bore, to the puzzlement of St. Giles's. Becky Carruthers was the name of
the old woman; but Becky was one of those good creatures who are always
called by their Christian names, and never rise into the importance of
the surname and the dignity of "Mistress;" lopping off the last syllable
of the familiar appellation, the outcast christened himself "Beck."

"And," said St. John, who in the course of question and answer had got
thus far into the marrow of the sweeper's narrative, "is not this good
woman really your mother?"

"Mother!" echoed Beck, with disdain; "no, I 'as a gritter mother nor she.
Sint Poll's is my mother. But the h-old crittur tuk care on me."

"I really don't understand you. St. Paul's is your mother? How?"

Beck shook his head mysteriously, and without answering the question,
resumed the tale, which we must thus paraphrastically continue to
deliver.

When he was a little more than six years old, Beck began to earn his own
livelihood, by running errands, holding horses, scraping together pence
and halfpence. Betimes, his passion for saving began; at first with a
good and unselfish motive,--that of surprising "mammy" at the week's end.
But when "mammy," who then gained enough for herself, patted his head and
called him "good boy," and bade him save for his own uses, and told him
what a great thing it would be if he could lay by a pretty penny against
he was a man, he turned miser on his own account; and the miserable
luxury grew upon him. At last, by the permission of the police
inspector, strengthened by that of the owner of the contiguous house, he
made his great step in life, and succeeded a deceased negro in the