“No, Sir; it was not the baby I shook—it was the doll; and I’m afraid to go home—mother will be sure to beat me again.” An impulse of benevolence led Mr. Brown’s hand to search for his purse. Had he tried the wrong pocket? His purse was on the other side. No, it was not—it must be in this inner pocket. Where _is_ Mr. Brown’s purse? It is not in any of his pockets! He tries them all over again. And his pocket-book!—chiefly of memorandums, but also having a few bank notes. This is gone too—and his silk handkerchief—both his handkerchiefs!—also his silver-gilt snuff-box, filled with rappee only five minutes before he left the hotel this morning—he is certain he had it when he came out—but it is certainly gone! Every single thing he had in his pockets is gone. The child also—now _she_ is gone! Mr. Brown looks around him, and yonder he sees the poor child flying with frequent looks behind of terror,—and now a shrill and frightful voice causes him to start. Turning in that direction, the sudden flight of the little girl is immediately explained. Over the rubbish and refuse, at a swift, wild pace, courses a fiendish woman, with a savage eye and open mouth, her cheeks hollow, her teeth projecting, her thin hair flying like a bit of diseased mane over her half-naked shoulder; she has a stick in her hand, with which she constantly threatens the flying child, whom her execrations follow yet more swiftly than her feet. Mr. Brown remained watching them till they were out of sight. He once more searched all his pockets, but they were all empty. He called to mind the man with the fixed smile on his hollow cadaverous cheek, and several other faces of men whom he had casually noticed in the course of the last half hour, thinking what a pity it was that something could not be done for them. He now began to think it was a very great pity that something had not _already_ been done for them or with them, for they had certainly “done” him. Poor Mr. Brown! Some six or seven months after this most disagreeable adventure, it chanced that Mr. Brown was going over the prison at Coldbath Fields, accompanied by the Governor. As they entered one of the wards, the voice of a child sobbing, attracted the ears of our philanthropist. In answer to his inquiries, the Governor informed him that it was a child of about eleven years of age, who had been detected in the act of picking a lady’s pocket in one of the most crowded thoroughfares. On a few kind words being spoken to her, she looked up; and in the blue eye, glossy flaxen hair, and pretty features, Mr. Brown at once recognised the little girl who had “shaken the doll.”