eyes of the angel in him. The next time he fell into the snare of his
enemy, he managed to conceal what had befallen him. After that he was
too wide awake to be caught.

There was in the village a child whom nobody heeded. He was far more
destitute than Clare, but had too much liberty. He lived with a
wretched old woman who called him her grandson: whether he was or not
nobody cared. She made her livelihood by letting beds, in a cottage or
rather hovel which seemed to be her own, to wayfarers, mostly tramps,
with or without trades. The child was thus thrown into the worst of
company, and learned many sorts of wickedness. He was already a thief,
and of no small proficiency in his art. Though village-bred, he could
pick a pocket more sensitive than a clown's. Small and deft, he had
never stood before a magistrate. He was a miserable creature,
bare-footed and bare-legged; about eight years of age, but so stunted
that to the first glance he looked less than six--with keen ferret
eyes in red rims, red hair, pasty, freckled complexion, and a
generally unhealthy look; from which marks all, Clare conceived a
pitiful sympathy for him. Their acquaintance began thus:--

One day, during his father's last illness, he happened to pass the
door of the grandmother's hovel while the crone was administering to
Tommy a severe punishment with a piece of thick rope: she had been
sharp enough to catch him stealing from herself. Clare heard his
cries. The door being partly open, he ran in, and gave him such
assistance that they managed to bolt together from the hut. A
friendship, for long almost a silent one, was thus initiated between
them. Tommy--Clare never knew his other name, nor did the boy
himself--would off and on watch for a sight of him all day long, but
had the instinct, or experience, never to approach him if any one was