wretched place. Not that I think it would be easily recognised in these rags; do you?"

"Recognised!" rejoined the old woman, with evident surprise at Ida's simplicity, "recognised! I should like to see the child that could be recognised after coming under my hands; why, in three days it shall be one mass of sores, and deformity, and——”

"Silence, Meggy; one's blood runs cold to hear you. No, no; there must be none of your ingenuity displayed upon this babe. All I require is a hiding-place wherein to let it bide a time, until my plans are ripe and certain: but how is it, Meggy, that you have become thus savage in your nature? I am well aware that gentleness was never one of your foibles, but now

"Ah, little Ida-you hear I still call you 'little Ida,' for I can't bring my lips to give you any other name than that I used when you were my only charge. I believe you owe me many a wrong, but it was all love for you that made me act as I did. I thought all was for the best; it has proved the reverse; but I could not help that, and you have forgiven me, I know: but I'm wandering. I'll say no more of the past; but for the future, I am your slave, your tool, to work your will with; it is my only chance of making some amends for bringing about your ruin, your detruction."

"Do not speak so loud," replied Ida, as she made a sign towards the blind young woman.

"Lawks bless you, pretty love, poor blind Mary has played the deaf and dumb so long, that she has almost persuaded herself out of two

more of her senses; she never speaks, she never hears, but she's an industrious girl at money-making; in taking away her eyes I knew I should give her a fortune, and it will prove so." Notwithstanding Mary's deafness, the old woman thought it quite advisable to lower her own voice whilst mentioning the method she had adopted to make the poor creature's fortune.

"Good night, Meggy, good night; and remember, not a hair of that child's head must be injured; my revenge is of a higher stamp than the infliction of bodily pain-remember."

Ida reascended the steps, and, deep in thought, wended her way towards her own abode.

THE house in which Ida and Allen Ray resided was in the vicinity of Soho Square: it was kept by a woman, and let out in floors, and single apartments, to parties whose characters, for the most part, were far from reputable.

Ida and Allen Ray occupied a back parlour, which served them for a whole house. The bed was hid from general observation by a large screen, one corner of which usually served as Ida's wardrobe; for upon most occasions would be found there a dress hanging over the corner, with sundry other portions of female attire. On washing-days the screen served for a clothes-line; and as their stock of fine linen was somewhat limited, every day might be said to be that identical one.

A small lumber-room was formed on the top of the bedstead, which top, not being made of any solid material, hung down most alarmingly in the middle, incessantly threatening destruction to the unconscious sleepers beneath.

When Ida returned home she found Allen already there, and in full enjoyment of a cigar and a glass of ale, which he refilled very frequently from a pewter pot standing upon the table.

The first care of Ida, upon entering, was to pass behind the screen and kiss a child that lay in innocent slumber there.

How beautiful is a sleeping child-the soft and gentle smile that,