easily remarked in a place where dilapidation of
every sort was the usual state of things, and
into this hole Jim insinuated his hand. There
was suggestive dexterity in the way he did this;
the lithe fingers had suppleness and readiness,
swiftness and accuracy of touch, which, if there
had been any one to care for the boy, that one
would doubtless have noticed with regret. If
he were not already a thief, Jim Swain possessed
some of the physical requisites for that profession.
Presently he withdrew the lithe hand,
and looked steadfastly at the object which it
had extracted from the hole in the wall. He
turned it over and over, he examined it within
and without, then he put it back again in the
hiding-place, and replaced his bed.

Old Sally was much surprised, when she
returned from her " marketing," to find her nephew
at home. The apparition of Jim in the daytime,
except on stray occasions, when, fortune being
unpropitious, he would come home to see what
his aunt could do for him in the way of dinner,
was exceedingly rare. But he explained it now
by saying he was tired, and had been well paid
for a job he had done that morning. He
proposed that he should get something choice that
day for dinner, and stay " in" until evening.

"There's a new play at the 'Delphi to-night,"
said Jim, " and there'll be plenty of jobs down
that way, callin' cabs, and helpin' visitors to the
hupper circles, as can't afford 'em, across the
street. They're awful bewildered, mostly, when
they come out of the theayter, and dreadful
timid of the 'busses."

Very silent, and apparently sleepy, was Mr.
James Swain all day; and as his old aunt sat
patiently toiling by the window, he lay upon his
bed, with his knees up, and his hands crossed on
the top of his tousled head. Allowing for the
difference created by refinement, education, and
the habit of thinking on a system, only possible
to the educated, there was some resemblance in
the expression of the boy's face to that which
Harriet Routh's had worn yesterday, when she
had carried the burden of her thoughts, under
the clear sky and the sunshine, in the Green
Park. Jim Swain, too, looked as if he alone,
unaided as she, was thinking it out.

The new play at the Adelphi was very successful.
The theatre was crowded; the autumnal
venture had turned out admirably; and though
the audience could not be called fashionable, it
was perhaps rather more animated and satisfactory
in consequence. Jim Swain's most sanguine
hopes were realised. The night was fine;
people did not mind waiting a few minutes;
good humour and threepenny-pieces were
abundant. A tolerable sprinkling of private
carriages relieved the plebeian plenitude of cabs,
and these vehicles were called up with an
energy to which, in the season, human nature
would hardly have been equal. Jim was
extremely active in summoning them, and had just
returned breathless to the portico of the theatre
to catch another name, and rush away again to
proclaim it to the listening flunkies, when he
was arrested by the sight of a gentleman whose
face he knew, who was standing under the
garish light of the entry with a lady, whose
hand rested on his arm, and whose face was
turned upward towards him, so that the full
glare of the light fell upon it. Her tall
figure, the splendour of her dress, the careless
grace of her attitude, the appearance of
unconsciousness of the general observation she was
attracting, even in that self-engrossed crowd—
pardonably self-engrossed, considering that it
was occupied with the care of getting home as
soon as possible would have made her a
sufficiently remarkable object to attract Jim's
attention; but there was more than perception of all
these things in the look which he fixed upon her.
He stood still, a little in the shade. Routh did
not see him. The lady was looking at him, and
he saw nothing but her face—nothing but the
brilliant dark eyes, so bright for all the world, so
soft for only him; nothing but the crimson lips,
which trembled; the rose-tinted cheek, which
paled only at his words—only under his glance.

Her carriage was called. She walked towards
it with her dress sweeping round her, and the
other people fell back, and let her pass, naturally,
and not by the urgency of the dingy officials who
brawl and fight on such occasions. When she
had taken her seat in the carriage, Routh
followed her, and then Jim started forward.
There was no footman, so the man with the
badge and the lantern, well known and prized of
unprotected females with a taste for theatre-
going, asked, " Where to?" Jim, quite close,
and totally unobserved, listened eagerly. The
lady's voice replied, " Home."

"Home," said the man with the lantern, and
instantly turned his attention to the next
departures. Jim Swain glanced at the carriage;
it had no rumble, only a footboard. As it drove
off slowly, for the Strand was crowded, he dashed
into the jumble of cabs and omnibuses and
followed it, running desperately, but dexterously
too, and succeeded in keeping up with it until,
at a point of comparative obscurity, he clambered
up on the footboard.

The carriage rolled westward, and carried
Jim Swain with it, until it reached one of the
small so-called squares which are situated
between Brompton proper and Chelsea. Then it
stopped before a house with a heavy stone
portico and a heavy stone balcony. Jim slid lightly
to the ground, and hid himself in the shelter of
the heavy stone portico of the adjoining house.
Routh got out of the carriage; and when the
house-door was opened, and a flood of light
issued from it, he handed out the lady. She
stood breathing the sweet air a moment, and the
light once more touched her face and her dress
with a rich radiance.

"It's her," said Jim. "It's her—her and him."

"What a lovely night," said Mrs. P. Ireton
Bembridge, and then the door closed on her and
Routh, and Jim stood still in his hiding-place
until the carriage had slowly departed to the
adjacent mews. Then he emerged from the
portico, went up the steps of the house the lady