--no, the King's--wrist. The tremendous news was already abroad, and the
boy learned it from a thousand voices at once--"The King is dead!" The
tidings struck a chill to the heart of the poor little waif, and sent a
shudder through his frame. He realised the greatness of his loss, and
was filled with a bitter grief; for the grim tyrant who had been such a
terror to others had always been gentle with him. The tears sprang to
his eyes and blurred all objects. For an instant he felt himself the
most forlorn, outcast, and forsaken of God's creatures--then another cry
shook the night with its far-reaching thunders: "Long live King Edward
the Sixth!" and this made his eyes kindle, and thrilled him with pride to
his fingers' ends. "Ah," he thought, "how grand and strange it seems--I
AM KING!"

Our friends threaded their way slowly through the throngs upon the
bridge. This structure, which had stood for six hundred years, and had
been a noisy and populous thoroughfare all that time, was a curious
affair, for a closely packed rank of stores and shops, with family
quarters overhead, stretched along both sides of it, from one bank of the
river to the other. The Bridge was a sort of town to itself; it had its
inn, its beer-houses, its bakeries, its haberdasheries, its food markets,
its manufacturing industries, and even its church. It looked upon the
two neighbours which it linked together--London and Southwark--as being
well enough as suburbs, but not otherwise particularly important. It was
a close corporation, so to speak; it was a narrow town, of a single
street a fifth of a mile long, its population was but a village
population and everybody in it knew all his fellow-townsmen intimately,
and had known their fathers and mothers before them--and all their little
family affairs into the bargain. It had its aristocracy, of course--its
fine old families of butchers, and bakers, and what-not, who had occupied
the same old premises for five or six hundred years, and knew the great