'She seems a sister in misfortune,' said I; 'so, should she but have a Madona face, and a name ending in a, we will live, we will die together.' I then approached, and discovered a countenance so pale, so pensive, so Roman, that I could almost have knelt and worshipped it. 'Fair unfortunate,' said I, taking her hand and pressing it; 'interesting unknown, say by what name am I to address so gentle a sister in misery.' 'Eh? What?' cried she, in a tone somewhat coarser than I was prepared to expect. 'May I presume on my sudden predilection,' said I, 'and inquire your name?' 'Maria,' replied she, rising from her seat; 'and now I must be gone.' 'And where are you going, Maria?' said I. 'To the Devil,' said she. 'Alas! my love,' whispered I, 'sorrow hath bewildered thee. Impart to me the cause of thy distress, and perhaps I can alleviate, if not relieve it. I am myself a miserable orphan; but happy, thrice happy, could I clasp a sympathetic bosom, in this frightful wilderness of houses and faces, where, alas! I know not a human being.' 'Then you are a stranger here?' said she quickly. 'I have been here but a few hours,' answered I. 'Have you money?' she demanded. 'Only four guineas and a half,' replied I, taking out my purse. 'Perhaps you are in distress--perhaps--forgive this officiousness--not for worlds would I wound your delicacy, but if you want assistance----' 'I have only this old sixpence upon earth,' interrupted she, 'and there 'tis for you, Miss.' So saying, she put sixpence into my purse, which I had opened while I was speaking. 'Generous angel!' cried I. 'Now we are in partnership, a'nt we?' said she. 'Yes, sweet innocent,' answered I, 'we are partners in grief.' 'And as grief is dry,' cried she, 'we will go moisten it.' 'And where shall we moisten it, Maria?' said I. 'In a pothouse,' cried she. 'It will do us good.' 'O my Maria!' said I, 'never, never!' 'Why then give me back my sixpence,' cried she, snatching at my purse; but I held it fast, and, springing from her, ran away. 'Stop thief, stop thief!' vociferated she. In an instant, I heard a sort of rattling noise from several quarters, and an old fellow, called a watchman, came running out of a wooden box, and seized me by the shoulder. 'She has robbed me of my purse,' exclaimed the wily wanton. ''Tis a green one, and has four guineas and a half in it, besides a curious old sixpence.' The watchman took it from me, and examined it. ''Tis my purse,' cried I, 'and I can swear it.' 'You lie!' said the little wretch; 'you know well that you snatched it out of my hand, when I was going to give you sixpence, out of charity.'