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victuals for her; and, as I was coming back with the meal and things, I met the lady again, who said father must have his clothes back again these cold nights, and wrote this address, for me to call and ask you to lend six shillings to release them, and on Friday she can get the money from the Relief Committee again."

"Oh! money's the point, is it? 'Stick at nothing in order to get it '—that's your motto? Stick at everything that would rob you of it'-that's mine! But what's your name?"

"Minnie Pimply, please, sir."

"And address :"

"No. 6, Virgil Court, out of Homer Street."

"Your father's round the corner waiting for you, ain't he?"

"No, sir; he's gone to do a bit of joinering at the Park, and mother's at Mrs. Meggs."

"Um! Show us the ticket-the pawn-ticket, child! Six shillings is the point, then; you want six shillings of me?"

"Yes, please, sir. The lady says she can get it for you again on Friday."

"Six shillings till Friday-is that it?"

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Yes, please, sir; to get father's clothes again," and the child held out her hands. “Well, then, you will not get it; that is all I have got to say! Stump away!" He had opened the door, and had her out before she knew where she was. Just as he closed it, the child burst into tears; he was so startled that he momentarily held the latch, but gladly let it fly again, to drown the sound. He thought he heard an echo to the sob at the other end of the hall, and looked sharply in that direction. The hall-lamp did not show him clearly, but, as he ran upstairs again, the rush of gown and slippers down the kitchen flight told him whence it had proceeded. He returned to his old place before the fire, and bit his livid under-lip. He looked at the address again-the handwriting that had addressed local papers to him when on his commercial journeys (letters seldom passed between them). Where was she now, and that husband of hers? How he hated him; he could do him an injury to night! He looked again at the writing, and was astonished to find the pawn ticket stili in his hand. He had forgotten to return it to the child, and she had been too frightened to ask for it. A thought struck him. He was in a wild mood to-night. In his younger days he had played many a mad prank-had turned off the gas at a Saturday night concert-had gone in disguise to his father's meeting-house, and heard his "dad's" experience, and all about himself. He was ready to let his angry passions rule his sober reason to night; or, at all events, to show off these bitter thoughts by plunging once again into some youthful folly. A thought, we say, struck him. He was a man to act promptly when he had once determined. He rang the bell. The boy appeared.

"Go, tell them in the kitchen they may all go out, because it is New Year's Eve! I will stay at home."

The boy slipped twice going downstairs, and cleared the kitchen flight entire, and for ten minutes he could not make the kitchen believe what he told it.

Cook thought it best to send for the straight waistcoat; but the housemaid thought "as master had caught the 'dip-theory;'" which, seeing that, although he was a colliery proprietor, he was neither a mining engineer nor a geologist, was not

likely though, if he were either, he would have "caught it," if necessary, soon enough.

Thinking it possible that the world might come to an end next, the kitchen was rather damped in its spirits than otherwise when it sallied out at last, and left its master pacing on the rug.

When all were gone some fifteen minutes, the master slouched his hat over his eyes, wrapped himself in a travelling-rug, and went out also. Keeping the middle of many dark back streets, he debouched into an open thoroughfare, whose mud and puddles looked almost cheery in the flare from gin shops and pedlars' stalls. He cast about for three gold balls, and found them; then, assuming the hustling air of a philanthropist, he pushed in, past pinched-up women leaving bundles, and triumphant women bearing them away, and who behaved for the nonce like a "bloated aristocracy!" A start of surprise, and a puzzled smile, greeted his appearance.

"I have been solicited," he began, in the "fool" tone, "by a poor girl, at my house, to redeem this pledge. As she spoke, she discovered that she had lost her ticket, and returned to look for it. My servants found it in the hall, and I wish to release the things myself, and be the bearer of them to their owner on this New Year's Eve."

"Yes, sir. Only left this morning, sir. The man did look dreadful bad, sure enough. It's a heavy parcel, sir-a rough pea jacket, and a skin waistcoat."

"Never mind, my good sir, let me have them; a better man than I has carried them before." And, as he paid down the money and walked away, the counter people asked the poor people, and the poor people asked the counter people, "Was it not old Dent! who they said was so hard?" and the business hung a little while they wondered over it. "Didn't it show," said one, "how we might be mistaken ?" and others, who had never helped a body in their lives, said, "It wasn't always them as talked the most did the most; and some were for always letting their left hand know, but there were others as never let their left hand know nothing, noways-mind that!"

