treated her dog to some "block ornament" which she obtained for a penny, and sold some flowers to the butcher's wife, and at the Circus she took up her station, determined to sell what remained of her stock before she fairly started "homewards," that is towards the City; not that to one who had no home there was any need of choosing a particular domicile for the night, and if there had not been a very strong reason she would have probably preferred remaining far away from Mary Anne, but there was a strong reason, she had not said her prayers that day at all, and she could not say them anywhere but in S. Michael's church.

"Flowers, sir,-do buy, please-only twopence a bunch, sir," she cried, holding up her wares; then springing on to the step of an omnibus, and stretching her hand and golden head through the door, she reiterated the often uttered cry," Twopence a bunch-buy, please buy."

A young lady took the proffered nosegay, and gave the money, and the child sprang lightly from the running vehicle with the skill of one long used to such practices, and petted her dog who had run after her barking.

"Now," said the poor little creature, going back patiently to her post, "only one more nosegay. I've done first-rate to-day.'

"Here, boy, here," said a street-boy passing by and whistling to the dog. But the dog remained stationary, and only wagged his tail knowingly; he was probably like his mistress, a dog of the world, and accustomed to city life, and he was not easily tempted by apparent friendship.

"He won't come to you," said the Picciola; "he b'longs to me now."

"I don't believe he's yours by right," said the boy, stopping.

"Course not; but I picked up with him in Regent Street, and I kep him ever since. Ain't he a jolly chap ?"

"Uncommon ugly; what's his name ?"

"He ain't got none; what shall I call him ?" "Call him Bill."

"No, don't like that; lots of boys are called Bill, and a boy called Bill beat me once." "Šarved you right, I 'spect."

"No, it did not; he tried to take my ball, but he didn't get it; I ran away from him. I've thought of a

name.

"What's that ?" said the boy.

"I shan't tell it to you; I 'spect your name's Bill, and I hates Bills;-flowers, lady-only twopence-do please buy, lady."

The dog ran after her, and the lady, after a moment's hesitation, bought the flowers.

"Now," cried the Picciola, triumphantly, "I'll go 'ome. Come along, Rough-that's what I call youRough, Roughy; that's a good boy. I knew you'd know yer name; come on, old chap," and with that she dashed over the Circus, under horses' noses, behind carriage wheels, and safely reached the other side, where she began to walk soberly, for she was in truth weary enough, and nothing but the determination to "do as Mr. Stewart wished" made her continue her way to the City. Three or four times on the road she rested, and the gloaming was falling rapidly when the lofty spire of S. Michael's rose against the summer sky. The church was not closed till nine, and it was not now much past eight; but one doubt made her fear to enter the building. Would Rough remain outside? and if she shut him out (as he would not be strong enough to push open the heavy doors,) would he not perhaps run away. No, Rough would not do that, and she would ask GOD to keep any one from stealing him.

Reverently and timidly the child went up the broad steps which led to the west door. Rough wagged his tail and prepared to follow, but the child held up her finger.

"No, Roughy, you must stay here; you must not come into the church. Sit here like a good boy, and don't run away." And she enforced her recommendation by hugging and kissing him.

Rough, however, seemed to comprehend in the end that he was not considered worthy of the privilege of

entering a consecrated building, and he remained stationary, wagging his tail softly, and holding his head wistfully on one side until the child had disappeared within the building, and then he laid himself down, and awaited her return.

