even in the freshness of childhood, that can be called
models of beauty. That child, for example, has beautiful eyes but a
badly-cut mouth, Here is one that would be pretty, if the face was
rounded out; and here is a child, Heaven help it! that was designed to
be beautiful, but want and unfavorable circumstances have pinched and
cramped it."

It was at this point in the artist's soliloquy that, in turning the
corner of a street, he came upon Peg and Ida.

Henry Bowen looked earnestly at the child's face, and his own lighted up
with pleasure, as one who stumbles upon success just as he has despaired
of it.

"The very face I have been looking for!" he exclaimed to himself. "My
flower-girl is found at last!"

He turned round, and followed Ida and her companion. Both stopped at a
shop-window to examine some articles which were exhibited there. This
afforded a fresh opportunity to examine Ida's face.

"It is precisely what I want," he murmured. "Now the question comes up,
whether this woman, who, I suppose, is the girl's attendant, will permit
me to copy her face."

The artist's inference that Peg was merely Ida's attendant, was natural,
since the child was dressed in a style quite superior to her companion.
Peg thought that in this way she should be more likely to escape
suspicion when occupied in passing spurious coin.

The young man followed the strangely-assorted pair to the apartments
which Peg occupied. From the conversation which he overheard he learned
that he had been mistaken in his supposition as to the relation between
the two, and that, singular as it seemed, Peg had the guardianship of
the child. This made his course clearer. He mounted the stairs, and
knocked at the door.

"What do you want?" said a sharp voice from within.

"I should like to see you a moment," was the reply.

Peg opened the door partially, and regarded the young man suspiciously.

"I don't know you," she said, shortly. "I never saw you before."

"I presume not," said the young man. "We have never met, I think. I am
an artist."

"That is a business I don't know anything about," said Peg, abruptly.
"You've come to the wrong place. I don't want to buy any pictures. I've
got plenty of other ways to spend my money."

Certainly, Mrs. Hardwick, to give her the name she once claimed, did not
look like a patron of the arts.

"You have a young girl, about eight or nine years old, living with you,"
said the artist.

"Who told you th