Outcast Robin

CHAPTER III.

CRIME SHOWED HIM ONLY HER SMILING FACE.

This state of things continued until Robin was eight years old. During all these years he and Helen had clung firmly to each other. He called her, and believed her to be, his mother, and she gave him far more love than many mothers bestow upon their children. They had finally established themselves in the thieves' quarters, where alone they could feel secure from the watchful eyes of the police, and here they both lived by stealing.

But though living with the thieves, and sharing in all things their spoils and their dangers, Helen would make no friends with the men and women she associated with. She had not a vestige of affection to bestow upon any one but Robin, and she and the child lived a life apart. When times were prosperous, she and he shared a small attic together; when times were hard, and her opportunities for purloining scarce, they wandered the streets, sheltering at night under arches, or wherever they could best evade the watchful eye of justice.

During these years Robin was happy. He lived in crime; but crime, under Helen's wing, showed him only her smiling face. He was so bright, so precocious, so full of courage and spirit, that before he was eight years old he was a cleverer thief than Helen herself. The old professional thieves admired him, and offered Helen large sums of money to secure him altogether to themselves; but Helen would part with Robin to no one, and while with her, he was, comparatively speaking, safe.

Shortly before his eighth birthday a very dark time came to his adopted mother and himself. In the first place, the police got wind of the locality where they lived, and in considerable alarm the whole community had to break up. It was the middle of winter, and Helen and Robin found themselves penniless in the streets. That seemed a truly dismal night in the little fellow's life, when, supperless and homeless, he laid his head on his faithful Helen's breast, and cried himself to sleep. He remembered it when darker nights came by-and-by. For three months the two were almost starved. Wherever they went the police seemed to know them, and they found it nearly impossible to ply their evil trade. But at the end of three months the dark cloud appeared to roll away, and the happiest and most luxurious portion of Robin's young life arrived.

Helen, finding herself so well known to the police, determined to shift her quarters. London was large; she might go to a part of London where her face, and the child's face, would be unfamiliar. Hitherto she had frequented the East-end; here she and those who lived like her might best pursue their evil sports; but the West could also afford her a shelter, and to the fashionable West-end she now directed her steps.

Her first day there was marked with success. Spring was coming on, the gay world was in town. She stole ten shillings' worth of goods, and with the money thus secured took possession at once of a small attic in a court at the back of Westminster. How happy were she and Robin as they ate their first supper together in that wretched room! There was no furniture, neither bed nor chair, but on a couple of pen'orths of straw which Helen purchased they slept luxuriously, and awoke refreshed.

"But 'tis an ugly room," said the petted child, looking round him as he demanded his bread and treacle the next morning.

"Never mind, dearie; mother'll brighten it h'up for her pet," answered Helen, who could not bear to refuse him anything.

She had again a successful day, but at night she brought into the empty room neither bed, chair, nor table, but two-and-sixpence worth of gaily coloured prints, which she proceeded to paste on the walls. This feat accomplished, both she and Robin considered the place to look both gay and home-like; nor did they for many days afterwards add furniture to their store.

For six weeks they lived unmolested in this attic, and those six weeks were full of happiness to Robin. He had again enough and to spare, food to eat, a roof to shelter him. Helen was never so indulgent and loving, and, in addition, he had those coloured prints. Those brilliantly-coloured prints opened up a new world to Robin.

In the long spring days that had now arrived, he used to awake early, turn round on his back, and gaze at them. He knew them all by heart. To him those men and women, who in gorgeous raiment laughed and smiled and danced, seemed to represent all that was beautiful. Those impossible flowers, that stage-painted scenery, opened fairy-land to Robin. Never as long as he lived did he forget the gaudy walls of his attic home. In reality, the wretched prints spoke of all that was coarse and low in life; but to the innocent child they meant beauty, and he learned no evil lessons thereby.

The prints, as I said, were coarse; but one, as great a daub as the others, treated at least of a pure and child-like theme. A little girl dressed in white, with curling hair, sat on a bank stringing daisies into a chain. The bank was an impossible green, the child's cheeks an unnatural red, the daisies in her lap were like no daisies ever seen, while the sky over-head lowered down upon her an intense Prussian blue. But Robin was not an art critic, and to him the frightful production meant perfection. Of all the illustrations on the wall, this was his favourite: he liked them all, he loved them all, but he gave his heart to that little maiden in white, and he never tired of asking Helen to tell him her imaginary story.

