He had acquired a habit, forced upon him by circumstances, of retiring early at night and rising with the dawn of day. He sometimes took a walk before breakfast, then returned and prepared his frugal meal, ate sparingly, set his room in order and started for his day’s work. One morning he arose from a very restless bed, much earlier than usual, dressed himself and went down the four flights of stairs to the ground floor. None of his fellow lodgers were yet stirring. He opened the front door and looked out. The street was as quiet as a churchyard. The sky was just beginning to grow faintly light. Harcourt closed the door behind him, and went down the steps. As he reached the sidewalk he heard a low moan and sob. He stopped in surprise to listen and look up and down the street. But he could see no one. The moan and sob were repeated so near him that, as there was no one in sight, it seemed weird, ghostly, supernatural. He looked all around the doorstep, but still saw nothing. The moan and sob were reiterated with the tearful wail: “Oh, why don’t she come? Why don’t she come?” Then, at length, he was able to locate the voice. It came from under the stoop. He bent down and looked there. And first he smelt, and then he saw a little creature wrapped up in a noisome rag or shawl, he could not tell which, and she was moaning, and sobbing, and crying: “Why don’t she come? Oh, why don’t she come?” He bent lower, and inquired, gently: “What is the matter, little one?” “Oh, I don’t know—I don’t know why she don’t come back!” sobbed the child. “Who do you mean?” inquired Harcourt. “Oh! she—she—she!” “Who is she?” “Oh, I don’t know. She was a ragged woman, and smelt awful.” “What did she do to you?” “Oh, she took off my nice clothes, but I reckon they were wet, and she wrapped me up in this nasty shawl, and she left me here and said she would come back and carry me to Lady. But she never came, and I am so chilly, and so hungry, and so sick at my stomach with the smell of this shawl. I am almost dead. Oh, dear me!” “Come out here, little girl, and let me see you,” said Harcourt, kindly. The child seemed perfectly fearless. All her horrible experiences had not had the power to make a coward of her. She crawled out, tottered to her feet, and stood before him—a little creature clothed only in an old, ragged, foul shawl, reaching from her shoulders to her knees, leaving exposed to view the fair head and neck, and the delicate ankles and feet of a beautiful girl child. She looked something like a small, old-fashioned chimney sweep, wrapped in his sooty, little blanket, except for the loveliness of her fair face and hands. “Foul play!” exclaimed Harcourt, as he took in the whole incongruous picture at a glance. “How long have you been lying under that stoop, poor child?” he inquired. “Oh! I don’t know. I went to sleep. I just woke up a little while ago. Oh, sir, please do take me to Lady,” pleaded the child. “Who is Lady, my dear?”