A benevolent old gentleman—the late Mr. Harcourt Brown of Beech Hall—was plodding his way home to his hotel from a ramble in the suburbs of London; and having made a bold attempt at “a short cut,” soon found himself lost in a maze of squalid streets, leading one into the other, and apparently leading no where else. He inquired his way in vain. From the first person, he received a coarse jest; from another, a look of vacant stupidity; a third eyed him in dogged silence. He stepped with one foot into several wretched little shops; but the people really seemed to know nothing beyond the next street or alley, except one man, a dealer in tripe, of a strange, earthy colour, who called over his shoulder, “Oh, you’re miles out o’ your way!” The only exception to the general indifference, rudeness and stupidity, was a thin sallow-cheeked man, who had a fixed smile on his face, and spoke in rather an abject cringing tone of obsequiousness, and even walked up one street and down a second to show Mr. Brown the way. But it soon became evident that he knew nothing about the matter, and he slunk away with the same fixed unmeaning smile. In this state of affairs Mr. Brown buttoned up his coat, and manfully resolved to work his way out of this filthy locality by walking straight forward. Trudging onward at a smart pace, the worthy gentleman presently heard the sound of sobbing and crying, and behind the boards of a shed at the side of a ruined hovel he saw a girl of some nine or ten years of age, clasping and unclasping her hands in a paroxysm of grief and apprehension. “Oh, what _shall_ I do?—what _shall_ I do?” sobbed the child. She started with terror as Mr. Brown approached, and hid her head in the folds of her little apron; but on being assured by the mild voice of Mr. Brown that he had no thought of hurting her, she ventured to look up. She had soft blue eyes, flaxen hair of silvery glossiness, pretty features; and, notwithstanding the stain of tears down a cheek which had a smear of brickdust upon it, had a most innocent and prepossessing face. “What is the matter, my little girl?” inquired Mr. Brown. The child turned one shoulder half round, and displayed the red and purple marks of blows from a whip or stick. “What cruel wretch has done this?” asked Mr. Brown. “Tell me, child; tell me directly.” “It was mother,” sobbed the child. “Ah—I’m sorry to hear this. Perhaps you have been naughty?” “Yes, Sir;” answered the child. “Poor child,” ejaculated Mr. Brown; “but you will not be naughty again. What was your offence. Come, tell me?” “I shook it, Sir; oh, yes, it’s quite true; I did shake it very much.” “What did you shake?” inquired Mr. Brown. “I shook the doll, Sir.” “The doll! Oh, you mean you shook the baby; that, certainly was naughty of you;” said Mr. Brown.