Fanny: Don't yer see? It's a dodge. Mother gives me twelve boxes o' matches, and I've got to sell 'em. If I don't, I gits toko! Well, I don't always sell 'em, though I try ever so 'ard. Then I falls down on the pavement up agin the wall, or I sets down on the church steps oppersite, with the boxes o' matches in my 'and, and I goes to sleep. Pretends to, yer know; I'm wide awake all the time, I am. A lady and gent comin' from the theaytre, stops and looks at me. "Poor little thing!" _she_ ses. "Come along!" _he_ ses. Sometimes the lady won't come along, and she bends over, and puts 'er 'and on my shoulder. "Why don't yer go 'ome?" she ses. "I can't, mem," I ses, "till I've sold my matches." Then she gives me a copper, but don't take my matches; and other gents and ladies as stops to look gives me somethink--I've 'ad as much as a shillin' give me in a lump, more nor once. When they're gone, mother comes, and wrenches my 'and open, and takes the money, and ses, "Go to sleep agin you little warmint, or I'll break every bone in yer body!" Then I shuts my eyes, and the game's played all over agin. Our Reporter: Is your mother near you all the while, Fanny, that she comes and takes the money from you? Fanny: Lor! No! That would spoil the game. She's watchin' on the other side of Trafalgar Square. She knows 'er book, does mother! Sometimes I'm so tired that I falls asleep in real earnest, and then I ketches it--'ot! Our Reporter: Does she beat you? Fanny: Does she miss a chance? The child hitches her shoulder out of her ragged frock, and our Reporter sees on the poor thin back, the bladebones of which stick up like knives, the marks of welts and bruises. There is room in our literature for another kind of book on "The Mothers of England" than that written by a celebrated authoress many years ago. Fanny's poor little back is black and blue, and when our Reporter, with gentle finger, touches one of the bruises, the child quivers with pain. Our Reporter: Altogether, Fanny, your life is not a rosy one? Fanny: O, I 'ave lots of larks with the boys! And I've got some 'air. Our Reporter (very much puzzled): Some what? Fanny: Some 'air. I'll show yer. She jumps from her chair, creeps under the bed, and emerges presently, her face flushed and excited, with something wrapped in a piece of old newspaper. She displays her treasure to our astonished Reporter. It is a chignon, apparently made of tow, which she fixes proudly on her head. The colour is many shades lighter than Fanny's own hair, which is a pretty dark brown, but that is of the smallest consequence to the child, who evidently believes that the chignon makes a woman of fashion of her. Fanny: I wears it on Sundays, when I goes to the Embankment. Mother don't know I've got it. If she did, she'd take it from me, and wear it 'erself. I say--ain't it splendid, the Embankment? Our Reporter: It is a fine place, Fanny. So you have larks with the boys?