A few weeks passed thus, when one day, as they were out together, they met an old acquaintance—in short, one of the thieves whom Robin had known and dreaded when he lived in the thieves' quarters. A pang, he knew not why, shot through his young heart when he saw him, and neither was Helen pleased. The man accosted her, however, and though she would not allow him to see her home, they talked together for some time. Whatever their conversation—for they spoke partly in metaphor, partly turning their sentences backwards—it seemed to excite Helen; her bold, black eyes sparkled with something of their old fire, her tones grew loud and eager.

Her companion was evidently entreating her to do something. She hesitated; she looked at Robin; she demurred; finally, she yielded.

That night Robin went to sleep as usual with Helen by his side: he remembered how passionately she kissed him just before he fell asleep, but when the morning dawned she was gone. This had never happened before, and for a moment or two the child felt uneasy, and gazed around him anxiously; then his fears subsided, and, turning on his straw bed, he made himself happy watching the little girl in white, as she strung her daisies. At eleven o'clock Helen returned, flushed, tired, exhausted, her dress torn, and the paint with which she had tried to disguise her appearance scarcely washed away from her face.

She gave Robin his breakfast, locked the door, put the key in her pocket, and telling him to make no noise, for she was tired and sleepy, flung herself on her wretched bed, and slumbered all day. Robin loved her dearly, and he now obeyed her commands to the letter. He sat down on the floor by her side, gazed from her to his pictures, from all his pictures to the one beloved picture Finally laid his curly head next Helen's, and also passed into the land of dreams.

It was almost night when the woman and child awoke. She held out her arms for him, clasped him to her breast, and kissed him. Her long sleep had refreshed her, and she was now in capital spirits.

"What shall mother do for her good little boy? Robin has been good and quiet to-day."

"Tell us a story, mammie!" he answered eagerly.

Helen sat up, smiled, and complied.

"Wot about?" she asked.

"My little gal!" he said, pointing to his pet picture.

Helen had given him many a fanciful account of this child with the brilliant cheeks; she found herself equal to the occasion now.

"Once," she began, "there wos a little gal, a poor little gal——"

"Werry poor, wos she, mammie?" asked Robin, setting himself comfortably in her arms.

"Uncommon!" answered Helen in an impressive voice. "She was that poor that she hadn't a bite to h'eat nor a sup to drink. Orften and orften, fur twenty-four hours on the stretch, she 'ud taste neither bite nor sup."

"My h'eyes!" answered Robin. "She must 'ave been pretty nigh fixed."

"Orften," pursued Helen, "she laid herself down from sheer h'exhaustion, and she would have died but for wan thing."

"Wot wos that?" in a voice of great interest.

"'Er sperrit, lad; she wor h'all made h'up of sperrit, and she 'ud let nothink daunt 'er. Arter she 'ud rested fur a bit, she'd be h'up and about again, and then food 'ud come arter h'all."

"How?" asked Robin.

"Oh! she lived on 'er wits."

Robin made no remark, for the simple reason that he knew quite well what living on one's wits meant. He was silent for a moment, then he said, looking solemnly at his adopted mother—

"Wot wos that 'ere little gal's name?"

It was now Helen's time to pause and consider, for this asking of the name was the crucial point of the narrative. The narrative was always the same,—the same almost to the identical words, for Helen had told the story of the child in white almost every night since her picture had graced the walls; but the name must on each occasion be different, and the finding of a fresh name for each demand for the thrilling tale taxed her ingenuity to the utmost. Now a happy thought occurred to her: she remembered the name of the heroine of the last penny gaff she had gone to.

"Almira," she said; "Almira wos 'er name."

"That's a rare 'un," answered Robin, with a sigh of satisfaction.

"Well," proceeded Helen, "there came a day w'en Almira had nothink to h'eat,—never a bite. She wandered about h'all day, but try as she would, she couldn't crib so much as an apple from an old apple-woman; 'er luck was h'all gone dead agen 'er. She went walkin' h'up and down, and when night came, she was that spent, she sat down on a door-step and began to cry; and while she was crying another little gal, dressed in white, wearin' a neat little hat——"

"With daisies on it?" interrupted Robin.

"Yes, trimmed h'awful fine wid daisies. She came h'up, and she gave little Almira a whole threepenny bit."

Helen said these words calmly, and Robin opened his great eyes wide at the magnitude of the gift.

