Rathbeal promised, and they strolled to and fro, westward to Trafalgar Square, eastward not farther than Buckingham Street, conversing, as was their wont, on the typical signs of life that thronged this limited space. Robert Grantham was always deeply impressed by these signs which, in their contrasts of joy and misery, and of wealth and poverty, furnish pregnant pictures of the extremes of human existence. Grantham was saying something to this effect when he paused before a white-faced, raggedly-dressed child--no other than Little Prue--who had some boxes of matches in her hands, and was saying to a woman who had also paused to observe her: "Kind lady! Father's dead, and mother's laying ill of a fever, and baby's dying 'cause we ain't 'ad nothink to eat since yesterday!" The woman gave Little Prue a penny, and the next moment a man stepped to her side and snatched the penny from her hand, the child making no objection. "A suggestive scene," said Rathbeal. "The brute is the girl's father, I suppose, and she stands there in the gutter by his directions, probably repeating the speech he has drilled into her. Does not such a picture tempt you not to give? Is it not almost a justification for the existence of institutions which contend that beggary is a preventable disease?" "Not in my eyes," replied Robert Grantham. "I have no sympathy with anti-natural societies, organized for the suppression of benevolent impulse. The endeavor to deaden charitable feeling, and to inculcate into kindly-hearted people that pity must be guided by a kind of mathematical teaching, is a deplorable mistake. Carry such a teaching out to its natural end, and the sweetest influences of our nature would be lost. Seeing what I have seen, I would not give to that poor child, but I would take her away from the brute: and the first thing I would do would be to set her down before a hot, wholesome meal. Poor little waif! See, Rathbeal, the brute is on the watch on the opposite side. Now, if Providence would take him in hand, and deal out to him what he deserves, we might give the child a foretaste of heaven." Rathbeal, looking to the opposite side of the road, saw John Dixon approaching them, and in order that he should have a clear view of Grantham he took his friend's arm, and proceeded onward a few yards to a spot which was brilliantly lighted up. John Dixon passed them slowly, and exchanged a look of recognition with Rathbeal, which Grantham did not observe. "It is time to get home," said Rathbeal, who, now that John Dixon was gone, saw no reason to linger. "A moment, Rathbeal," said Grantham. "I can't get that child out of my head. Is there no way of doing her an act of kindness without the intervention of the brute?"