"Nothing of the kind," said Tilda, who, having secured Annie, had no intention of letting her go. A girl with plenty of money who was running away was a treasure not to be found every day in the week. "You'll come with us, miss, or that letter 'ull be writ to Mrs Dawson afore we goes to bed to-night." "Oh yes," said Sam, wondering more and more what could have happened. "We'll take the greatest care o' yer, miss." "Her name's Annie; you needn't `miss' her," said Tilda, turning sharply to her brother. "Now then, do get our bits o' duds, and be quick, can't you?" The bewildered young man did see to his sister's and friend's luggage. He had already secured Annie's bag, and he held it reverently, feeling certain that it belonged to one of a superior class. Why, the little, neat bag alone was something to reverence. By-and-by the whole party found themselves in a third-class compartment on their way to Islington, which place they in course of time reached, Sam indulging in a cab for Annie's sake, because he saw that she was far too tired to walk the long mile which separated Tilda Freeman's home from the railway station. This humble domicile was soon reached, and the whole party went indoors. A frowsy-looking woman with red hair like Tilda's and Sam's stood akimbo in the passage, awaiting the arrival of her son and daughter and visitor. "How late you be!" she cried. "But there's yer supper in the kitchen, and yer beds ready.--How do, Martha Jones? It's a dish o' tripe an' onions I 'as ready for yer. I know you're partial to that sort o' food. Why, a' mercy! who on earth is this!" "A friend o' mine," said Tilda. "Her name's Annie. She can sleep along o' me to-night, mother." "Oh no," said Annie. "I must have a bed to myself." "Then you can't, my beauty," said Mrs Freeman, "for there ain't one for yer. Ef yer thinks Tilda good enough to wisit uninvited in the dead o' night you must be satisfied with half her bed. And now I'm off to mine, for I 'ave to char early to-morrow mornin' at Pearson's house over the way." Mrs Freeman disappeared, and the girls, accompanied by Sam, went into the kitchen. Annie, try as she would, could not touch the coarse supper; but Tilda, Martha, and even Sam enjoyed it mightily. Annie had removed her hat, and her hair looked like purest gold under the flaring gas-jet, which cast a garish light over the place. Sam ate in abundance, and cast adoring eyes at Annie. Annie's head ached; her throat ached; she shivered; but nevertheless, dimly and in a queer sort of fashion, it was borne in upon her that Sam would be her true friend, and that the girls would not. She was in an evil plight, but she was already feeling too ill to care very much what happened to her. Nevertheless, she had still a sufficient amount of self-control to return Sam's gaze, and once she gave him a timid smile.