“What of that?” he said, in a tone loud enough for all the passengers to hear; “I ain’t going to lose them; don’t I know how to take care of things? Give me the purse.” It was passed over without more words. “Take a quarter from the silver money,” the mother advised a moment later. “O, no, mamma! I want to give him a bill, to see if he makes the right change. Here’s a five; that will do; no, let me see.” He jerked his arm suddenly away from the mother’s hand, which reached after the pocket-book, and several pieces of silver flew out and rolled around on the floor. “There!” he said, in a reproachful tone, “see what you have made me do; now you have lost some of your money.” “Pick it up, Harold, that’s a good boy.” He stooped and picked up a twenty-five cent piece, then said: “Never mind the rest. It has rolled round under the seat somewhere, and it is all dust; I can’t get down on my knees and hunt; never mind, let it go. Say, mamma, give me that box of candy.” “Not now; I would rather you did not eat any more candy, Harold, until we get home.” “Why not? I don’t want to wait; I haven’t eaten much. Come, it’s my candy, and I want it. You bought it for me, and I think you are mean not to let me have it.” “Hush, Harold! do not talk so loud. Hold your overcoat, dear; it is too heavy for mamma.” “Oh! I can’t, it is too hot. I did not need that great big overcoat anyhow, and I told you so. I’m not going to hold it. Drop it on the floor if you don’t want to keep it. But give me that box of candy. O, mamma! there’s a procession coming down the street—soldiers, and everything. I’m going out on the platform to see them.” He made a dash forward, and the pale, anxious mother reached after him, trying to arrest his steps, dropping as she did so not only the overcoat, but the pocket-book again. The pennies and the ten-cent pieces rolled around freely, while Harold, looking behind him, gave a mocking laugh, and was out on the platform. They had not been in the car over five minutes. And yet I was quite as well acquainted with Harold as I had any desire to be. At the North Street corner the pale little mother left the car with the heavy overcoat over one arm, and the pocket-book, with what change she had been able to find, in her hand, while Harold, tugging at her sleeve, was heard to say, “Mamma, I want that candy this minute!” At Reed Street came three passengers, a boy about the size of the one who had left us, and two little girls, one perhaps seven, and the other not over four. The boy was freckled-faced, and by no means so handsome as Harold. His clothes were very neat, but of the coarse, common sort worn by children of the moderately poor. The little girls beside him were as neat as wax—faces and hands and hair in perfect order; but their sacks and hats were of last year’s fashion—perhaps older still than that—and I fancy Harold would have laughed outright at the little old overcoat which hung over the boy’s arm.