morsel of the tartan shawl which covered the baby’s face.

‘Let me have her in my arms, please,’ said the lady.

She took the baby tenderly, peeped once again at its small wee face, felt a sudden glow coming back into empty arms and more empty heart, and then turned again to the children.

‘I must be mad to do such a thing,’ she said.  ‘Two little waifs in the street come and offer me a baby, and I don’t refuse it!  There, baby,’ for Dickory

began to cry again, ‘there, baby—hush, sweet—hush, dear little baby, hush.’

This lady’s voice had quite a new tone for Dickory, a sweeter tone even than Peter’s or Flossy’s.  She stopped crying at once.

‘Our baby takes to you, ma’am,’ said Flossy, in a voice of thrilling interest.

Peter, very pale, and still silent, drew a step nearer.

‘Well, children,’ said the lady, ‘I have made up my mind.  I’ll take this baby home for the night.  My husband will think me mad—anyone in their senses would think me mad, but I’m nearly wild with mother-hunger, and that little mite there,’ pointing to Flossy, ‘guessed it, and she brought me the baby, and I say God bless her for it, whether she’s a ragamuffin or not.  Yes, I have made up my mind.  I shall take the baby home for to-night at least.  In the

morning I shall make inquiries, but for to-night the baby is mine.’

‘Half milk, half water in her bottle,’ said Peter in a very grave reproachful voice.  ‘Half milk, half water, and a little sugar, and a pinch of salt, and Dickory likes her feet kept werry warm.  Come home, Flossy.’

‘And we are not ragamuffins, please lady,’ said Flossy.  ‘Our name is Franklin, and we live in 24 Montfiore Square.  We lets lodgings, please lady, and it was Mr Martin what turned so crusty about baby.’

‘Tell your mother I will come and see her to-morrow,’ said the lady.  ‘You have a mother, I suppose?’

‘Yes, oh yes.  She wanted to send the baby to the workhouse.’

‘I don’t think that will be necessary.  My name is Ross.  Tell your mother to expect me to-morrow.’

CHAPTER III.

It is one thing to feel very angry about a baby, and another to wish that helpless little atom of humanity positive ill.  Mr Martin was an old bachelor, and even mothers could scarcely blame him for objecting to having his first sweet sleep disturbed by the wailings of a child who was cutting its teeth.  Mr Martin meant what he said when he proposed to change lodgings.

‘Some one else can have my present room,’ he remarked.  ‘It would be preposterous to send that infant to the workhouse.  A less sensitive person than I am can occupy my present parlour and bedroom; comfortable rooms, too.’  He sighed as he went out.

He was a man who disliked change, and he felt that he had been treated badly.  Mrs Franklin had no right to bring a wailing niece of a few weeks old into the house where he lived, and it was unfair and inconsiderate.  Well, there was no help for it; the baby had come and could not be displaced, and now there was nothing for it but for him to engage the rooms opposite, which were certainly not nearly so nice, nor so much to his taste.  He had promised Mrs Franklin that he would give her a short time to consider, but in his heart of hearts he was quite certain that he must take the detested step.

Mr Martin was a retired merchant.  He had plenty of money, and his working days were over.  He generally went to his club in the morning, and he always returned about one o’clock in the day to a comfortable mid-day repast.  Always

sharp as the clock struck one, Martha placed upon Mr Martin’s board a smoking steak done to perfection.  He had the same lunch every day—he drank a glass of ale with his steak.  He required this simple meal to be served with regularity.  He insisted that his steak should always be tender and properly cooked—that was all—he would not have stayed a week in any lodgings where the landlady could not provide him with his steak and glass of beer as he liked them, sharp at one o’clock.

To-day he returned as usual, sighing a little as he entered the square.

What a troublesome baby that was!  What a nuisance it would be to move!  He doubted very much if the people opposite knew how to cook steak.  He let himself into the house with his latchkey, hung up his coat and hat in the hall—he was a most methodical old gentleman—

and turned into his parlour.  He expected the usual scene to meet his eyes, the fire burning brightly, a snowy cloth on the table, and Martha in the act of placing an appetising covered dish on the board.  This homely and domestic scene, however, was not destined to meet him to-day.  The fire in the grate was out, there were no preparations for lunch on the table, and taking up the greater part of the light from one of the windows might have been seen the portly form of Mrs Potts.

Mrs Potts was the drawing-room lodger, and Mr Martin both dreaded and detested her.  He shrank back a step or two.  What was she doing in his room?  The absence of lunch was bad enough, but this unexpected and undesired company was insult on injury.

Mr Martin bowed, cleared his throat, and prepared to make an elaborate

speech.  Mrs Potts interrupted him fiercely.

‘My good sir, this is no time for ceremony—the wailing infant up-stairs and the two children of the house have been stolen since the morning.  Mrs Franklin is almost out of her mind with grief, and suspicion points to you.’

‘Good gracious, madam, what do you mean?’ said poor Mr Martin in a limp voice.  He sank down on the nearest chair, spreading out his hands on his knees.  ‘What do you mean?’ he continued.  ‘The children stolen!  Who stole them?’

‘Perhaps you can answer that question.  Who was it made such an indecent fuss this morning because a poor fatherless and motherless babe cried?  Who threatened to leave if that same poor babe wasn’t sent to the workhouse?  Answer me that, Mr Martin, and then tell me

if you know nothing of the fate of the hapless innocents.’

Mr Martin looked cautiously round at the door, which was slightly ajar.  He got up softly and shut it.  Then he advanced gently across the room and came up close to Mrs Potts.

‘Answer me this,’ he said.  ‘Did you like it, yourself?’

‘Did I like what?  Good gracious, the man frightens me.’

‘Did you like the wailing sounds of the fatherless and motherless baby?  You were nearer to it than I was.  If you heard it last night, and felt all the pity you now express, you had a good opportunity of putting it to the test by going up-stairs and lulling the unfortunate babe to rest.  A woman’s mission, too, I have always understood.’

Mrs Potts turned scarlet.

‘I!  I do what you describe!’ she

said.  ‘You forget yourself, Mr