"When Almira got the money, she stopped cryin' and stared at the pretty little gal; and the little gal said—

"'Poor Almira; come and buy a bun.' And she took 'er 'and, and they bought a real fat bun for a penny, and the little girl gave Almira back the twopence in change. Then the little gal said again, 'You're tired, poor Almira, come and sleep;' and she led 'er h'out—right h'out of the big city into a green, green field, and they lay down side by side on the soft grass, and the stars came h'out h'in the sky h'over 'ead. And Almira never slept so sound in 'er life. In the morning the little gal said, 'Almira, you shall 'ave a beautiful white frock like mine,' and she dressed little Almira h'all in white like herself, only Almira had no flowers; but Almira wanted the flowers, and she began to cry. Then the little gal was sorry, and she took little Almira a long walk through a wood, and at the other side of the wood was a field h'all studded h'over with real livin' daisies as thick as peas, and little Almira sat down and began to make daisy-chains, just like the picture there."

Here Helen paused. Having come to the point where the illustration on the wall could be used, she brought her narrative to an abrupt conclusion; having, indeed, nothing further to say.

Robin gave a deep sigh of satisfaction, but he had a question to ask.

"'Ow did that 'ere little gal in white know Almira's name?" he demanded.

"Oh! she warn't a real little gal; she was a fairy-gal."

"And does fairies know h'everythink?"

"Lor' bless yer, Robin; you, nor the learnest man livin' couldn't beat a fairy for knowingness."

"Well, 'tis real pretty," answered Robin, "and I'd like to meet a fairy as 'ud give me things."

Helen was silent for a few moments, then she said in an abrupt tone—

"Would yer like to see somethink as 'ud—somethink more beautifuller than the fairy h'ever gave to Almira?"

"Oh yes, yes, mother."

"And yer'el never tell about it to nobody?"

"Never."

"Then come to the winder."

The sun had by this time gone down, and it was by the light of a bright moon under the tiny skylight that Helen showed to Robin a brilliant and most valuable diamond ring.

The child gave an exclamation of surprise and delight, as he gazed at the sparkling treasure.

"Does Robin know wot this 'ul do for 'im and 'is h'old mammie?"

"No, mammie—wot, wot?"

Then Helen sat down again on the floor, and taking the child in her arms, told him a wonderful story—a story beside which the poor tale of Almira and her fairy faded into nothing. That ring was very valuable; it would bring in money—a lot of money. Helen meant to sell the ring and get the money.

"Would Robin like to know what she intended to do with that money?"

"Yes," answered the eager child in an excited voice.

"Well, she would do a wonderful thing. She was tired of London; Robin was tired of London: she and Robin should leave London for ever. Robin liked flowers and green fields; he should sec them—live amongst them. He and Helen would go away in a big ship, far over the blue, blue sea, to a far-away country. There they could live in the green fields, and gather the flowers and be happy—a thousand, ten thousand times happier than they ever were in London!

"And prig things?" asked Robin. "Will it be h'easy to prig things h'out there, mother?"

"No, no, laddie; we'll not prig—we'll do nothink there as we did here."

"But why, mammie?"

"Cause we'll lead an h'altogether fresh life—we'll be honest h'out there."

"What's honest?" asked the child.

"Never mind; I'll tell you wen we get there."

Robin was silent; Helen clasped him closely in her arms. His question had caused some emotion in her heart: her hard face was softened; there was a contraction of pain on her brow.

"What's honest?" asked the little child.

Oh that she could tell him—that she dared to tell him! Helen had not even yet lost all love for virtue. And at this moment, in that poor heart, the desire after goodness was strong. When they went to America, she and the child might give up being thieves. In America it might be possible for them both neither to starve nor to eat the bread of dishonesty. Thus, at this moment, the longing that the new life might be an honest life was the most passionate feeling she had concerning it.

The child, weary of her silence, fell asleep in her arms. The moon shone full on the black lashes lying on the round cheek, on the golden-crowned head, on the sweet smiling lips. Oh! how she loved him! how sweet it would be to her even yet, notwithstanding all her sin and defilement, to feel that he might grow up good, virtuous, and happy!

She took the diamond ring again out of her pocket, looking with pleasure at its flashing gems. Poor Helen! by this evil road she thought she could reach the safe path of virtue.

CHAPTER IV.

THE SHOPS FROM END TO END WERE WIDELY OPEN.

The next morning Helen got up early, gave Robin his breakfast of cold ham which she had bought in slices, tea and bread and butter. She also made a capital meal herself. Having washed and put away their poor breakfast service, which consisted of a cracked old sugar-basin, a black tea-pot with half a spout, a dinner plate, pewter spoon, and old knife, she proceeded to tidy herself, and to put on some garments of a more respectable nature than those she wore on ordinary occasions. She also made Robin as smart as her resources would permit. Then taking his hand she went out, locking the attic door behind her. It was Sunday, and when Helen and Robin got into the street, they saw some groups of happy-looking children on their way to Sunday school.

