“I must make haste and git rid on her afore she comes to, and then she won’t give no trouble to nobody. Lor’, ’ow lucky she swooned hoff in this here way! Lor’, to think as ’ow I have been ’elped this day in this onexpected manner! First, I comes upon this here fine bird, with fine feathers, lost into the streets, and with waluable jewelry onto her neck, and a waluable bundle into her hand—and where is that bundle, by the same token? ’Opes it never dropped on the stairs. No! Lor’, there it is, hanging onto Fine Feathers’ arm still. Never dropped hoff when she fainted, and I picked her up! Oh! w’at luck this is! And to find the fortin in the street! And to bring her here! And jest as I were a-thinking how on airth I could get the clothes offen her back ’thout her raising the whole alley, she jest faints away like a angel, so quiet and comfortable! It do seem like a providence, it do, indeed it do! I wonder what’s in that bundle? But I ain’t got time to look now. Lor’, no. I must get Fine Feathers outen this afore she comes to, or there’ll be trouble. Lor’, yes,” concluded the crone, as she hastily drew Owlet’s bundle off her arm and hid it far under the pile of rags. She need not have been in such haste. The swooning child was not likely to recover in that deadly room. She was much more likely to die as people die in the fumes of escaping gas or burning charcoal in an airtight place. The ragpicker sat down flat upon the floor, and drew the unconscious child gently across her lap, and proceeded to divest her of her costly trinkets and rich clothing, all of which she made into a bundle and thrust it far under the pile of rags. Then she looked at the beautiful, nude statue of a child that lay upon the floor, and considered: “’Twon’t do to take her out that-a-way. But w’at shall I put onto her? Not a child’s garment in all that pile. Oh! I know,” she suddenly mumbled. “I roll her in my shawl. I can get another one to-morrow outen the fortin I have come inter. Them there jew’ls and frock and things’ll fetch a pile, I know.” Saying this, she took off her own ragged shawl, laid it over her knees, drew the nude and senseless form of the child upon it, and rolled her up in it, securing it here and there by scraps of strings drawn from the pile, and run through the holes of the wrap. “That’ll do,” she said, as she took little Owlet in her arms, laid her head over her shoulder and left the room, on this occasion taking the precaution to lock the door and put the key in her bosom.