the Lord Harry, he has scarcely a shoe to his foot!"

He was a poor boy, perhaps seven or eight years old. His face was pale
and careworn, and though he whistled, it was a solemn kind of whistle,
that sounded more like a lamentation than the outburst of childish
gladness. His clothes were too thin and worn for his slight frame, for
the morning, though clear and bright, was frosty, and his little bare
toes peeping out of his shoes were blue with the cold. He hurried
through the streets with a bundle of papers, but, even while intent on
their sale, he had the walk of an old man, and his small shoulders
stooped as though they bent under the weight of years.

Redfield eyed him narrowly.

"Paper, sir?"

"So, in this frenzied struggle after bread, you are an itinerant vendor
of periodical literature?"

"You mean I sell papers, sir? Yes. I've only been at it three weeks. I'm
'stuck' this morning. Haven't got a good beat yet. Paper, sir?"

"Have you no fears of risking your commercial character by appearing on
the streets in that unheard-of dress?"

The boy reddened.

"I've been sick," said he, at length, "for a very long time."

"My Lord!" groaned the philosopher; "here's another conspiracy against