him, was the human lot. To avoid this
common necessity was rank cowardice. Yet
the good man allowed labour was irksome to
folk who had been in the habit of leading a
gipsy life, and Nobody should not be sorely
tried. He should have easy jobs, and
unlimited confidence should be reposed in him.

"See," said the boy's generous patron, "I
leave all my property about the house, It
would be easy for you to rob me, and safe,
for I should not prosecute you. But
I rely upon your honour. I appeal to your
honour; and I know that my property is
safe."

Nobody was impressed, bewildered, by this
confidence in him: in him! in him—a
professed thief! He was pleased also. The dim
light of something better and brighter in the
world than low cunning played for a moment
a curious jack-o'lantern in his brain, He
went to clean boots and knives with some
heart; he bore the home-thrusts and more
poignant gestures of Tantrums with
something very like good-nature. Despatched on
an errand by his master, he walked through
London streets with a proud step for the
first time in his life, and returned to his
new home with the requested answer. He
had not wandered a step from his duty. He
was proud of the achievement, and was
grateful for the confidence with which his
master had received him.

"The old gent," muttered Nobody to himself,
as he went to the kitchen, "seemed to
think it just a matter o'course that I should
bring back the letter all right."

This faith did appear wonderful to the
youth who, from the hour when he could
first run alone, had seen every human action
hedged about by snares to catch the
transgressor; who had been governed in all things
by fear. The Philanthropist determined to
try what the law of kindness would do; and,
in fulfilment determined to put Nobody to
school. He therefore calls on Mr. Hartopp
the neighbouring pedagogue. He has, he says,
a boy whom he wishes to place under Mr.
Hartopp's care. He has been recommended to Mr.
Hartopp as a gentleman who is not unwilling
to try an experiment in education. The
Philanthropist is very good. Mr. Hartopp
smiles, folds his lean arms, and waits with
resignation for any further compliments that
may be heaped, we may say, on his unworthy
head. The boy whom the Philanthropist
is anxious to place under Mr. Hartopp's
care had gone wrong. Mr. Hartopp's face
lengthens. The boy, indeed, has been in
prison. Mr. Hartopp shakes his head. If
Mr. Hartopp would undertake, under his
(the Philanthropist's) responsibility, to try
the boy as a scholar——"

"De-ci-ded-ly NOT!" exclaims Mr. Hartopp:
determination being written in the
broadest hand upon his features.

"It would be an act of high Christian
charity," the Philanthropist urged. Here
is a poor boy, who had never had a chance
in life—who is now eager to reform— who
wishes to learn—and whom he (the
Philanthropist) has taken into his own family:
such is his faith in the boy's sincerity.

Possibly. Very unfortunate. But his
scholars are all highly respectable children,
and he could not think of such a thing—was
Mr. Hartopp's verdict.

"There," said the Philanthropist to him-
self, as he bowed to Mr. Hartopp, " there is
the difficulty. To turn a boy back from
a prison into society involves a fight, of
which you outsiders have no adequate
idea."

Disappointed by Mr. Hartopp, the
Philanthropist threaded his way up two or three
damp and dark courts. He saw pale, clammy
preceptors, who obviously made but a poor
account of teaching, yet who stoutly declined
to permit Nobody to associate with their
pupils. There was one teacher, it is true
(he was a very young man) who appeared
touched by our story of the poor forlorn boy,
his weakness and his sorrows, and for a
moment he seemed willing to receive the
outcast. But, after a few minutes spent in
a hesitating mood, he turned suddenly upon
us, and peremptorily declined our
proposition.

And thus the Philanthropist went home,
and reported to unhappy Nobody the result
of his endeavours among the schoolmasters.
He said to him:

"See, my boy, all that you have lost, how
heavy is the penalty, how deep the
detestation, honest people put upon a life like
yours. You have had but the slenderest
chances; a bad parent, and no one to care
for you. Your education has been of the
gutter: and, if you have been dishonest,
society, let me own candidly to you, has been
to blame with yourself. Else might I not
have that sympathy for you which I feel.
But, if we cannot find a school just now, we
may get you a situation. What could you
do?"

Nobody, during this lecture, twirled his
fingers, and looked sheepish, if not sulky. He
and Tantrums had just had a scene. She
desired him to perform some work, to which
he stoutly objected, as beyond the province of
his allotted duties. The truth was, he was
very lonely in that kitchen. Everything was
new to him, and he was ill at ease. He—a
London gipsy—suddenly caged, in a warm
and snug cage, it is true; but still, to him, a
fretful confinement! So that he bluntly
answered the Philanthropist.

"I'm tired of this!"

"Tired! Tired of what?" asked the
astonished Philanthropist.

"The cook bullies me; and I'm tired of it."
replied Nobody.

The Philanthropist understood the boy at
once, and spoke again kindly to him.

"Now, this will not do, my boy. You