"SIR,--I am enabled thus soon to repay you the sovereign you so generously lent me to-day. Had it been out of my power to do so to-night you would most probably have seen me as you expected. It is better as it is, for I have nothing to communicate which I desire to make public. I shall ever retain a lively sense of your kindness, and I depend upon the fulfilment of your promise not to write about me in your paper for three days. If you do not know what else to do with the money received by your paper in response to its appeal for subscriptions on my behalf, I can tell you. Give it to the poor.--Your faithful servant, "ANTONY COWLRICK." The handwriting was that of an educated man, and the mystery surrounding Antony Cowlrick was deepened by the last proceeding. A voice from the bed aroused our Reporter from his meditations. Little Fanny was awake, and was calling for Blanche. "Blanche is not in yet," said our Reporter. "Come and eat your supper." The little girl struggled to her feet, and approached the table. The curiosity of our Reporter was strongly excited, and before giving Fanny the message and the shilling left for her by Blanche, he determined to question her. Thereupon the following colloquy ensued:-- Our Reporter: This _is_ your supper, Fanny. Fanny (carefully spreading the brown sugar over her bread): Yes. Blanche never forgits me. Our Reporter: Sugar every night? Fanny: Yes, I likes it. Our Reporter: Blanche is not your mother? Fanny (with her mouth full): Lor! No. Our Reporter: Is she your aunt or your cousin? Fanny: Lor! No. She ain't nothink to me but a---- a---- Our Reporter (prompting, seeing that Fanny was in a difficulty): Friend? Fanny: More nor that. A brick! Our Reporter: She is good to you? Fanny: There ain't nobody like her. Our Reporter: What are you? Fanny (laughing): Wot am I? A gal. Our Reporter: Do you go to school? Fanny (with a cunning shake of her head): Ketch me at it! Our Reporter: What do you do? Fanny: I sells matches--two boxes a penny--and I falls asleep on purpose in front of the Nacheral Gallery. Our Reporter: The National Gallery. In Trafalgar Square, where the fountains are? Fanny: That's the place--where the little man without legs plays the accorgeon. Our Reporter: Why do you fall asleep there? Fanny (with a sad, wistful smile): That's mother's little game. She makes me. Our Reporter: Mother's little game! Then you have a mother? Fanny (shuddering): Raythur. Our Reporter: Where does she live? Fanny: At the pub round the corner, mostly--the Good Sir Mary Tun--till they turns her out. Our Reporter: The Good Samaritan. But why does your mother make you fall asleep on purpose in front of the National Gallery?