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and he eagerly drank it.

      "Is it good?" asked the sympathizing woman, observing with satisfaction the eagerness with which it was drunk.

      "Yes, it makes me feel warm," said Mark.

      "It's better nor the whiskey Mother Watson drinks," said Mrs. Flanagan. "It won't make your nose red like hers. It would be a sight better for her if she'd throw away the whiskey, and take to the tea."

      "You are very kind, Mrs. Flanagan," said Mark, rising from the table, feeling fifty per cent. better than when he sat down.

      "Oh bother now, don't say a word about it! Shure you're welcome to the bit you've eaten, and the little sup of tea. Come in again when you feel hungry and Bridget Flanagan won't be the woman to send you off hungry if she's got anything in the cupboard."

      "I wish Mother Watson was as good as you are," said Mark.

      "I aint so good as I might be," said Mrs. Flanagan; "but I wouldn't be guilty of tratin' a poor boy as that woman trates you, more shame to her! How came you with her any way? She aint your mother, is she."

      "No," said Mark, shuddering at the bare idea. "My mother was a good woman, and worked hard. She didn't drink whiskey. Mother was always kind to me. I wish she was alive now."

      "When did she die, Mark dear?"

      "It's going on a year since she died. I didn't know what to do, but Mother Watson told me to come and live with her, and she'd take care of me."

      "Sorra a bit of kindness there was in that," commented Mrs. Flanagan. "She wanted you to take care of her. Well, and what did she make you do?"

      "She sent me out to earn what I could. Sometimes I would run on errands, but lately I have sold matches."

      "Is it hard work sellin' them?"

      "Sometimes I do pretty well, but some days it seems as if nobody wanted any. To-day I went round to a great many offices, but they all had as many as they wanted, and I didn't sell but three boxes. I tried to sell more, indeed I did, but I couldn't."

      "No doubt you did, Mark, dear. It's cold you must be in that thin jacket of yours this cold weather. I've got a shawl you may wear if you like. You'll not lose it, I know."

      But Mark had a boy's natural dislike to being dressed as a girl, knowing, moreover, that his appearance in the street with Mrs. Flanagan's shawl would subject him to the jeers of the street boys. So he declined the offer with thanks, and, buttoning up his thin jacket, descended the remaining staircase, and went out again into the chilling and uninviting street. A chilly, drizzling rain had just set in, and this made it even more dreary than it had been during the day.

       CHAPTER VI

      BEN GIBSON

      But it was not so much the storm or the cold weather that Mark cared for. He had become used to these, so far as one can become used to what is very disagreeable. If after a hard day's work he had had a good home to come back to, or a kind and sympathizing friend, he would have had that thought to cheer him up. But Mother Watson cared nothing for him, except for the money he brought her, and Mark found it impossible either to cherish love or respect for the coarse woman whom he generally found more or less affected by whiskey.

      Cold and hungry as he had been oftentimes, he had always shrunk from begging. It seemed to lower him in his own thoughts to ask charity of others. Mother Watson had suggested it to him once or twice, but had never actually commanded it before. Now he was required to bring home twenty-five cents. He knew very well what would be the result if he failed to do this. Mother Watson would apply the leather strap with merciless fury, and he knew that his strength was as nothing compared to hers. So, for the first time in his life, he felt that he must make up his mind to beg.

      He retraced his steps to the head of Frankfort Street, and walked slowly down Nassau Street. The rain was falling, as I have said, and those who could remained under shelter. Besides, business hours were over. The thousands who during the day made the lower part of the city a busy hive had gone to their homes in the upper portion of the island, or across the river to Brooklyn or the towns on the Jersey shore. So, however willing he might be to beg, there did not seem to be much chance at present.

      The rain increased, and Mark in his thin clothes was soon drenched to the skin. He felt damp, cold, and uncomfortable. But there was no rest for him. The only home he had was shut to him, unless he should bring home twenty-five cents, and of this there seemed very little prospect.

      At the corner of Fulton Street he fell in with a boy of twelve, short and sturdy in frame, dressed in a coat whose tails nearly reached the sidewalk. Though scarcely in the fashion, it was warmer than Mark's, and the proprietor troubled himself very little about the looks.

      This boy, whom Mark recognized as Ben Gibson, had a clay pipe in his mouth, which he seemed to be smoking with evident enjoyment.

      "Where you goin'?" he asked, halting in front of Mark.

      "I don't know," said Mark.

      "Don't know!" repeated Ben, taking his pipe from his mouth, and spitting. "Where's your matches?"

      "I left them at home."

      "Then what'd did you come out for in this storm?"

      "The woman I live with won't let me come home till I've brought her twenty-five cents."

      "How'd you expect to get it?"

      "She wants me to beg."

      "That's a good way," said Ben, approvingly; "when you get hold of a soft chap, or a lady, them's the ones to shell out."

      "I don't like it," said Mark. "I don't want people to think me a beggar."

      "What's the odds?" said Ben, philosophically. "You're just the chap to make a good beggar."

      "What do you mean by that, Ben?" said Mark, who was far from considering this much of a compliment.

      "Why you're a thin, pale little chap, that people will pity easy. Now I aint the right cut for a beggar. I tried it once, but it was no go."

      "Why not?" asked Mark, who began to be interested in spite of himself.

      "You see," said Ben, again puffing out a volume of smoke, "I look too tough, as if I could take care of myself. People don't pity me. I tried it one night when I was hard up. I hadn't got but six cents, and I wanted to go to the Old Bowery bad. So I went up to a gent as was comin' up Wall Street from the Ferry, and said, 'Won't you give a poor boy a few pennies to save him from starvin'?'"

      "'So you're almost starvin', are you, my lad?'" says he.

      "'Yes, sir,' says I, as faint as I could.

      "'Well, starvin' seems to agree with you,' says he, laughin'. 'You're the healthiest-lookin' beggar I've seen in a good while.'

      "I tried it again on another gent, and he told me he guessed I was lazy; that a good stout boy like me ought to work. So I didn't make much beggin', and had to give up goin' to the Old Bowery that night, which I was precious sorry for, for there was a great benefit that evenin'. Been there often?"

      "No, I never went."

      "Never went to the Old Bowery!" ejaculated Ben, whistling in his amazement. "Where were you raised, I'd like to know? I should think you was a country greeny, I should."

      "I never had a chance," said Mark, who began to feel a little ashamed of the confession.

      "Won't your old woman let you go?"

      "I never have any money to go."

      "If I was flush I'd take you myself. It's only fifteen cents," said Ben. "But I haven't got money enough only for one ticket. I'm goin' to-night."

      "Are you?" asked Mark, a little enviously.

      "Yes, it's a good way to pass a rainy evenin'. You've got a warm room to be in, let alone the play, which is splendid. Now, if you could only beg fifteen cents from some charitable cove, you might go along of me."

      "If I get any money I've got to carry it home."

      "Suppose you don't, will the old woman cut up rough?"

      "She'll

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