"The likin' 'at craturs his for clean dirt! He's been at it this
hale half-hoor!" she murmured to herself as she poured from a black
bottle into a pewter measure a gill of whisky for the pale-faced
toper who stood on the other side of the counter: far gone in
consumption, he could not get through the forenoon without his
morning. "I wad like," she went on, as she replaced the bottle
without having spoken a word to her customer, whose departure was
now announced with the same boisterous alacrity as his arrival by
the shrill-toned bell -- "I wad like, for's father's sake, honest man!
to thraw Gibbie's lug. That likin' for dirt I canna fathom nor
bide."

Meantime the boys attention seemed entirely absorbed in the gutter.
Whatever vehicle passed before him, whatever footsteps behind, he
never lifted his head, but went creeping slowly on his knees along
the curb still searching down the flow of the sluggish, nearly
motionless current.

It was a grey morning towards the close of autumn. The days began
and ended with a fog, but often between, as golden a sunshine
glorified the streets of the grey city as any that ripened purple
grapes. To-day the mist had lasted longer than usual -- had risen
instead of dispersing; but now it was thinning, and at length, like
a slow blossoming of the sky-flower, the sun came melting through
the cloud. Between the gables of two houses, a ray fell upon the
pavement and the gutter. It lay there a very type of purity, so
pure that, rest where it might, it destroyed every shadow of
defilement that sought to mingle with it. Suddenly the boy made a
dart upon all fours, and pounced like a creature of prey upon