And still St. Giles stood, listening the burial service, when he felt something pulling at his coat-skirt. He looked round, and saw his half-brother the precocious Jingo, lauded by Tom Blast, at his side. I say," cried the urchin with a wink, and pointing towards a spot in the churchyard, "that's where we put the old 'oman."

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"What,―mother? Where?" cried St. Giles.

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Jingo picked up a piece of broken 'bacco-pipe from the pavement. Bet you a pound," said the boy, "I'll hit the place. Why, jist there;" and unerringly he pitched the fragment on a distant grave. This done, Jingo nodded in self-approval.

Without a word, St. Giles entered the churchyard, and approached the grave; Jingo running like a dog at his side. "Poor soul! poor soul," cried St. Giles; and then, looking earnestly down upon the clay, he added, "after all, it's a better place than the Lane-a better place."

"Bless your 'art," said the boy, "that's what mother said afore she come here. She called me to her, and said she was a goin' to be appy at last-and then there was a man as read to her two or three times out of a book, and would read for all Tom Blast said he'd get him pumped on for coming to the Lane-well, when she talked o' being appy, the man said she was a wicked cretur to think o' sich a thing. And then didn't the old 'oman wring her hands, and call Tom Blast sich names—and didn't she hug me like nothin', and scream out, and ask who'd take care o' me?"

I'll take care of you," cried St. Giles, and he placed an arm about the boy's neck. "Be a good child, and I'll take care of you: I promise it-here I promise it; here, where poor mother lies. And you will be a good boy, won't you?" asked St. Giles affectionately, and tears came into his eyes.

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Oh, won't I though!" cried Jingo, plainly expecting some reward for his ready promise.

"I know you will-I'm sure you will," said St. Giles, patting the boy's head; "and now go home, and you and I 'll meet again afore long. Here's a shilling for you; and mind you take no more handkerchers." Jingo seized the money-ducked his head up and down -and in a moment disappeared in Hog-lane. "I'll save him from that devil, as God's in heaven I will," cried St. Giles, and as though nerved with a good purpose, he walked sharply on. He had suddenly found in life a new responsibility, and with it new determination.

With this thought he pursued his rapid way towards the mansion of St. James. With trembling hand he struck the knocker: again and again, harder and harder. Still the door remained closed: and then, to the fancy of St. Giles, the lion's head looked sneeringly at him, mocking his errand. "There's nobody at home," said St. Giles despondingly, and at the same moment the door was opened by a footboy, a most bright mulatto of about fifteen. There was an ease, a self-assurance in the youth, that proved him to have been born for the brilliant livery that adorned him. He seemed to have come into the world, like a parroquet, to disport in gaudy covering. And thus, a very nestling, he had been fledged with the St. James's livery; for when scarcely six years old, he had been presented as a sort of doll footboy to one of the Marquess's daughters: like her pet pug, he was such a curious little wretchsuch a pretty little monster. His colour was so bright-his nose so flat-his eyes so sharp-and he had this advantage of the pug, his hair was so woolly. Had he been made of the best Nankin china-and not compounded of Saxon and negro blood-he had scarcely been more precious. Still, human toy as he was, he had this drawback from his humanity: Ralph-such was his namegrew out of the curious; he shot up from the squab Indian image into the lanky, loose-jointed youth. Could he have remained all his life under four feet, he would have continued a treasure; but he grew, and growing, was lowered from the eminence of his childhood to the flat walk of the servants'-hall. It was so pretty to see him-like an elfin dwarf from some Indian mine-tripping with prayer-book at his young lady's heels: but nature, with her old vulgarity, would have her way, and so, Ralph, the son of Cesar Gum, who was duly married to Kitty Muggs, who in good time duly buried her African lord,-Ralph, we say, was fast spindling into the mere footman. And he had ever had a quick sense of the rights of livery. It was a garb that placing him in near and dear communication with the noble, by consequence elevated him to a height, not measurable by any moral barometer, above common people. He looked, as from a ladder, down upon the vulgar. His mother, the widowed Gum, would in her mild, maternal way remonstrate with her beloved child, on his unchristian pride; and when in turn rebuked, as she never failed to be, with exorbitant interest, she would comfort herself by declaring to herself, “that it was just so with his blessed father, who was gone to a better place. He, too, had such a spirit." Little thought St. Giles, as

he stood confronted with that young mulatto-at the time with all his thoughts half-buried in a pottle, from which he fished up strawberry after strawberry, conveying the fruit with a judicial smack to his mouth,-little thought St. Giles that he stood before the only child of the negro Cesar, who, in Covent-garden watch-house, had borne witness against him. As yet St. Giles had ventured no syllable of inquiry, when young Ralph, in his own masterly manner, began the dialogue.

"I say, if it isn't an uncivil thing to put to a gentleman,—how much might you have give the Marquess for this house? couldn't tell us, nohow, could you?" and master Ralph sucked a strawberry between his white, paternal teeth.

"What do you mean, mate?" asked St. Giles, with a stare. Ralph returned an astonished look at the familiarity, and then spat a strawberry-stalk on St. Giles's foot. He then continued. "Why, in course you 've bought the house, else you 'd never have made such a hullabaloo with the knocker. As I said afore, how much might you have give for it?"

"I ask your pardon, I'm sure," said St. Giles, "I thought at last everybody was out."

"Everybody but me-for kitchen-maids go for nothing-is. But what did you give for the house, I say?" again repeated the witty Ralph; laughing at his own indomitable humour.

Lor, Ralph," cried a female head, hanging over the banister, "lor, Ralph, why don't you answer the poor man?" Saying this, the head for a moment disappeared, and then again showed itself on the shoulders of a fat little woman, who bustled down into the hall.

"Now I tell you what it is," said the youthful footman, glowing very yellow, and holding up his fore-finger at the intruder, “if you don't let me mind my business, you shan't come here, when they're out, at all,-now mind that.

"Ha! if only your dear father could hear you, wouldn't it break his heart! For the seven years we lived together he never said a crooked word to me, and Ralph, you know it. He was a man," said the widow in that earnest tone with which widows would sometimes fain convey a sense of value of the past invaluable. "He was a man!"

"I s'pose he was "-replied the filial Ralph-" you 've said so such a many times: all I know is, I know nothing about him— and I don't want to know nothing."