Robin waited for Helen for an hour--for two hours. By the end of this time he was tired at playing pitch-and-toss--tired also of waiting for his only friend. He was not at all uneasy, however. Helen had found some reason for starting home without him. He had won a few pence at his game; he bought a penny bun, wandered about until he felt tired, then started back at a swinging pace to his attic in Westminster. He was really disappointed when he found the door locked and no Helen within: but he was not alarmed; such things had often happened before. He lay down on the narrow landing outside the door, curled himself up like a little dog, and slept till morning. He was rather surprised at no Helen greeting him in the morning; he was more disappointed, however, than frightened. His merry heart did not fail him, and he started on his day's rounds, whistling a gay street tune, and with a penny in his pocket. He bought some fusees with his penny, and began to hawk them about for sale, watching with a keen eye his chance of securing, at least, a pocket handkerchief when the bobbies were not looking. His one fear in life was the bobbies, otherwise he had courage sufficient to expend in a worthier cause. A little girl and her mother went by; the little girl was dressed beautifully, she had dainty boots and a white summer frock. As she passed by Robin, who was hungry, dirty, waiting for his opportunity to steal, she dropped, without knowing it, a tiny purse made of silk, and ornamented with silver tassels. The purse itself, independent of what it contained, was a prize. Quick as thought, Robin darted forward and secured it, then stepped back into his place as if nothing had happened. The child had nearly reached the opposite side of the crossing before she missed the purse. Her pretty face flushed up and she began to cry. Robin could not bear this; though a thief, he was tender-hearted; he ran after the child and gave her back her purse. In doing this he was giving up his best chance of breakfast, dinner, supper--no mean sacrifice. "Oh! thank you," said the child, drying her tears and smiling joyfully. "I'm so much obliged to you. Where did you find it? Mother, may I give this poor little boy sixpence for finding my pretty purse?" "No, no, dear," replied the mother, who had observed Robin's dirt, and feared some infectious disease. "I have no spare sixpences about me, and the boy simply did his duty. Come on!" "My purse only holds one crown-piece, but I may break that, may I not, mother?" "What! your grandfather's present! I am surprised at you, Ada; come on!" "Well, I _will_ shake hands with him," said the wilful child, running up to Robin and taking his brown hand in hers, "Thank you, dear, nice little boy! I'm so glad to have my pretty purse again."