"Well, well," I said, with a laugh that had no mirth in it; "only
one of your wishes stands much chance of being carried out. I'll
find the children now if I can without the aid of the police.
Mousie, do you feel stronger to-night?"

These words were spoken to a pale girl of fourteen, who appeared to
be scarcely more than twelve, so diminutive was her frame.

"Yes, papa," she replied, a faint smile flitting like a ray of light
across her features. She always said she was better, but never got
well. Her quiet ways and tones had led to the household name of
"Mousie."

As I was descending the narrow stairway I was almost overthrown by a
torrent of children pouring down from the flats above. In the dim
light of a gas-burner I saw that Bobsey was one of the reckless
atoms. He had not heard my voice in the uproar, and before I could
reach him, he with the others had burst out at the street door and
gone tearing toward the nearest corner. It seemed that he had
slipped away in order to take part in a race, and I found him
"squaring off" at a bigger boy who had tripped him up. Without a
word I carried him home, followed by the jeers and laughter of the
racers, the girls making their presence known in the early December
twilight by the shrillness of their voices and by manners no gentler
than those of the boys.

I put down the child--he was only seven years of age--in the middle
of our general living-room, and looked at him. His little coat was
split out in the back; one of his stockings, already well-darned at