The lad, giving a sudden twist, freed himself from the gentleman's grasp, and ran off as fast as his legs could carry him. The stranger, puffing at his cigar as he stood under the lamp-post, laughed as he peered after the retreating boy. But Bertie, despite his weariness, still ran on. He dimly wondered, whether he bore about with him some outward sign by which any one could tell he was a runaway. He made up his mind that he would ask no more questions if he ran the risk of meeting such home thrusts in reply. He wandered onwards till he reached Kensington Gardens, and then the Albert Hall. There was a concert going on, and the place was all lit up. He stared with amazement at the enormous building, imperfectly revealed in the darkness of the night. Carriages and cabs were going to and fro. Some one touched him on the shoulder. It was a gorgeous footman, with powdered hair, in splendid livery. His magnificence dazzled him. "I say, you boy, do you know Thurloe Square?" "No, sir." "What do you mean? are you gettin' at me? You take a message for me to Thurloe Square, and there'll be a bob when you get there." "But I don't know Thurloe Square; I'm a stranger, sir." "A stranger, are you? Then what do you mean by standing there, as though you was born just over the way? Get on out of it! I shouldn't be surprised if you was after pockethandkerchiefs;--what's your little lay? I'll tell the policeman to keep an eye on you, telling me you don't know Thurloe Square;--oh yes, I jest dersay!" The footman appeared to be angry; Bertie slunk away. He crossed the road to the park; a gate was open; people were going in and out. He entered too. It looked quiet inside; perhaps there was grass to sit upon. He went up towards the Serpentine, and had not gone far when he came to a seat. On this he sat. Never was seat more welcome; it was ecstasy to rest. He was dimly conscious of what was going on; before he knew it he was fast asleep. Time passed; still he slept. A perfect sleep untroubled by dreams. Some one else approached the seat, some one in the last stage of raggedness, so exhausted that he seemed hardly able to drag one foot behind the other. He, too, sat down; he, too, fell fast asleep. Some one else approached,--a woman with a baby and a watercress basket. The baby was crying faintly; the woman tried to comfort it, speaking to in a droning monotone: "I've nothing to give you, bairn," she said; "I've nothing to give you, bairn! God help us all!" A policeman came along. When he reached the seat he stopped, and flashed the bull's-eye lantern in the faces of the sleepers. The woman woke up instantly, perhaps used to such a visitation. "I'm going, sir; I only sat down for a moment to rest awhile." The baby began to cry again. "I've nothing to give you, bairn," she said; "I've nothing to give you, bairn! God help us all!"