"It is very annoying for you," said Mr. Webster to his wife in a low tone, which yet was distinct enough to Juliet's young ears--"very annoying for you to be obliged to go to the other side of the city, when your mother expects you at eleven o'clock. But there is no help for it. I have to go down to Westminster. I don't suppose I shall see you till we meet at Paddington to come back by the 7:45 train. I will put you and the child into an omnibus in Praed Street, and when you get out Juliet Mitchell must guide you to her home." Even the West-end was hot and steamy on that broiling August day. Never before had Juliet thought London so unpleasant; the reason being that this was the first time she could contrast the town with the country. It seemed to her that the further she went through the streets the thicker the air became, the dimmer the light, the dingier the houses. And so indeed it was. And when she brought Mrs. Webster into the street which contained No. 103, she wondered how that lady would like to exchange Littlebourne vicarage for an East-end vicarage. An almost similar thought was passing through Mrs. Webster's mind, or rather, the same thought reversed. "Juliet," she said, "I wonder how your father and mother would like to leave London and come and live at Littlebourne?" "I don't know, ma'am," answered Juliet. "I have heard a good deal about them from Mrs. Rowles. Your father would have better health if he lived in the country." By this time they had reached No. 103. Juliet's heart was beating at the sight of the well-known door-step of her home. She forgot all about Mrs. Webster, and ran on. There were lots of boys and girls playing in the street; some called out to her, some stared at Mrs. Webster. But Juliet took no notice; only ran on, climbed up the dear old dirty, steep stairs without bannisters, and got to the door of the back attic, followed closely by her companion. The girl did not knock, but rushed in, and then stood aghast. A strange woman was there but no one else. "Where is mother?" cried Juliet. "Whose mother?" responded the strange woman. "My mother." "Ain't she got e'er a name?" "Yes; she's Mrs. Mitchell." "Oh, the Mitchell lot has gone into the front room, if you please. Going up again in the world, I can tell you." Juliet turned and dashed into the front room. There she found another surprise. Her father lay sleeping; her mother was sewing at some black hats and bits of crape. The other children, all but Albert, stood round about the room; some crying silently, some watching their mother, who paused every now and then in her work to wipe away tears which quickly returned. But there was one whom Juliet missed. "Mother," she said, as Mrs. Mitchell's arms clasped closely round her, "where is baby?"