In despair at these cries, which he could not satisfy, Robin was about really to deliver up the child to the first policeman he could find, when suddenly out of a shop came a gentleman, with a small end of a pocket handkerchief hanging out of his coat-tail. This was the chance Robin had been looking in vain for all day. Quick as thought, he whispered to the child to be good for an instant, placed her on the pavement, and darting after his unsuspecting victim, secured the prize. He came back in high spirits, laughing and pleased now. The handkerchief was a silk one, and he knew that when disposed of, it would bring him in enough of money to buy supper both for himself and the child. "Missy shall not wait for her mamma," he said. "I'll buy dear, pretty little miss a cake in no time." "Cake with gleat plums in it, boy? That's what Dolly likes." "Werry well, deary; h'any sort yer'll 'ave, as yer wishes for." Turning into a low street, he sold the handkerchief for eightpence, purchased two buns stuck over with plums for the child, and a great hunch of bread and a red herring for himself. The little girl munched her cake quietly, and Robin thrust a large piece of bread into his mouth. Now that both their hunger was likely to be satisfied, his mind was quite made up. He would keep the little child for one night, though he felt he must resign her in the morning. Though he knew in the morning he must give her up, yet for one night he would keep her; for a few hours longer he would feel her dear little arms about his neck. As he found her, as he had rescued her from being quite lost in the street, he, felt that he might give himself this great pleasure. Yes for one night he would keep the baby. Where, then, should they pass it, the ragged boy and the dainty and delicate child? The winter snow was still silently and softly dropping from the sky; the winter wind sounded melancholy, funereal; he could not keep the baby in the streets all night; even if he was strong enough to carry her, he could not dare to expose so delicate and lovely a little creature to the winter's cold. Robin had enough, just enough money left after their supper, to provide the worst and lowest lodging for them both. But some instinct told the boy that there were words spoken there, and deeds done, which the little child, even in her babyhood, must never witness. Passing by an archway, he peered in. Was there?--yes, there was a cart there, a cart nearly half filled, too, with straw. With a glad cry the boy darted forward, stumbled into the cart, and nearly buried himself and the child in the fragrant hay. "Now, then, missy--poor boy werry tired--we'll rest yere fur a bit." "And then go on?" said Dolly. "Yes, missy, that we will." "Is it far to my mamma now, boy?" "No, no; werry close now, pretty pet." "Well, I'se seepy; I'll just sut my eyes while you is resting."