Meanwhile, little Roy pursued his way down the long street which led from his home to another, which on weekdays was full of shops and gay with light and many-coloured windows. To-day, being Sunday, the shops were closed, and the place looked dull. Sobbing slightly under his breath, and a very little alarmed at the temerity of his own act, little Roy ran down this street. His object lay very clear before his baby mind--he was going to meet Faith. Faith was out, and, as he too had gone out, he would, of course, find her very soon. At the corner of this second street he came suddenly upon a flaring gin-palace, which, Sunday though it was, was brilliant with light and full of people. The bright light streaming right out into the street attracted little Roy. He stopped his sobbing, paused in his short, running gait, and pressed his little face against the pane. "Pitty, pitty!" he said to himself-- he even forgot Faith in the admiration which filled his baby soul. After a time it occurred to him that Faith would be very likely to be in such a lovely place. The swing-doors were always opening and shutting. Roy, watching his opportunity, pushed his way in by the side of a ragged woman and two coarse men. They advanced up to the counter to ask for gin, but the baby child remained on the threshold. He looked around him with the wide open eyes of admiration, innocence, and trust. Anything so lovely gazing at anything so evil had been seldom seen; certainly never seen before within those walls. The men and women drinking themselves to the condition of beasts, stopped, and a kind of shocked feeling pervaded the whole assembly. It was as though an angel had alighted on that threshold, and was showing those poor hardened wretches what some of them had once been--what, alas! none of them could ever be again. Little Roy's cheeks were slightly flushed; his tangled yellow hair, ruffled more than ever by his running in the wind, surrounded his head like a halo; and as gradually it dawned upon him that all those people surrounding him were strangers, his blue eyes filled with tears. The directness of his aim, the full certainty of his thought were brought to a stand-still; all movement was arrested by the terrible certainty that Faith was not there. "Bless us! who h'ever h'is the little 'un?" said the ragged woman who had come into the gin-palace with him. "Wot's yer name, my little dear, and wot h'ever do yer want?" "'Ittle 'Oy want Fate," said the boy in a clear high tone. The woman laughed. "Hark to the young 'un," she said, turning to her companions. "Did yer h'ever hear the like o' that afore? He says as he wants his fate. Pretty lamb, it 'ull come to him soon enough." "'Oy want Fate--'Oy do want Fate," said the little child again. The woman bent down and took his hand. "No, no, my dear," she said. "You run away home, and never mind yer fate; it 'ull come h'all in good time; and babies have no cause to know sech things."