She gave Robin his breakfast, locked the door, put the key in her pocket, and telling him to make no noise, for she was tired and sleepy, flung herself on her wretched bed, and slumbered all day. Robin loved her dearly, and he now obeyed her commands to the letter. He sat down on the floor by her side, gazed from her to his pictures, from all his pictures to the one beloved picture Finally laid his curly head next Helen's, and also passed into the land of dreams. It was almost night when the woman and child awoke. She held out her arms for him, clasped him to her breast, and kissed him. Her long sleep had refreshed her, and she was now in capital spirits. "What shall mother do for her good little boy? Robin has been good and quiet to-day." "Tell us a story, mammie!" he answered eagerly. Helen sat up, smiled, and complied. "Wot about?" she asked. "My little gal!" he said, pointing to his pet picture. Helen had given him many a fanciful account of this child with the brilliant cheeks; she found herself equal to the occasion now. "Once," she began, "there wos a little gal, a poor little gal----" "Werry poor, wos she, mammie?" asked Robin, setting himself comfortably in her arms. "Uncommon!" answered Helen in an impressive voice. "She was that poor that she hadn't a bite to h'eat nor a sup to drink. Orften and orften, fur twenty-four hours on the stretch, she 'ud taste neither bite nor sup." "My h'eyes!" answered Robin. "She must 'ave been pretty nigh fixed." "Orften," pursued Helen, "she laid herself down from sheer h'exhaustion, and she would have died but for wan thing." "Wot wos that?" in a voice of great interest. "'Er sperrit, lad; she wor h'all made h'up of sperrit, and she 'ud let nothink daunt 'er. Arter she 'ud rested fur a bit, she'd be h'up and about again, and then food 'ud come arter h'all." "How?" asked Robin. "Oh! she lived on 'er wits." Robin made no remark, for the simple reason that he knew quite well what living on one's wits meant. He was silent for a moment, then he said, looking solemnly at his adopted mother-- "Wot wos that 'ere little gal's name?" It was now Helen's time to pause and consider, for this asking of the name was the crucial point of the narrative. The narrative was always the same,--the same almost to the identical words, for Helen had told the story of the child in white almost every night since her picture had graced the walls; but the name must on each occasion be different, and the finding of a fresh name for each demand for the thrilling tale taxed her ingenuity to the utmost. Now a happy thought occurred to her: she remembered the name of the heroine of the last penny gaff she had gone to. "Almira," she said; "Almira wos 'er name." "That's a rare 'un," answered Robin, with a sigh of satisfaction.