LITMIR.BIZ

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such as it never puts forth save where there are poorly clad people to be pierced; it swept before it thin clouds of unsavoury dust, mingled with the light refuse of the streets. Above the shapeless houses night was signalling a murky approach; the sky—if sky it could be called—gave threatening of sleet, perchance of snow. And on every side was the rumble of traffic, the voiceful evidence of toil and of poverty; hawkers were crying their goods; the inevitable organ was clanging before a public-house hard by; ​the crumpet-man was hastening along, with monotonous ringing of his bell and hoarse rhythmic wail.

      The old man had fixed his eyes half absently on the inscription of a gravestone near him; a lean cat springing out between the iron railings seemed to recall his attention, and with a slight sigh he went forward along the narrow street which is called St. James's Walk. In a few minutes he had reached the end of it, and found himself facing a high grey-brick wall, wherein, at this point, was an arched gateway closed with black doors. He looked at the gateway, then fixed his gaze on something that stood just above—something which the dusk half concealed, and by so doing made more impressive. It was the sculptured counterfeit of a human face, that of a man distraught with agony. The eyes stared wildly from their sockets, the hair straggled in maniac disorder, the forehead was wrung with torture, the cheeks sunken, the throat fearsomely wasted, and from the wide lips there seemed to be issuing a ​horrible cry. Above this hideous effigy was carved the legend: “Middlesex House of Detention”.

      Something more than pain came to the old man’s face as he looked and pondered; his lips trembled like those of one in anger, and his eyes had a stern, resentful gleaming. He walked on a few paces, then suddenly stopped where a woman was standing at an open door.

      “I ask your pardon,” he said, addressing her with the courtesy which owes nothing to refined intercourse, “but do you by chance know any one of the name of Snowdon hereabouts?”

      The woman replied with a brief negative; she smiled at the appearance of the questioner, and, with the vulgar instinct, looked about for some one to share her amusement.

      “Better inquire at the ‘ouse at the corner,” she added, as the man was moving away. “They’ve been here a long time, I b'lieve.”

      He accepted her advice. But the people ​at the public-house could not aid his search. He thanked them, paused for a moment with his eyes down, then again sighed slightly and went forth into the gathering gloom.

      Less than five minutes later there ran into the same house of refreshment a little slight girl, perhaps thirteen years old; she carried a jug, and at the bar asked for "a pint of old six." The barman, whilst drawing the ale, called out to a man who had entered immediately after the child:

      "Don't know nobody called Snowdon about 'ere, do you, Mr. Squibbs?"

      The individual addressed was very dirty, very sleepy, and seemingly at odds with mankind. He replied contemptuously with a word which, in phonetic rendering, may perhaps be spelt "Nay-oo."

      But the little girl was looking eagerly from one man to the other; what had been said appeared to excite keen interest in her. She forgot all about the beer-jug that was waiting, and, after a brief but obvious struggle with timidity, said in an uncertain voice:

      ​"Has somebody been asking for that name, sir?"

      "Yes, they have," the barman answered, in surprise. "Why?"

      "My name's Snowdon, sir—Jane Snowdon."

      She reddened over all her face as soon as she had given utterance to the impulsive words. The barman was regarding her with a sort of semi-interest, and Mr. Squibbs also had fixed his bleary (or beery) eyes upon her. Neither would have admitted an active interest in so pale and thin and wretchedly-clad a little mortal. Her hair hung loose, and had no covering; it was hair of no particular colour, and seemed to have been for a long time utterly untended; the wind, on her run hither, had tossed it into much disorder. Signs there were of some kind of clothing beneath the short, dirty, worn dress, but it was evidently of the scantiest description. The freely exposed neck was very thin, but, like the outline of her face, spoke less of a feeble habit of body than of the present pinch of sheer hunger. She did not, indeed, ​look like one of those children who are born in disease and starvation and put to nurse upon the pavement; her limbs were shapely enough, her back was straight, she had features that were not merely human, but girl-like, and her look had in it the light of an intelligence generally sought for in vain among the children of the street. The blush and the way in which she hung her head were likewise tokens of a nature endowed with ample sensitiveness.

      "Oh, your name's Jane Snowdon, is it?" said the barman. "Well, you're just three minutes an' three-quarters too late. P'raps it's a fortune a runnin' after you. He was a rum old party as inquired. Never mind; it's all in a life. There's fortunes lost every week by a good deal less than three minutes when it's 'orses—eh, Mr. Squibbs?"

      Mr. Squibbs swore with emphasis.

      The little girl took her jug of beer and was turning away.

      "Hollo!" cried the barman. "Where's the money, Jane?—if you don't mind."

      ​She turned again in increased confusion, and laid coppers on the counter. Thereupon the man asked her where she lived; she named a house in Clerkenwell Close, near at hand.

      "Father live there?"

      She shook her head.

      "Mother?"

      "I haven't got one, sir."

      "Who is it as you live with, then?"

      "Mrs. Peckover, sir."

      "Well, as I was sayin', he was a queer old joker as arsted for the name of Snowdon. Shouldn't wonder if you see him goin' round."

      And he added a pretty full description of this old man, to which the girl listened closely. Then she went thoughtfully—a little sadly—on her way.

      In the street, all but dark by this time, she cast anxious glances onwards and behind, but no old man in an odd hat and cloak and with white hair was discoverable. Linger she might not. She reached a house of which the front-door stood open; it looked ​black and cavernous within, but she advanced with the step of familiarity and went downstairs to a front-kitchen. Through the half-open door came a strong odour and a hissing sound, plainly due to the frying of sausages. Before Jane could enter, she was greeted sharply in a voice which was young and that of a female, but had no other quality of graciousness.

      "You've taken your time, my lady! All right! just wait till I've 'ad my tea, that's all! Me an' you'll settle accounts to-night, see if we don't. Mother told me as she owed you a lickin', an' I'll pay it off, with a little on my own account too. Only wait till I've 'ad my tea, that's all. What are you standin' there for, like a fool? Bring that beer 'ere, an' let's see 'ow much you've drank."

      "I haven't put my lips near it, miss; indeed I haven't," pleaded the child, whose face of dread proved both natural timidity and the constant apprehension of ill-usage.

      "Little liar! that's what you always was, an always will be.—Take that!"

      ​The speaker was a girl of sixteen, tall, rather bony, rudely handsome; the hand with which she struck was large and coarse-fibred, the muscles that impelled it vigorous. Her dress was that of a work-girl, unsubstantial, ill-fitting, but of ambitious cut; her hair was very abundant, and rose upon the back of her head in thick coils, an elegant fringe depending in front. The fire had made her face scarlet, and in the lamplight her large eyes glistened with many joys.

      First and foremost, Miss Clementina Peckover rejoiced because she had left work much earlier than usual, and was about to enjoy what she would have described as a "blow out." Secondly, she rejoiced because her mother, the landlady of the house, was absent for the night, and consequently she would exercise sole authority over the domestic slave, Jane Snowdon, that is to say, would indulge to the uttermost her instincts of cruelty in tormenting a defenceless creature. Finally—a cause of happiness antecedent to ​the others, but less vivid in her mind at this moment—in the next room lay awaiting burial the corpse of Mrs. Peckover's mother-in-law, whose death six days

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