"Not for the poor, my lad. I fear you know that without my telling you. But you are young, and will soon be a man." Her wistful tone went to his heart. "Didn't you succeed at the laundry?" he inquired. "Yes; I ought to be thankful. I can earn nine shillings a week there. I start on Monday." "Isn't your husband at work?" "He is dead. Poor fellow, he caught cold last Christmas, and was buried in January. God only knows how I have lived since. If it wasn't for the kindness of neighbors, baby and I would have starved. I can ill afford this tuppence, but I can't walk any further." "Well, look out now," he said, cheerily. "Here's our 'bus." As the vehicle drew up he caught the brass rail with his left hand, and warded off assailants with the bundle under his right arm. "Quick," he said to the woman, as soon as the people inside had descended. "Jump in." She essayed to do so, but was rudely thrust aside by a young man who had paused on the roof to light a cigarette. Philip sprang onto the step and butted the young gentleman in the stomach with his parcel, causing the other to sit down heavily on the stairs. The boy caught the woman's arm with his disengaged hand and pulled her up. He dived in after her. "You young----" roared the discomfited smoker. "'Ere! Come orf of it," said the conductor. "Why didn't ye git dahn before? D'ye want a lift?" Others hustled the protesting one out of the way. "Confound the East End, I say," he growled, as he crossed to the Mansion House. "What the deuce Lady Louisa Morland wants to keep on sending me to that wretched mews for I can't imagine. Anyway, I can tell her this time that the place is empty, and will be pulled down next week." And thus it was that Philip collided with Messrs. Sharpe & Smith's clerk, detailed by the anxious Lady Morland to discover his whereabouts. They met and bumped into each other in the whirlpool of London just as two ships might crash together by night in mid-Atlantic, and draw apart with ruffled feelings, or scraped paint, which is the same thing, without the slightest knowledge of each other's identity. Within the omnibus the woman was volubly grateful. She had a kindly heart, and timidly essayed questions as to Philip's relatives, hoping that she might make their acquaintance. "I'll be bound, now," she said, "that you have a good mother. You can always tell what the parents are like when you see the children." "My mother was, indeed, dear to me," he replied sadly, again driven out of himself by the mournful recollections thus suddenly induced, "but she is dead, lost to me forever." Some people in the 'bus ceased talking. They were attracted by the strong, clear voice of this unkempt boy, whose diction and choice of words were so outrageously opposed to his garments. Luckily, the silence warned him, or his new friend's sympathy might have brought about an embarrassing position. "Poor thing! And is your father dead, too?" "Yes. He died long ago."