My guide smiled proudly as I walked from cage to cage, and then, evidently with a thought for the bare shelf in the open cupboard, threw off his coat, unfastened his vest, loosened his collar, and then placed a circlet of greasy old black ribbon round his not too tidy black hair, as he seated himself upon his bench and dived into the mysteries of boot-closing. "I can talk too, you know," he said; "that's the best of my trade. Nice birds some of them, ain't they? Seems a shame to keep 'em behind wires; but then we all have to work behind wires, more or less, for other folks's pleasure. They sings--we works; don't you see?" But I had finished my inspection of mealy linnets and goldfinches, pegging finches and larks; and had taken in at a glance the one bare room, with its whitewashed walls, decorated here with pictures cut from the _Illustrated London News_ and _Punch_, and there with glass Florence flasks filled with chintz flowers and salt, _potichomanie_ fashion, as performed by our grandmothers; the rusty, broken-barred grate, with its heaped-up ashes; and the general untidiness of the bachelor place, made worse by the plentiful sprinkling of tobacco _debris_ and the many broken craters in which the weed had been consumed. I had seen all I could in a hasty glance, and was now looking out of the open window at another bird in a cage; for at the casement opposite, her little bright eyes glittering through a tangle of long brown hair, was the child of whom Uncle Bill had spoken. Her red lips were apart, and as I looked she shouted in across the court to the lame boot-closer, in a gleeful, childish treble; while he turned his sallow face to me with a smile of gratified pride upon it that told--oh! how plainly--of the true heart, unspoiled by the misery of a London court. "That's her," he said--and his voice seemed to jar discordantly, sounding of the streets, streety; while the proud look upon his face had in it a tinge of the something greater as planted in all hearts by a great Hand--"that's her. She stands at that window for hours while I'm at work; and I sing to her, as she claps her hands; and, you know, her father leaves her locked up there like that for long enough while he goes out, and I know the little thing would be hungry if--but she ain't, you know." (Nods many here.) "I wish he'd let me have her altogether; for he's a bad sort, is her father, and it worries me as to what's to become of the little thing. I'm not much account, you see, myself; but, being such a pretty little thing, I should like to see her taken care of, and one daren't hardly speak to the child when he's at home, and he won't hardly let any of the women in the house go near his room at all. "No, I say--don't you go near the window, or you'll frighten her away."