Across the pathway are the stalls of the itinerant vendors, lit by candles in paper lanterns. Wonderful are these, too, in their way—piles of vegetables, so large that it is a marvel how the decrepit old women who look after the stalls ever got them there; book-stalls and picture-stalls; men with barrows covered with toys of every conceivable description, and all at one penny; men with trays of sweetmeats and lollipops of the most tempting shapes and colours; men with yards of songs, and packets of infallible shaving paste; and men selling twenty articles, among which is a gold wedding-ring, for one penny;—all alike shouting at the top of their voices, and expatiating on the merits of their goods, and all surrounded by a gaping crowd, consisting, of course, chiefly of boys. At some of these, wet as he was, Evan Holl stopped for a minute. Had it not been for the thick gloves, and the tray and tin box under his arm, he would have certainly expended a penny or two among all this tempting display. As it was, after a brief pause, he hurried on past the bright shops, and the crowded stalls, and the butchers’ shops with their great gaslights flaring out, and the women bargaining for their Sunday dinner. He then turned down beneath an archway, and was soon in the labyrinth of small streets lying behind this part of Knightsbridge. Now he has left the whirl and confusion of business behind him; he is among the homes of the poor. All is quiet here. The children are indoors or in bed, the mothers, mostly, are doing their shopping. A few men stand about at their doors, smoke long pipes, and chat with their neighbours. Here and there the sounds of singing and noise come through the windows of small public-houses. At the doors of these, perhaps, pale women, in thin torn clothes, stand waiting anxiously; entering timidly sometimes, hanging on already half-drunken husbands, and begging them to come home ere their pay is all spent. Poor things! well may they persist, for on their success depends whether they and their children shall have food for the next week or not. They must not care for curses or an occasional blow, they are accustomed to that, it is for them a battle of life, they must win or starve. Through all this Evan Holl goes. He takes but little notice of it; not that he is hard-hearted, as he has but now sufficiently proved; but he is used to it, and knows that it will be on a Saturday night. A few more steps and he is home. A shout greets his arrival, and some of the children, of whom there are several in the room, run up to relieve him of his tray, but fall back again with the exclamation, “Why, Evan, you are all wet!” “Wet!” Mrs. Holl said, hurrying up. “Drat the boy! what has he been after now?” “It is all right, mother; you just wait till I get these things off my hands; why, my pocket is full of money.”