He accepted her advice. But the people at the public-house could not aid his search. He thanked them, paused for a moment with his eyes down, then again sighed slightly and went forth into the gathering gloom. Less than five minutes later there ran into the same house of refreshment a little slight girl, perhaps thirteen years old; she carried a jug, and at the bar asked for ‘a pint of old six.’ The barman, whilst drawing the ale, called out to a man who had entered immediately after the child: ‘Don’t know nobody called Snowdon about ’ere, do you, Mr. Squibbs?’ The individual addressed was very dirty, very sleepy, and seemingly at odds with mankind. He replied contemptuously with a word which, in phonetic rendering may perhaps be spelt ‘Nay-oo.’ But the little girl was looking eagerly from one man to the other; what had been said appeared to excite keen interest in her. She forgot all about the beer-jug that was waiting, and, after a brief but obvious struggle with timidity, said in an uncertain voice: ‘Has somebody been asking for that name, sir?’ ‘Yes, they have,’ the barman answered, in surprise. ‘Why?’ My name’s Snowdon, sir—Jane Snowdon.’ She reddened over all her face as soon as she had given utterance to the impulsive words. The barman was regarding her with a sort of semi-interest, and Mr. Squibbs also had fixed his bleary (or beery) eyes upon her. Neither would have admitted an active interest in so pale and thin and wretchedly-clad a little mortal. Her hair hung loose, and had no covering; it was hair of no particular colour, and seemed to have been for a long time utterly untended; the wind, on her run hither, had tossed it into much disorder. Signs there were of some kind of clothing beneath the short, dirty, worn dress, but it was evidently of the scantiest description. The freely exposed neck was very thin, but, like the outline of her face, spoke less of a feeble habit of body than of the present pinch of sheer hunger. She did not, indeed, look like one of those children who are born in disease and starvation, and put to nurse upon the pavement; her limbs were shapely enough, her back was straight, she had features that were not merely human, but girl-like, and her look had in it the light of an intelligence generally sought for in vain among the children of the street. The blush and the way in which she hung her head were likewise tokens of a nature endowed with ample sensitiveness. ‘Oh, your name’s Jane Snowdon, is it?’ said the barman. ‘Well, you’re just three minutes an’ three-quarters too late. P’r’aps it’s a fortune a-runnin’ after you. He was a rum old party as inquired. Never mind; it’s all in a life. There’s fortunes lost every week by a good deal less than three minutes when it’s ’orses—eh, Mr. Squibbs?’ Mr. Squibbs swore with emphasis. The little girl took her jug of beer and was turning away. ‘Hollo!’ cried the barman. ‘Where’s the money, Jane?—if _you_ don’t mind.’