We may show a stern face to the tramp; but once inside a hospital we give him something more than prayers—proper food, trained nursing, the best science that can be procured for love or money. Comforts, nay, luxuries, he could never procure for himself. Indeed, in all desirable respects, he is as well off as a millionaire. But to return to our Sally, lying there calmly in her clean bed, in a long and lofty ward, apparently indifferent to all external things, simply satisfied with life such as it was. ‘A lady has come to see you,’ said the doctor, in his pleasant tones, ‘A lady from Sloville.’ ‘Take her away. I am that bad I can’t speak to her.’ ‘Are you quite sure you don’t want to see her? She says you sent her a letter to come.’ ‘No, it warn’t me. It was that Sloville woman as was here last week. I told her not to bother, and now she’s gone and done it.’ A fit of coughing came, and conversation ceased. Then the nurse administered a little stimulus, and that revived her. ‘Leave us alone,’ said the poor woman. The others withdrew, and Rose stepped forward. ‘You’ve been good to my boy,’ said the patient slowly, as if it were hard to talk. ‘What do you mean? The boy I took from Sloville?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘But someone has written to me to say that he is the heir of Sir Watkin Strahan.’ ‘Yes, he is. I stole him.’ ‘Stole him! Why, how could you do such a thing?’ asked the actress excitedly. ‘For revenge!’ exclaimed the poor woman, with all the energy she could collect, and then fell back exhausted. For a time both were silent, and Rose watched with pity the face, stained by intemperance and sensuality and all evil living, wondering what could be the connection between that poor pauper in the hospital and the proud deceased Baronet. ‘Read this paper,’ said the poor woman. ‘Oct. 187-. Saw my pore boy on a brogham at the theatre. I knowed him at once. His father is Sir Watkin Strahan, and he was on the box of Miss Howard’s brogham. I lost him as I was going to speak to him. The peeler told me to be off.’ ‘Then, it was you that left him at Sloville, where I took him up?’ ‘Yes,’ said the poor woman feebly, adding: ‘Come nearer.’ Rose complied with the request. ‘I was an underservant in Sir Watkin’s house. He was a wicked man. He took a fancy to me. I war young and good-looking, and a fool.’ The old, old story, thought Rose to herself, for the poor woman gave her plenty of time to think, so slowly and feebly did the words come out of her mouth. ‘One day the missus came and caught me in his room. I was turned out into the street, without a character and without a friend. I vowed I’d be even with him, and I run off with his boy.’ ‘How could you manage that?’ ‘Oh, that was easy enough. The nursemaid was allus a talking to the sodgers in the park. And an Italian Countess helped me. She had an idea that if she could get rid of the child and the wife she would marry the master.’