“Alas, sir! I have at home one wife and seventeen children, all flaxen-haired, and all as poor as I. I cannot bear to go home to them without even the price of a _biftek_ or a _rosbif_.” “Come,” said the nobleman; “I will defer my sport for the night. I have never seen a starving family. It will furnish me with a new sensation.” “Ah! but you have a kind heart, and I will not refuse you. The river will keep. Follow me.” [Illustration] They followed each other through the region of the Seven Clocks, and through Blanc Chapel, afterward the scene of the murders of “Jean the RApper,” until they came to the wretched apartment of the poor artisan. There, huddled in the corner of the room, were sixteen of the starving but still flaxen-haired children. The mother sat near the fireplace, so that she might be near the warmth when it came. In the other corner of the room--for they were so poor, these people, that they could not afford four corners--sat a vision of beauty, aged seventeen and a girl, _ma foi_! At sight of her the count’s eyes filled with tears of compassion, and he handed his purse to the wretched father and said: “My good man, do not stir from here. I will return in an hour with furniture!” Tears of gratitude coursed down the thirty-eight cheeks of the poor family, and they no longer felt hungry, for they knew that in a short time they would be sitting upon real sofas and rocking in chairs like those they had seen through the windows of the rich on Holy Innocents’ Day. The count, whose full title was Sir Lord _E_rnold CIcil Judas GeorgeS HErold WAllington, grandson of the great Lord of WAllington, was as good as his word, and in an hour he returned with six of his servants, bearing sofas and cushions and tables and tête-à-têtes, and what not. The family seated themselves on the furniture, and, clasping his knees, overwhelmed him with thanks. “_Dame! Sacré!_” cried he. “It is nothing, this thing I have done. What is it that it is? Know, then, that for the first time in my life I have the happiness.” Then, turning to the father: “Give me the purse. I left it as a collateral. Now that you have the furniture, you will not need it. But that angelic being there, she shall never weep again. I will take her with me.” “Ah!” said the mother; “but that is like you, Count WAllington. You mean that she is to be a maid in your father’s house? Ah! what prosperity!” “Ah! do not insult the most beautiful being who ever went about in a London fog. She a servant? Never! I will make her my wife. She shall be Miledi Comptesse _E_rnold CIcil Judas GeorgeS HErold WAllington!” In Southwark-on-Trent, a suburb of London, is the hospital for those about to commit suicide. Ring the bell at the gate, and you will be admitted by sixteen flaxen-haired ones who will conduct you to the governor and matron. Need I say who they are, or whose money built the institution?