_THE DEED WAS DONE WHICH WAS TO ALTER ROBIN'S LIFE._ Robin might have gone on, on this uniform plan; have been prepared for the world of which he knew nothing, on this uniform pattern; his dress, food, education, moral training, body, mind, soul, an exact counterpart of the boy standing next him. In this case he would have been uninteresting, and his story certainly need never have been written; but circumstances came in the way, and the waif and stray at his birth was all too quickly to become a waif and stray again. I have said that Robin had a pretty name, and was a pretty boy. The former may, of course, be a matter of taste, though _I_ think Robin--reminding me as it does of that dear, brown-coated, red-breasted, bright-eyed bird of winter--pretty; but with regard to his appearance there was no second opinion; with regard to the beauty of his little face there was but one voice. In this matter, all who saw him cried, "Ay." Mrs. Timbs had once been pretty; John Timbs, before he visited the Dolphin, had been a fine-looking man; but on none of their children had any portion of their good looks descended, until Robin came. This can hardly be wondered at. Robin might have grown up like the other little Timbses had he continued to live in Blind Alley, but in the workhouse he developed into a beautiful boy. His hair, pronounced by his undiscerning brothers and sisters carroty at his birth, had shaded off into little tight rings and clustering curls of dark auburn tipped with gold; his complexion was fair, his eyes brown, velvety, spaniel-like; his little limbs were round and white. Even the workhouse ugly blue calico could not disfigure this boy. He was the pride of the place, the show child whom all visitors admired and petted; his looks spoke volumes for his good treatment, and during his stay at David's Row, the infirmary got quite a name for the excellence of its management. Things were in this state, and Robin was the pet of the old women, the darling of the young, the favourite of all--even the dying would not die without kissing Robin farewell. Robin was in this high favour and happiness, for he was a very happy child, when one day a fresh inmate was brought into the ward. Robin was rather more than a year old at this time. The fresh visitor, or casual--for she only came for a time--was young. She was entered in the parish books as twenty-two--her name, Helen Morris--married, deserted by her husband, earned money by button-holing. This was her brief history, or at least all of it she chose to tell. She came into the infirmary to be cured of a certain illness which the doctors said they could cure her of. As soon as ever this was accomplished, she would leave. She was rather good-looking, had black eyes which no one cared to trifle with, and a habit of compressing her lips, which the nurses and pauper women declared afterwards they could not abide.