umb before Poverty.
Indeed, though he had often theorised about that stricken creature, he
had never before fairly hunted her down, run her into her den, and
fairly looked her in the face.

"The fact is, Mrs Frog," said Giles Scott, coming to the rescue, "Sir
Richard is anxious to know something about your affairs--your family,
you know, and your means of--by the way, where is baby?" he said looking
round the room.

"She's gone lost," said Mrs Frog.

"Lost?" repeated Giles, with a significant look.

"Ay, lost," repeated Mrs Frog, with a look of equal significance.

"Bless me, how did you lose your child?" asked Sir Richard, in some
surprise.

"Oh! sir, that often happens to us poor folk. We're used to it," said
Mrs Frog, in a half bantering half bitter tone.

Sir Richard suddenly called to mind the fact--which had not before
impressed him, though he had read and commented on it--that 11,835
children under ten years of age had been lost that year, (and it was no
exceptional year, as police reports will show), in the streets of
London, and that 23 of these children were _never found_.

He now beheld, as he imagined, one of the losers of the lost ones, and
felt stricken.

"Well now," said Giles to Mrs Frog, "let's hear how you get along.
What does your husband do?"

"He mostly does nothin' but drink. Sometimes he sells little birds;
sometimes he sells penny watches or boot-laces in Cheapside, an' turns
in a little that way, but it all goes to the grog-shop; none of it comes
here. Then he has a mill now an' again--"

"A mill?" said Sir Richard,--"is it a snuff or flour--"

"He's a professional pugilist," explained Giles.

"An' he's employed at a music-hall," continued Mrs Frog, "to call out
the songs an' keep order. An' Bobby always used to pick a few coppers
by runnin' messages, sellin' matches, and odd jobs. But he's knocked
over now."

"And yourself. How do you add to the general fund?" asked Sir Richard,
becoming interested in the household management of Poverty.

"Well, I char a bit an' wash a bit, sir, when I'm well enough--which
ain't often. An' sometimes I lights the Jews' fires for 'em, an' clean
up their 'earths on Saturdays--w'ich is their Sundays, sir. But Hetty
works like a horse. It's she as keeps us from the work'us, sir. She's
got employment at a slop shop, and by workin' 'ard all day manages to
make about one shillin' a week."

"I beg your pardon--how much?"

"One shillin',