While they talked Dent had threaded the back streets again and reached his own dcor. He looked round nervously as he entered the silent house, and started on entering the bedroom as his figure passed the glass. He proceeded to throw away his rug, and tear off his cravat, and doff his vest; and then undid the bundle that he carried. There was no mistaking the articles for others. A great sailor's peajacket, with huge pockets, and horn buttons a trifle larger than cheese plates, and a waistcoat made of the skin of a piebald calf, the hair outside. This waistcoat had been stroked a hundred times by children's hands. When he put them on he found them over large for him, but their very amplitude hid the disproportion. Then he put his hat on-looked at himself in the glass-took it off again-sat upon it, and crushed it with his fist. It did not answer even then, so he rummaged from a wardrobe a fur travelling cap, with ear-lappets, that hid half his face-tied it on, and ran down to the kitchen. There he found the boy's red comforter, which he twisted round his neck, and ran up again before the glass. Next he fumbled in the dressing-table drawer, while his brows were thicker with prison bars than ever, and took his razors out. Opening one and feeling its edge, in his tremulousness he cut

bimself, and the blood fell upon the counterpane; upon which he turned sick, and flung himself back upon the bed, only to rise, however, a few seconds after, whispering "fool" to himself between his teeth, and to cram the razors back again into their place. Then, taking a loaded stick from a closet, he crept down stairs-although there was no one in the house-listened at the door until every footstep had vanished, opened it softly, and slipped out. More back streets, and then a busy thoroughfare. He looked for the names of entries-passed Shakespeare Street, Dryden Alley, and at last hit on Virgil Court. It was written over a doorway without a door, and, entering it, he passed through the house that faced the street, and emerged into a court of one-story whitewashed cottages, with gable attics, and a pavement that sloped to a channel running in the middle. No one was at the doorways-the children were asleep--the able-bodied were out, to buy or beg-the sick and aged remained shut in,—there, where that light was in the attic-and there again, on the ground floor. He passed along softly-felt for a number-found a raised one-saw where number six ought to be, and stopped a moment, as if in thought. Then, hastily passing the house, he glanced sideways at the window, and saw that the room was empty-(the crescent moon shining on that side the houses, and a black fire of small coal, with a red hole in the centre, just showed it, and no more). He lifted the latch and entered softly. A stench, which only the cold kept from being insufferable, as of unmade beds and towels, met him at the threshold. There were but few things to stumble at in the darkness. A three-legged round table-a papered trunk, that served as a seat-a wooden stool, and a rush-bottomed chairthese, with a cupboard, that was opened, and had nothing in it but some delf, were the only articles of furniture. The fire-place was an arch in the wall, without a mantel-shelf. From a nail on either side hung a string, and on the string a row of ragged children's garments, still damp from washing. Upon the table was a little three-penny workbox, with thimble and scissors-scissors that had often played the part of snuffers-and a few soiled and ravelled reels of cotton and twists of thread. Dent could further see that the stairs leading to the attic came down into the room, and were covered by a door. And after he had sat down quietly in the rush-bottom chair, he started inwardly at hearing the sound of breathing over-head. Having listened till he was satisfied, from the short respirations, that it was the breath of children, he leant back again in his chair, and looked at the red hole in the fire, till it grew and grew into a great goggle-eye, and seemed to advance near him. Then he turned to look at the window, and thought a face was there-then some one appeared to be behind the cupboard door. He had time to reflect now--he had acted with little reflection before; for there are men who, thrown out of their regular orbit of action, seem wanting in all the qualities which guided them successfully before. This was not, however, so much the case with Dent now as the giving way for a season to that wild, lunatic devil which nearly every man carries within him (as firearms bear their charge of powder), and which needs their constant watchfulness to keep from starting into horrid life, and asserting itself as the true and original master of the mortal house. He could remember now how unprecedented was his conduct towards the servants; how he committed himself at the pawnbroker's; above all, what a chance it was that his son-in-law would come there at all—or, if he did, that he would not come before Pimpley himself returned, or the little girl,

or some one else, who would infa libly discover him to be no Pimpley, but a housebreaker. Then he cursed his folly for being there at all, and would have gone straight back to his house again, but for a new and intense feeling that grew up in his breast to see his daughter; she was as likely to come as her husband; indeed, more so, and if she came, her husband would not be far off, and would take her home. He had no definite plan, but he had a longing to see them both. He would let the wild devil within him be the master when the occasion came. A noise at the door-he held his breath, and felt his heart rapping at the calfskin waistcoat—only a child's rap, but it might be the little girl whom he shouldered to the streetPimpley's daughter, who would know him in a moment. However, he must go; for should he not, the child would get some one else to lift the latch. It was not Pimpley's child, however, but a little mite half as big. "Please, Mr. Pimpley," it said, "mother's much obliged for the kettle, and hopes you haven't been waiting tea for long." He took it without a word, a tea-kettle without a lid, still smoking, and shut the door again. By-and-bye another little rap, and another little mite, "Please, Mr. Pimpley, father's got a bit of meat for to-morrow, and is going to haves bit of it to-night; and would you loan him the grid., and come in yourself to have a bit ?"

