"My! you shouldn't climb onto the railings like that," remonstrated Millie, as she put out her hand to receive the bit of ribbon. But the minstrel, bracing one knee against the brick and mortar, thus steadying himself and giving his hands full play, began a series of pantomines so strange that Millie involuntarily exclaimed: "Why, what in the world ails the man!" And then, struck once more by the pitiful appeal in his eyes, she cried: "Look here, are you sick?" Only renewed pantomines from the minstrel. "Are you hungry?" Then, in a tone of discouragement: "What is he at, anyhow?" But as the man's hand went from his lips to his ear, even Millie's dull comprehension was awakened. "Gracious goodness!" she exclaimed, "he's deaf and dumb." Faster still flew the fingers of the minstrel, sadder and more pitiful grew his face, and Millie watched his movements with renewed interest. "He's talking with his fingers," muttered Millie. "I wonder--" She stopped suddenly; he was doing something new in the way of pantomine, and Millie guessed its meaning. "A baby!" she gasped; "it's something about a baby. One, two, three, ah! five fingers; five babies, five years--oh, say, say, man; _say_ man!"--and Millie's face was white with agitation, and she barely saved herself from tumbling out of the window, in the intensity and eagerness of her excitement--"you don't mean--you don't know anything about our Daisy--you don't--" But Millie's breath failed her, for even as she spoke, the sad-eyed organ-grinder took from his pocket a dirty bit of paper, unfolded it, and displayed to the eager girl a tiny tress of yellow hair--just such a tress as might have grown on little Daisy's head. "Oh," she cried, "I'll bet that's it! I'll bet, oh,--" And with this last interjection, any such small stock of prudence as Millie may naturally have possessed, was scattered to the four winds. "Wait here," she cried, utterly disregarding the fact that she was addressing a deaf man, but by a natural instinct suiting her gestures to her word. "Just you wait a minute. I know who can talk finger talk." In another moment she had rushed from the room, shutting the door behind her with a sudden emphasis that must have been a surprise to those stately panels, and the noiseless, slow-moving hinges on which they swung. Scarcely has Millie turned away from the window when the man outside, with two quick turns of the neck, has assured himself that for a moment at least, the window is not under the scrutiny of any passer-by. No sooner has the study door closed, than the mute, without one shade of pathos in look or action, grasps the window-sill, swings himself up, and drops into the room, organ and all. "So far, good," mutters this pathetic mute, under his breath. "This is Alan Warburton's study; not a doubt of that. Now, if I can continue to stay in it until he comes--"