"Are we goin' in the big ship to-day, mother?" enquired the little boy.

"May-be, may-be, my pet; but don't talk of it," answered Helen.

Her face had an anxious expression to-day; she looked nervously behind her more than once. Her fine spirits of the night before had completely deserted her.

The two walked on for some time in silence. Then Helen hailed a passing omnibus, and mounted on the roof with Robin. This omnibus took them as far as the Bank. As they passed St. Paul's, they heard the sweet sound of the bells calling them, and such as them, to worship God; but neither woman nor child listened or heeded; they were bound on a very different errand.

When they arrived at the Bank, Helen again took Robin's hand, and walked quickly with him through the quiet and deserted city into a very different region. Here she was in well-known quarters, and here she saw plenty of life and movement. No Sabbath calm met her here. It was church time—a time when no costermonger who valued his liberty would dare to remain selling his oranges in Holborn or Westminster; but here, in Mitre Street, Aldgate, the law which teaches man to pay some outward respect to the Sabbath seemed neither to be enforced nor regarded. The shops from end to end were widely open; the shopkeepers boldly proclaimed their goods; buyers were bidding, fighting, and pushing their way to newly-discovered bargains. The streets were actually swarming with costermongers, who sold cherries, strawberries, ices, and every conceivable and inconceivable eatable. This busy scene caused Helen not the least surprise; she walked steadily on through the crowd, nodding now and then to a chance acquaintance, but entering into conversation with no one. Anybody who watched her face would have seen that the nervous expression was more marked there—that she started when each fresh friend addressed her—that she seemed feverishly anxious to reach her destination.

It is the law of England that until one o'clock on Sunday morning all public-houses are obliged to be closed; this law is enforced with severe punishment to those who transgress it. Nevertheless now, a little before noon on this Sabbath morning, it was to a tavern or public-house that Helen bent her steps. No policeman was there to hinder or say her nay.

Giving Robin a penny to play pitch-and-toss with some other boys, and telling him to wait for her, she pushed aside the swinging door and went in. She entered on an unusual scene. This tavern or public-house was evidently meant to combine a twofold object. The last things that could apparently be placed in conjunction met here; the tavern was also a jeweller's shop. It might perhaps be better described as a second-hand plate and jewel bazaar, to which was joined a drinking-bar.

Helen, on entering, walked down a passage, and opened another door covered with green baize. Here she was greeted with an immense cloud of cigar smoke. In the centre of the room were a crowd of people, some fifty or sixty, unmistakably Jews. Round the room were ranged tables literally heaped with precious things—silver spoons, silver tea and breakfast services, tea-kettles, cups, vases. Watches were in such numbers that they might have been sold by the half hundred. On every side brisk business was going on.

When Helen found herself in the midst of this busy, motley crowd she glanced eagerly round; then, apparently relieved from some anxiety, marched up with a firm step and business-like air to an old Jew, whose table, containing rings, brooches, studs, &c., was a little apart from the others, and pulling out an old purse extracted from it her treasure—the valuable diamond ring she had shown to Robin the night before.

The old Jew examined it eagerly, turned it over, flung it on the counter, took it up again; finally offered Helen fifty pounds for a gem worth a thousand.

Helen, however, had set her own value on the ring, and was too clever and knowing to be cheated out of what she considered her due. She would give the Jew the ring for one hundred sovereigns, paid down in gold on the spot. Whatever the reason, this offer was not acceded to; and Helen, with the valuable ring still in her possession, left the shop to try her fortune elsewhere.

She was excited now, and defiant. Calling Robin, she went along the street, for a house of a similar character was to be found at the other end.

Poor Helen! she never thought of danger, when danger of the kind she most dreaded was at her heels. A policeman now followed her down the street. When she reached its end, she again told Robin to wait for her, and promising to return in a few moments, turned the corner. Then and there she was arrested, and the diamond ring being found on her person, she was carried off to prison charged with the burglary she was engaged in two nights before.

CHAPTER V.

JUSTICE AND THE LAW MIGHT HAVE
STOOD STILL.

Robin waited for Helen for an hour—for two hours. By the end of this time he was tired at playing pitch-and-toss—tired also of waiting for his only friend. He was not at all uneasy, however. Helen had found some reason for starting home without him.

He had won a few pence at his game; he bought a penny bun, wandered about until he felt tired, then started back at a swinging pace to his attic in Westminster.

