ter some time, they left their
place of refuge from the weather, and mingled with the concourse.

Evening came on. They were still wandering up and down, with fewer
people about them, but with the same sense of solitude in their own
breasts, and the same indifference from all around. The lights in the
streets and shops made them feel yet more desolate, for with their
help, night and darkness seemed to come on faster. Shivering with the
cold and damp, ill in body, and sick to death at heart, the child
needed her utmost firmness and resolution even to creep along.

Why had they ever come to this noisy town, when there were peaceful
country places, in which, at least, they might have hungered and
thirsted, with less suffering than in its squalid strife! They were
but an atom, here, in a mountain heap of misery, the very sight of
which increased their hopelessness and suffering.

The child had not only to endure the accumulated hardships of their
destitute condition, but to bear the reproaches of her grandfather, who
began to murmur at having been led away from their late abode, and
demand that they should return to it. Being now penniless, and no
relief or prospect of relief appearing, they retraced their steps
through the deserted streets, and went back to the wharf, hoping to
find the boat in which they had come, and to be allowed to sleep on
board that night. But here again they were disappointed, for the gate
was closed, and some fierce dogs, barking at their approach, obliged
them to retreat.

'We must sleep in the open air to-night, dear,' said the child in a
weak voice, as they turned away from this last repulse; 'and to-morrow
we will beg our way to some quiet part of the country, and try to earn
our bread in very humble work.'

'Why did you bring me here?' returned the old man fiercely. 'I cannot
bear these close eternal streets. We came from a quiet part. Why did
you force me to leave it?'

'Because I must have that dream I told you of, no more,' said the
child, with a momentary firmness that lost itself in tears; 'and we
must live among poor people, or it will come again. Dear grandfather,
you are old and weak, I know; but look at me. I never will complain if
you will not, but I have some suffering indeed.'

'Ah! poor, houseless, wandering, motherless child!' cried the old man,
clasping his hands and gazing as if for the first time upon her anxious
face, her travel-stained dress, and bruised a