maids of that old family, drove up, those excellently disposed ladies, to whom all Sloville was in the habit of grovelling, for the first time in their lives almost found themselves slighted, though as to what there was extraordinary to look at in that actor-woman from London they could none of them see. Suddenly the aspect of affairs was changed. Just outside the railway-station, on the bare earth, sweltering in the summer sun, was a bundle of rags. The actress was the first to perceive it ‘What is that?’ she exclaimed, ‘A bundle of rags,’ said one. ‘And of very dirty ones too,’ said another. ‘Good heavens,’ said the lady, ‘it is a living child.’ ‘A child! Impossible.’ ‘Yes, I tell you it is, and we must save it.’ The actress led the way to the bundle of rags. They were the only clothes of a little lad who, hatless and shoeless and shirtless, was lying on the ground—to be trampled on by horses or men, it seemed to matter little to him. To him approached the awfulness of respectability as embodied in the persons of the Mayor and the Vicar, but he never moved; he was too tired, too weak, too ill to rise. Half awake and half asleep there he lay, quite unconscious, as they looked in his face—thin with want, grimy with dirt, shaded with brown curling hair. Presently the lad got upon his legs with a view to running away—that’s the invariable etiquette on the part of ragged boys in such cases—but it was too late. Already the enemy were on him. Holding his right hand across his brow so as to shade his eyes, he plucked up his courage and prepared for the encounter. ‘Hulloa, you little ragamuffin, what are you up to here?’ said the Mayor, in a tone which frightened the poor boy at once. ‘Pray don’t speak so, Mr. Mayor,’ said the actress; ‘you’ll frighten the poor boy.’ ‘Dear madam,’ said the august official, ‘what are we to do?’ ‘Save the child.’ ‘Ah! that’s easier said than done. Besides, what is the use of saving one? There are hundreds of such lads in Sloville, and we can’t save ’em all.’ ‘Quite true,’ said the Vicar, professionally shaking his head. ‘What’s the matter, my poor boy?’ said the actress, as, heedless of the remarks of her companions, she stooped down to kindly pat the head of the little waif, who was at first too frightened to reply. Slowly and reluctantly he opened his big blue eyes and stared, then he screwed up his mouth and began to cry. ‘Come, my little man,’ continued the actress, in her gentlest tone, ‘tell us what is the matter with you.’ ‘Yes, tell the good lady what’s the matter with you!’ said the Vicar, who thought it was now high time for him to say something.