t we were mettlesome
steeds out for exercise, and feeling our oats.

A very old gentleman with an umbrella and top hat saw us. He rushed to the
curb waving his umbrella and crying, "Whoa, whoa," but we only arched our
proud necks and broke into a gallop. How the pavement echoed under our
flying hoofs! How warmly the sun glistened on our sleek coats! How pleasant
the jingling sound of the harness and the smell of the harness oil!

We left the decorous street we knew so well, and turned into narrow and
untidy Henwood street. Shabby houses and shops were jumbled promiscuously
together, and the pavement was full of holes. From the far end of it came
the joyous tones of a hand-organ, vibrating on the early afternoon air. The
eaves on the sunny side of the street were dripping. A fishmonger's shop
sent forth its robust odour. The scarlet of a lobster caught our eyes as we
flew past.

Could it be possible that the player of the organ was our old friend Tony,
to whose monkey we had often handed our coppers through the palings?

We were horses no longer. Who had time for such pretence when Tony was
grinding out "White Wings" with all his might? Angel and I took to the
side-walk and ran with all speed, leaving the poor little Seraph pumping
away in the rear, not quite certain whether he was horse or boy, but
determined not to be outdistanced.

It was indeed Tony, and his white teeth gleamed when he saw us coming, and
his eyebrows went up to his hat brim at sight of us bareheaded and alone,
who always handed our coppers through the palings. And Anita, the monkey,
was there, looking rather pale and sickly after the long Winter, but full
of pluck, grinning, as she doffed her gold-braided hat.

Angel and The Seraph rarely had any money. The little allowance father gave
us through Mrs. Handsomebody, burnt a hole in their pockets till it was
expended on toffee or marshmallows. But I was made of different stuff, and
by the end of the week, I was the financial strength of the trio. It was I,
who now fished out a penny which Angel snatched from me. He craved the joy
of the giver, and chuckled when Anita's small pink palm closed over the
coin. But I was too happy to quarrel with him. Every one seemed in
good-humour that day. Windows were pushed up and small change tossed out,
or dropped in Anita's cup as she perched, chattering, on the sill. A stout
grocer in his white apron gave her a little pink biscuit to nibble.
Half-grown girls l