"I blush to say, no."

"Why, he might have made his fortune at Common Garden; but that's a long
story. Poor fellow! he's broke down now, anyhow. But she takes care of
him, little darling: God bless thee!" and the Cobbler here exchanged a
smile and a nod with the little girl, whose face brightened when she saw
him amidst the crowd.

"By the brush and pallet of Raphael!" cried the elder of the young men,
"before I am many hours older I must have that child's head!"

"Her head, man!" cried the Cobbler, aghast.

"In my sketch-book. You are a poet,--I a painter. You know the little
girl?"

"Don't I! She and her grandfather lodge with me; her grandfather,--
that's Waife,--marvellous man! But they ill-uses him; and if it warn't
for her, he'd starve. He fed them all once: he can feed them no longer;
he'd starve. That's the world: they use up a genus, and when it falls on
the road, push on; that's what Joe Spruce calls a-progressing. But
there's the drum! they're a-going to act; won't you look in, gents?"

"Of course," cried Lionel,--"of course. And, hark ye, Vance, we'll toss
up which shall be the first to take that little girl's head."

"Murderer in either sense of the word!" said Vance, with a smile that
would have become Correggio if a tyro had offered to toss up which should
be the first to paint a cherub.