side-laced," I was mixing up my beauty
with T. P.'s advertisements, and wondering
whether her boots were buttoned or
Balmorals; or whether Tommy Peacock had
ensnared her as she came away from the
photographic studio, and encased her dear
little ancles in the " nobby side-laced."

Her face was on the lids of the snuff-boxes
in the tobacconists' windows; on the headings
of the songs at the music-sellers'; on
the shoulders of the dummies at the
hairdressers'; and finally, it hovered before the
columns of my penny newspaper when I got
home, and prevented me from giving my full
attention to the philanthropic announcements
of the "retired physician whose sands
of life are nearly run out," and who insists
on curing us of consumption for nothing; or
to the eager, but somewhat impertinent
questionings of those mechanicians who are
perpetually inquiring if we double up our
perambulators, and whether or not we bruise
our oats.

The restlessness engendered by this state
of things was not to be borne; so I wandered
forth again, turning over in my mind all
sorts of extravagant schemes, having for
their object the discovery of the original of
this remarkable portrait. This could only
be done in one way. I must face the touter,
—walk into the studio, and get all the
information that was to be got, out of the
proprietor of the establishment.

I felt that reflection would not do, and
that if I hesitated I should lose all the
courage necessary for the exploit. So I
treated my body as a piece of machinery,—
worked it past the touter, and into the
operating room, and there compelled the
muscles of the tongue to fulfil their function,
and to inquire of the scientific character who
presided, and who presented an appearance
something between a strolling actor and a
druggist, whether he could inform me who
was the original of the portrait in the very
centre of his street-door case, expressing at
the same time, as a means of conciliating him,
my readiness to purchase the likeness.

The result of my interview with this
functionary was far from satisfactory. He stared
at me long and fixedly, pulled his moustache
with a finger and thumb deeply stained with
chemicals, and finally stated, that he knew
nothing whatever about the party; that she
merely came in promiscuous to have her
portrait taken; and, having got it, took it
away with her, having first, at the artist's
request, sat for another likeness for the
benefit of the door-case. He had no wish to
disturb the arrangement of the portraits
outside, and therefore would decline to part
with the specimen.

This inhuman person stood and sulkily
watched me the whole way down a long
covered passage which led from the studio
to the street, causing my back to feel so
uncomfortable that I had vague inclinations
to put up my umbrella as a shelter from the
glare which I felt consuming the very
marrow of my spine.

This was a bad beginning; but, as there
seemed to be no help for it, the only thing to
be done was to endeavour to forget all
about it.

My faith is large in time, in these cases;
and, though that pleasant face still kept for
some time recurring to my memory; yet gradually
the proprietor of the scythe and hourglass
did his work, and I thought of it less
and less.

My occupation (that of a reporter to a
cheap newspaper) while it keeps me at times
fiercely busy, leaves me now and then fitful
intervals of leisure. Of these I always take
advantage to get as much exercise as I
possibly can. Whenever I get away from
those mystic hieroglyphics of short-hand—in
the formation of which my principal duties
consist—my first object is to get the sky over
my head. As long as my legs will carry me
I eschew a roof. I become a nomade or Arab
of the desert in my habits; and, after snatching
a meal as I go along, eat my morsel, as
the French phrase it, on the thumb. I believe
I should pass my night in a tent, if I might
put one up in the Tottenham Court Road.

It was, then, in one of these intervals of
exercise, in the busy thoroughfare which I
have just named, that I met her!

Met her! I almost ran against her; for I
was looking in another direction, and she
came upon me suddenly. She was carrying
a parcel, and was accompanied by a little
girl who looked like her younger sister.

She was past me in a moment and I was
left a fixture on the pavement,—bewildered,
undecided, stupified. In this state I remained
for half a minute, much buffeted and knocked
about by the passers-by. But in that half
minute I had at least come to the conclusion
that she must not be lost sight of.

I turned and cast myself upon her track.

Then came a stage of doubt. Was it
she?

In order to resolve this question, it became
necessary that I should get in front of her,
walk pretty rapidly to the next turning, and
leaning against the lamp-post, as if waiting
for some one, examine her carefully as she
approached and passed me.

These things were done, and resulted in a
conviction that the original of the portrait,
which had so powerfully impressed me, was
hastening along in front of me.

There is this great difference between a
photograph and a picture; with regard to
the latter we are often disappointed when we
see the original, while with the former this
is never the case. The centre compartment
of the street-door case, which plays so
important a part in this drama, was infinitely
less satisfactory than the charming little
figure I was in pursuit of.

Following any one in this way is not so