“Bother you all,” replied the Secretary, who was secretly pleased to be quizzed for his peculiarities--“tell us what this means. Whose 'lark' is it?” “No lark at all,” said Sterling. “Here is a problem for you and all of us to solve. This forlorn object is representative, and stands here to-night preaching us a serious sermon. He was deserted on the Club steps--left there, perhaps, as a piece of clever irony; he might be son to some of us. What's your name, my boy?” Ginx's Baby managed to say “Dunno!” “Ask him if he has any name?” said an Irish ex-member, with a grave face. Ginx's Baby to this question responded distinctly “No.” “No name,” said the humorist; “then the author of his being must be Wilkie Collins.” Everybody laughed at this indifferent pleasantry but our hero. His bosom began to heave ominously. “What's to be done with him?” “Send him to the workhouse.” “Send him to the d----” (there may be brutality among the gods and goddesses). “Give him to the porter.” “No thank you, sir,” said he, promptly. The gentlemen were turning away, when Sir Charles stopped them. “Look here!” he said, taking the boy's arm and baring it, “this boy can hardly be called a human being. See what a thin arm he has--how flaccid and colorless the flesh seems--what an old face!--and I can scarcely feel any pulse. Good heavens, get him some wine! A few hours will send him to the d---- sure enough.... What are we to do for him, Glibton? I say again, he is only part of a great problem. There must be hundreds of thousands growing up like this child; and what a generation to contemplate in all its relations and effects!” The gentlemen were dashed by his earnestness. “Oh, you're exaggerating,” said Glibton; “there can't be such widespread misery. Why, if there were, the people would be wrecking our houses.” “Ah!” replied the other, sadly, “will you wait to be convinced by that sort of thing before you believe in their misery? I assure you what I say is true. I could bring you a hundred clergymen to testify to it to-morrow morning.” “God forbid!” said Glibton. “Good-night.” The right honorable gentleman extinguished the subject in his own little brain with his big hat; but everywhere else the sparks are still aglow, and he, with all like him, may wake up suddenly, as frightened women in the night; to find themselves environed in the red glare of a popular conflagration. Well for them then if they are not in charge of the State machinery. What an hour will that be for hurrying to and fro with water-pipes and buckets, when proper forethought, diligence, and sacrifice would have made the building fireproof. III.--A thorough-paced Reformer--if not a Revolutionary.