"Heaven knows! He has none, I believe; or at all events, none who care to look after him. He is a waif of the streets, not an uncommon growth in London." "You have been good to him?" "I have given him bread sometimes, when I had it to give; and the last time I met him I took him home with me, and made up a bed on the floor for him. He remained with me a week, and then he unaccountably disappeared. What is to be done? He does not recover. He is not dead, thank God! There is a faint beat of the heart." Rathbeal produced a bottle in which there was some brandy. He moistened the lad's lips with the spirit, and poured a few drops, diluted with water, down his throat. Still the lad did not open his eyes. "Have you anything to eat in the cupboard?" asked Robert Grantham. "There is a little bread and meat," said Rathbeal. "He looks scarcely strong enough to be able to masticate hard food. Make some water hot, Rathbeal. I will go and get a packet of oatmeal; a basin of gruel will be the best thing for him." "Wait a minute, Robert." Rathbeal devoted a few moments to the lad, and added gravely: "On the opposite side of the road, half a dozen doors down, there is a poor man's doctor. Ask him to come up at once and see the boy." "I will;" and meeting Rathbeal's eyes, he said, "Do you fear there is any danger?" "Yes. I have some medical skill, as you know; but I do not hold a diploma. It will be advisable that a doctor should see the poor boy." Robert Grantham nodded, and took from his pocket all the money it contained--one sixpence and a few coppers. Rathbeal handed him five shillings. "Thank you, Rathbeal," said Grantham, and ran down the stairs. In less than ten minutes he was back, with a packet of oatmeal, and accompanied by the doctor. While the doctor examined the lad, Rathbeal busied himself in the preparation of the gruel, the kettle, already nearly boiling, standing on a little gas-stove. "Yes," said the doctor, noticing the preparation; "it will be the proper food to give him when he comes to his senses. Put a teaspoonful of brandy in it. A son of yours?" "No," answered Grantham; "my friend, Mr. Rathbeal, has never seen him before. I found him in this condition in the street." "Where are his parents?" "I do not know, nor whether he has any." "But you must have had some previous knowledge of him," said the doctor, looking with curiosity at Grantham. "Oh, yes. I met him by chance some months since, when he was in want of food, and we struck up an acquaintance. Is he in danger?"