gave you to that brat," murmured common-sense; "very likely her
father would pawn it for gin."

"But the child looks ill," remonstrated impulse. "Anna would be sure
to think of the poor mite first." But it was doubtful which voice
would have prevailed but for a chance word.

"Oh, dad, there is a big drop--it quite splashed my face. Ma'am said
the rain would drown us." Then the man, whose wits had been wool-
gathering, looked up in alarm, and began fumbling with Kit's shawl.

"Dear sakes," he muttered, "who would have thought it! But it is
just my luck. You will be drenched before I get you in, Kit, and
Ma'am will scold us for the rest of the day."

"Will you take this umbrella for the child, my good man?" observed
Malcolm pleasantly. "I am close to my chambers. You can let me have
it back to-morrow morning." Then, as the man regarded him in dazed
astonishment, he gave him his address. "Perhaps you may as well let
me know your name," he continued.

"Caleb Martin, sir," replied the cobbler; "and we live in
Todmorden's Lane, leading out of Beauchamp Street. It is Mr.
Bennet's the bootmaker, and I works for him and lives in the
basement, 'long of wife and Kit."

"Beauchamp Street--oh yes, I know. Then you had better get the child
home." He nodded and smiled at Kit as he moved away.

Caleb gazed after him with open mouth and pale eyes full of