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"I can't come to-night," he answered, hoarsely, and began to feel for the grid. Right hand of the fire, Mr. Pimpley," the child directed him, and, sure enough, he found it, and handed it to her. Down again by the fire, to glare at the red hole, which glared and ogled at him like an evil eye, and to think that he saw sideways a face in the window, and to be afraid to look round and meet it. He heard a noise overhead, the shuffling of small feet, and they came, one step at a time, down the stairs, while he wondered if it was, indeed, only a child, and dreaded the opening of the door that closed the flight. It was pushed open slowly at last, and a dusky little figure looked about it. "Oh! father (Dent drew back into the darkness), mother's gone to Mr. Meggs; but I put Martha to bed all myself, and sang her to sleep. Yes, father, but she wouldn't be good, until I gave her a crust to suck, and when she was fast snoring, I took the crust out of her little hand, and ate it myself, and she didn't awake a bit, not a bit. Oh! the crust was so sweet! But wasn't it queer? Would you eat a crust that baby had sucked, father? And then I went to sleep myself, and woke just now so cold ;" and the child drew near to the red hole, and poked her little fingers close against it, looking back at her father in the shade. She had been accustomed lately to see him silent and moody, so she did not press the question; but, after a few moments, began again. "Father, what do you think? I went to Mrs. Wotherspoon's for a pound of meal, and I thought she gave me very little, so I went to Hughes' and asked them to weigh it, and it was only half-a-pound, and then I went back to Mrs. Wotherspoon's, and told her, and she said she had taken the wrong weight. Oh! I'm sure she's a liar, father! but I got the whole pound from her." Still he was silent, so the girl was approaching him to look in his face, when he motioned her away, and rose to go to the door; as he did so he heard rapid steps coming up the entry. They tended towards the door. The latch was lifted smartly, and Hanbury's quick words, brusted by heavy breathing from his walk, called out, "Is John Pimpley here?"

(To be continued.)

BABY-JUMPERS, PERAMBULATORS, AND ROCKING-HORSES.

43

BABY-JUMPERS, PERAMBULATORS, AND ROCKING-HORSES.

AMONG the recognised aids nurse, or sister Jane are otherto physical education-"real wise employed than in attendblessings to mothers," and ing to the wants of "the little fathers too, for that matter darling." To those young -may certainly be reckoned mothers who are unacquainted the articles here named. The with the use of the BabyBaby-jumper is of American jumper, we may explain that origin, and has scarcely been it consists of a sort of chair welcomed in English nurseries of webbing to support the with the cordiality due to its arms and legs of an infant as real usefulness. There is an yet unable to run alone, susamiable prejudice in favour of pended from the ceiling by nurse's arms for "baby" and the floor for "little toddles ;" a very strong india-rubber rope. When the babe is placed but nurses have sometimes in the chair, as in the engravother occupations to engage ing, its movements cause the their attention, and "baby," elastic rope to give up and too, gets tired of being always down in a gentle swinging carried; to say nothing of manner, so that when the there being an occasional pin weight of the little performer on the carpet, or the leg of causes its feet to lightly touch a chair particularly well the ground, the apparatus placed for coming into contact springs upwards and keeps with the head of "little baby dancing, as it were, and toddles" as it rolls over and of course highly amused. As over on the ground, and strives a health-giving adjunct to to catch the kitten. Against the nursery, the baby-jumper these accidents the baby-jumis greatly appreciated wherper ensures an excellent ever it has been tried. It is remedy. It provides also an so simple in its application, excellent source of amusement and so safe and handy, that it for the child, while mamma, may be recommended to all those whose household occupations render the constant nursing of infants a somewhat tedious task. One great advantage possessed by the baby-jumper is, that

it

THE BABY-JUMPER.

may be fixed in the apartment in which the mother or nurse are employed; and that, even if it be necessary for her to leave her room, her child runs no danger of falling, or of getting into mischief. Infants. like adults, require constant amusement; and nothing that we have seen so well provides for their necessary exercise and entertainment as this simple little machine. "Children," says the Rev. Mr. Binney, "are the poetry of the world-the fresh flowers of our hearts and homes;" and to keep them in good vigorous health should be every mother's first care. These little conjurors, who, by their "natural magic," give delight and enrich the hearts of all, whether they be rich or poor, need their hours of relaxation, as well as their elders. To be sure they bring with them anxieties and cares, and often live to occasion sorrow and grief; but then how poorly should we get on without them! Only think what a world it would be if we never saw any but grown-up people! How we should long for the sight of a little child! Is it not necessary, then, that we should do all that we can to make their little lives easy and comfortable?

Every infant comes into the world-we quote Mr. Binney from memory-like a delegated prophet, the harbinger and herald of good tidings, whose office it is to "turn the hearts of the fathers to the children," and to draw "the disobedient to

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