The woman who had seen Roy in the public-house, and who had been attracted by his pretty face, bore him quickly in her arms down the street. He was quite contented in this queer resting-place, and being absolutely confident in his little mind that the woman was carrying him home to Faith, he laid his curly head on her shoulder and dropped asleep. When she saw that he was asleep, and not before, the woman paused to wrap her own dirty shawl a little over him. She did this partly to shelter him, and partly to consider. Did the police see such a woman as she was, with so well-dressed a child as Roy in her arms, they might stop to question her. She did not want them to do that; she had by no means made up her mind how to act by this poor lost baby, but she had no desire just then that the police should rob her of him. Hiding him very effectually with her shawl, she brought him home--to such a home as she called her own. It was a cellar in a miserable back court, an ill-smelling, ill-drained place. From such a cellar as Hannah Searles's stalked many times in the year the gaunt and grim spectre of fever. It had one advantage, however, over many around it, she lived in it alone; no other living creature shared it with her. She stumbled down the ladder which led to it, drew across the trap-door, and laying Roy, who still slept soundly, on the bed, she prepared a small fire in the grate. When it was kindled, making a little light and cheerfulness in the gloomy place, she removed her bonnet, and going over to the bed knelt down by it; in this position her hungry eyes could gaze long on the sleeping child. Yes, he was very fair; she had never seen any creature half so beautiful since her own child died; nay, she had even to acknowledge to herself that her own child, though he had yellow hair and fair skin, and though he was in very truth bone of her bone and flesh of her flesh, yet even he was not so lovely as this child. Yet there was a likeness; the lips pouted with something the same pretty fulness, the little hands were folded in somewhat a similar attitude, the bright hair curled in much the same rings. Then kneeling there in the flickering twilight made by the fire, a strange fancy came over Hannah Searles; perhaps this was in very truth her own little child come back again. True, she had with her own hands closed the coffin on the sweet golden head, she had herself seen him laid in the grave, but perhaps God, seeing what a lost, abandoned woman she was without him, might have sent her baby back to her again. He had been a whole year in Heaven now. During that year, while she had been leading as bad a life as a woman could lead, he had been growing beautiful in the air of heaven, and now God had sent him back to save her. Where had that child come from who stood on the threshold of the dreadful public-house? Was it not more than probable that he was indeed an angel, that he was her