Little Prue had just finished another appeal in a weak, languid voice, addressed to no one in particular. She appeared to be dazed as the words dropped slowly from her bloodless lips. She could scarcely keep her eyes open; her frail body began to sway. "She is fainting," said Rathbeal hurriedly; "the child is overpowered by want and fatigue." The brute on the opposite side saw this also, and he started forward, not impelled by pity, but with the intention of keeping Little Prue's strength in her by means of threats. A judgment fell upon him. It was as if Providence had heard what Robert Grantham said, and had taken him in hand; for as he was crossing the road in haste he got tangled in a conflict of cabs and omnibuses, and was knocked to the ground. Rathbeal darted forward to see what had happened to him, while Grantham, taking Little Prue's hand, said some gentle words to her, which she was too exhausted to understand. A great crowd had assembled on the spot where the brute had fallen, and Rathbeal, returning, whispered to Grantham that he had been run over. "What are they doing with him?" asked Grantham. "They are carrying him to Charing Cross Hospital." "He will be all right there. If we want to inquire after him we can do so to-morrow. Let us look after the child." She needed looking after; but for Grantham's sustaining arm she would have sunk into the gutter. "I know the hospital to take her to," said Grantham, "and the medicine she needs." With Little Prue in his arms, he plunged into a narrow street, accompanied by Rathbeal, and entered a common restaurant, where he ordered a pot of tea, bread and butter, and a chop. The swift motion through the air had done something to revive Little Prue, the tea and food did the rest; and presently she was eating and drinking as only one who was famished could. The men looked on in wondering pity, and did not interrupt her engrossing labors. It was not until nature was satisfied that she thought of her father; a look of terror flashed into her eyes. "What's the matter, child?" asked Robert Grantham. "Father'll be the death of me!" she replied. "Don't be frightened; he will not hurt you." "Are you sure, sir? You don't know father!" "I am quite sure; we have seen him." This satisfied Little Prue, and the look of terror changed to one of gratitude. "Thank yer kindly, sir," she said. "I think I should 'ave died if I 'adn't 'ad somethink to eat. It's a long time since I had sech a tuck-out. I couldn't eat another mouthful if I tried." "And now, child, tell us where you live, and whether you have a mother." "Oh, yes, sir, I've got a mother; and I live in Roxy's Rents." "I've heard of the place," said Rathbeal; "it's in Lambeth. We will see the little one home." "Thank yer, sir. I don't think I could find my way without father. Oh!" she cried, looking about distressfully, "where's my matches?"