While he waited for his mother to come--seeking relief from the melancholy and deep mystification of this death--the boy went into the street. The day was well disposed, the crowded world in an amiable mood; he perceived no menace--felt no warning of catastrophe. He wandered far, unobservant, forgetful: the real world out of mind. And it chanced that he lost his way; and he came, at last, to that loud, seething place, thronged with unquiet faces, where, even in the sunshine, sin and poverty walked abroad, unashamed.... Rush, crash, joyless laughter, swollen flesh, red eyes, shouting, rags, disease: flung into the midst of it--transported from the sweet feeling and quiet gloom of the Church of the Lifted Gross--he was confused and frightened.... A hand fell heartily on the boy's shoulder. "Hello, there!" cried a big voice. "Ain't you Millie Blade's kid?" "Yes, sir," the boy gasped. It was a big man--a broad-shouldered, lusty fellow, muscular and lithe: good-humoured and dull of face, winning of voice and manner. Countenance and voice were vaguely familiar to the boy. He felt no alarm. "What the devil you doing here?" the man demanded. "Looking for Millie?" "Oh, no!" the boy answered, horrified. "My mother isn't--_here_!" "Well, what you doing?" "I'm lost." The man laughed. He clapped the boy on the back. "Don't you be afraid," said he, sincerely hearty. "I'll take you home. You know me, don't you?" "Not your name." "Anyhow, you remember me, don't you? You've seen me before?" "Yes, sir." "Well, my name's Jim Millette. I'm an acrobat. And I know you. Why, sure! I remember when you was born. Me and your mother is old friends. Soon as I seen you I knew who you was. 'By gad!' says I, 'if that ain't Millie Slade's kid!' How is she, anyhow?" "She's very well." "Working?" "No," the boy answered, gravely; "my mother does not work." The man whistled. "I am living with Mr. Fithian, the curate," said the boy, with a sigh. "So my mother is having--a very good--time." "She must be lonely." The boy shook his head. "Oh, no!" said he. "She is much happier--without me." "She's _what_?" "Happier," the boy repeated, "without me. If she were not," he added, "I would not live with the curate." The man laughed. It was in pity--not in merriment. "Well, say," he said, "when you see your mother, you tell her you met Jim Millette on the street. Will you? You tell her Jim's been--married. She'll understand. And I guess she'll be glad to know it. And, say, I guess she'll wonder who it's to. You tell her it's the little blonde of the Flying Tounsons. She'll know I ain't losing anything, anyhow, by standing in with that troupe. Tell her it's all right. You just tell her I said that everything was all right. Will you?" "Yes, sir."