The Picciola stole noiselessly into the church, almost holding her breath, for she thought surely GoD was there. The edifice was lighted, but not brilliantly, and so solemn was the silence-for there did not appear to be a soul in the church beside herself—that the child paused, half fearful to advance; the lofty pillars seemed almost to go up into darkness, for the roof was hardly visible in the partial light, and as she drew near to the east end, the crimson and gold of the altar gleamed with a mysterious, subdued glory, for there were no lights in the chancel, and lifting her eyes, the child could see but dimly the figure of the Redeemer and the weeping mother beneath, and below the Cross shone out distinct and purely white. The Picciola felt no fear at being alone in the great stately building with its hushed stillness and subdued light, she only felt a deep awe and reverence, and a conviction that GOD was actually present and would hear her prayers. She knelt down on the chancel step, and clasping her little hands, looked up to the east window, and tried not to think of Angelo Stewart as she balf whispered her simple prayer for help to be a good girl and do what she was told to do, those at least were her actual words, she did not like to say "what Mr. Stewart would like me to do," but the thought was in the bottom of her little heart, and then she said the LORD's Prayer; but she could not help thinking of the SAVIOUR's words which had been read to her last night—" Suffer the little children to come unto Me, for of such is the kingdom of heaven." Were they really perhaps ragged little children like herself whom He took in His arms, and spoke so kindly to? Oh, to have been one of those little children and to have died at that moment! Who could help loving JESUS if He loved us so much that He died such a dreadful death for us? And through fast-falling tears the child looked up to the figure of the Redeemer, and prayed with quivering lips and trembling voice to be

taught to give her whole heart to Him, as Mr. Stewart said she ought to do, and to be kept from sin, and from forgetting to confess when she had done wrong. Might not many an adult Christian have taken a lesson from this poor street child? for here were pure faith, pure love; she realized and wept for the sufferings of her SAVIOUR, and for her own sins. How many of those who go devoutly through the services of the Church, and have been trained from childhood in the practices of religion, think and feel like this? Surely the angels of heaven rejoiced to see that fragile child kneeling before the throne of a suffering Redeemer; nor was one tear that fell through the clasped fingers forgotten by Him Who was "wounded for our transgressions," for through the solemn stillness the Voice appeared to float downwards to that solitary little suppliant, and her heart stood still as she seemed to hear the words of love and tenderness, "Suffer the little children to come unto Me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven."

CHAPTER XIX.

It would be a strange and pleasing picture if we could at the same moment see the occupation or the inner life of seven or eight different people. If we, on this afternoon in May, the last day of the month, could have beheld each and all of the dramatis persona with whom we have especially to deal, we should have seen a sufficient variety. Let us with a touch of the baguette invest ourselves with the mysterious power. We should see Darrell Halifax seated by the window of his sittingroom, his faithful favourite at his feet, and his pen flying fast over the paper before him, and a momentary peep at his thoughts would carry us eastward again to Old Broad Street; we should then pass to London Wall, and looking into Angelo Stewart's study, we should see him standing near the table reading a letter, and his thoughts at that moment were of his friend, and the prospect of a step in life which this letter gave that friend. Far in the sunny West End we might look down on the little

Picciola stationed at the Regent Circus, and plying a vigorous trade in fusee-boxes, while Rough faithfully "danced attendance." And in his dull little office Bernard Da Costa conferred with a fussy client, who would not hear either law or reason (which it must be confessed are often Scotch cousins ;) and Electra Chichester lounged on a bench in the park, and though her thoughts flew to her country home far away, beside which this park looked but a field, she thought that London in the season was on the whole a very pleasant place, and that if her handsome city cousin were beside her now she would be an infinitely preferable companion to Miss Vernon. And where was that handsome cousin, the last upon whom we have to look ? She stood at the open window of the room which had been her nursery long ago, and her own especial sanctum since infancy. There was nothing to attract her in the prospect from this window; it only looked upon one of those dreary back-yards hemmed in by houses that country eyes shudder to behold, and which send country hearts longingly back to green pastures and luxuriant groves. But Naomi had never known green pastures and luxuriant groves; day after day for seventeen years her eyes had rested during some time of the day on that yard and on the black walls and dirty windows of opposite houses. She had often longed in a vague kind of manner to see the country, and, above all, the sea, and had read with avidity books wherein the characters walked in cool shady lanes, and lounged in noble parks, or by the blue ocean; but these were only air castles, and though her young life had often been dreary enough, she loved the city, and had passed many a happy hour in these gloomy old rooms which her more favoured West End sisters would think unfit to live in, yet which to her were full of associations, and pleasing, if sometimes melancholy memories of the past. But there were no pleasing memories in her heart this morning as she gazed out dreamily upon the London yard, seeing neither it nor the opposite houses definitely. She was in an unhappy humour to-day, and felt as if no brightness could ever come to her again. It was not a keen and piercing sorrow that oppressed her; her short