For several years the crowd of work-people had paused by the coffee-stall under the railway-arch, when one morning, in a partial lull of his business, the owner became suddenly aware of a pair of very bright dark eyes being fastened upon him and the slices of bread and butter on his board, with a gaze as hungry as that of a mouse which has been driven by famine into a trap. A thin and meagre face belonged to the eyes, which was half hidden by a mass of matted hair hanging over the forehead and down the neck--the only covering which the head or neck had; for a tattered frock, scarcely fastened together with broken strings, was slipping down over the shivering shoulders of the little girl. Stooping down to a basket behind his stall, he caught sight of two bare little feet curling up from the damp pavement, as the child lifted up first one and then other and laid them one over another to gain a momentary feeling of warmth. Whoever the wretched child was, she did not speak; only at every steaming cupful which he poured out of his can her dark eyes gleamed hungrily, and he could hear her smack her thin lips as if in fancy she was tasting the warm and fragrant coffee. “Oh, come now,” he said at last, when only one boy was left taking his breakfast leisurely, and he leaned over his stall to speak in a low and quiet tone, “why don’t you go away, little girl? Come, come; you’re staying too long, you know.” “I’m just going, sir,” she answered, shrugging her small shoulders to draw her frock up higher about her neck; “only it’s raining cats and dogs outside; and mother’s been away all night, and she took the key with her; and it’s so nice to smell the coffee; and the police has left off worriting me while I’ve been here. He thinks I’m a customer taking my breakfast.” And the child laughed a shrill laugh of mockery at herself and the policeman. “You’ve had no breakfast, I suppose,” said the coffee-stall keeper, in the same low and confidential voice, and leaning over his stall till his face nearly touched the thin, sharp features of the child. “No,” she replied, coolly, “and I shall want my dinner dreadful bad afore I get it, I know. You don’t often feel dreadful hungry, do you, sir? I’m not griped yet, you know; but afore I taste my dinner it’ll be pretty bad, I tell you. Ah! very bad indeed!” She turned away with a knowing nod, as much as to say she had one experience in life to which he was quite a stranger; but before she had gone half a dozen steps she heard the quiet voice calling to her in rather louder tones, and in an instant she was back at the stall. “Slip in here,” said the owner, in a cautious whisper; “here’s a little coffee left and a few crusts. There. You must never come again, you know. I never give to beggars; and if you’d begged I’d have called the police. There; put your poor feet towards the fire. Now, aren’t you comfortable?”