But all this did not let in much new light on the vagaries of the gentleman in question so far as Miriam could see. If he haunted the slums, as Mrs. Parsley said, she could easily understand how he came to be on Waterloo Bridge at midnight. What she could not explain, save by the theory of lunacy, was this criminal craze and love of associating with the lowest of human kind. And although she discussed this point thoroughly with Mrs. Parsley, that lady could supply no reason save the aforesaid one of "queerness," than which she did not think a stronger was necessary. So for the time being the subject dropped, and Mrs. Parsley, having finished her tea, and enjoyed it, was minded to "put on her things" preparatory to an evening jaunt. "I will walk home a bit of the way with you, my dear," she said graciously. "I have to see old Pegwin, who is passing away rapidly. I must arrange with him about his funeral." With this cheerful object Mrs. Parsley left the Vicarage with Miriam. There was a drizzling rain and a high wind, and walking was anything but pleasant. On the outskirts of the village--the church and Vicarage stood some way beyond it--Mrs. Parsley left Miriam to make the rest of her way home alone, and started down a side lane for the Pegwin cottage--so called--although it was little better than a pig-stye. As she battled against the wind, the lean figure of a ragged boy suddenly started out of the hedge, and ran past her in the direction Miriam had taken. Mrs. Parsley, who knew every face in the village, saw that the boy was a stranger, and filled with curiosity immediately gave chase. In a very few moments she had the urchin by the scruff of the neck. The boy wriggled and twisted, and kicked Mrs. Parsley's shins, but that indomitable lady held on, and whacked vigorously with her umbrella. "You monkey," she raged, "who are you, and what are you doing here?" He was a stunted, pale-faced brat, with a particularly repulsive countenance, rendered none the more inviting by his screwing it up with a leer. "'Ere you, lemme alone, will yer?" he yelped, still wriggling. "I ain't a-doin' nothin' to yer, blarst yer!" "Don't you swear at me, boy, or I'll have you locked up. Where do you come from?" "Where d' yer think I come from--Paris? 'Tain't no bisness of yourn, any'ow." "What are you doing here?" "Shan't tell yer; wot's more, lady, I'll knife yer if yer don't lemme go; s'elp me, I will!" and the boy kicked again. Mrs. Parsley shook him. "You horrible little creature! how dare you speak like that to me? We want no vagrants here, so if you don't take yourself off out of this village I'll have you put in jail, do you understand?" "Oh, my eye, 'ere's a bloomin' shaime," wailed the boy. "I ain't a-doin' no 'arm, mum. Father's 'ere, too, and I'm only a-goin' arter 'im. 'E's got a carawan 'e 'as, an' 'e's perfect rispect'bl'. Le' go o' me, will yer? I don't want t' 'urt yer!"