He was really disappointed when he found the door locked and no Helen within: but he was not alarmed; such things had often happened before. He lay down on the narrow landing outside the door, curled himself up like a little dog, and slept till morning.

He was rather surprised at no Helen greeting him in the morning; he was more disappointed, however, than frightened. His merry heart did not fail him, and he started on his day's rounds, whistling a gay street tune, and with a penny in his pocket. He bought some fusees with his penny, and began to hawk them about for sale, watching with a keen eye his chance of securing, at least, a pocket handkerchief when the bobbies were not looking. His one fear in life was the bobbies, otherwise he had courage sufficient to expend in a worthier cause.

A little girl and her mother went by; the little girl was dressed beautifully, she had dainty boots and a white summer frock. As she passed by Robin, who was hungry, dirty, waiting for his opportunity to steal, she dropped, without knowing it, a tiny purse made of silk, and ornamented with silver tassels. The purse itself, independent of what it contained, was a prize. Quick as thought, Robin darted forward and secured it, then stepped back into his place as if nothing had happened.

The child had nearly reached the opposite side of the crossing before she missed the purse. Her pretty face flushed up and she began to cry. Robin could not bear this; though a thief, he was tender-hearted; he ran after the child and gave her back her purse. In doing this he was giving up his best chance of breakfast, dinner, supper—no mean sacrifice.

"Oh! thank you," said the child, drying her tears and smiling joyfully. "I'm so much obliged to you. Where did you find it? Mother, may I give this poor little boy sixpence for finding my pretty purse?"

"No, no, dear," replied the mother, who had observed Robin's dirt, and feared some infectious disease. "I have no spare sixpences about me, and the boy simply did his duty. Come on!"

"My purse only holds one crown-piece, but I may break that, may I not, mother?"

"What! your grandfather's present! I am surprised at you, Ada; come on!"

"Well, I will shake hands with him," said the wilful child, running up to Robin and taking his brown hand in hers, "Thank you, dear, nice little boy! I'm so glad to have my pretty purse again."

For an hour after this Robin's heart thumped joyfully; he was so happy that he forgot to steal; but at the end of that time hunger compelled him to purloin a silk pocket handkerchief from a fat old gentleman who was waiting to cross at the Bank. On this spoil he managed to live for that day and part of the next; and so, stealing a little, begging a little, working a little, in short, existing "on his wits," as he termed it, a fortnight and even three weeks, went by.

During all this time he had never heard a single word about Helen. Night after night he went back to the attic where last they had been together, but he and she were both strangers in that part, and the people about could tell him nothing. He became uneasy, frightened; his buoyant spirits were giving way; he was a very little fellow to be quite thrown on his own resources in London, and he began seriously to grieve for the woman whom he believed to be his mother.

One day a crowd of people were pushing and jostling to get into the court at the Old Bailey. Robin, very fond of mingling in crowds, ran quickly to join them, and when they filed into the building and filled that portion of it allotted to the public, he pushed and struggled with his agile little body until he found himself in a very prominent position.

The scene before him was novel, he could not understand it. Near him stood a good-natured-looking woman, of whom he asked some eager questions. Several people who had committed a daring city burglary were about to be tried and punished, she told him.

"Wot's a burglary?" asked the young thief, looking up innocently.

"Why, bless us and save us! breakin' into 'ouses, lad, and makin' off with other folks' belongings. This case about to be tried was one of shop-lifting, and they do say the parties carried orf, besides gems innumerable, more 'n a hundred diamond rings. My man, wot's in the same business, told me h'all about it."

Robin suddenly grew pale and silent. A hundred diamond rings! What was that tale Helen had told him the last night they were together? How very flush of money Helen had been that night! What a prime supper she had treated him to, and how loving she had been! But surely, surely she had told him something about diamonds, had even shown him a diamond ring that flashed and sparkled in his hand.

Suddenly, with these rapidly recurring memories, the boy felt himself growing intensely anxious, intensely old, intensely wise. He had a kind of presentiment of what was coming, and hardly started when the next moment Helen herself was led into the prisoners' dock.

During the trial that followed, he scarcely breathed; incomprehensible as most of it was to him, he listened to every word, held quiet by a tension and dread which he could not explain away. Never, until the sentence was pronounced, and Helen Morris was doomed to five years' penal servitude, did Robin stir. Just then, the wretched prisoner, whose eyes had hitherto been fixed on the ground, raised them; the first thing she encountered was the sorrowful gaze of the only creature on earth she loved. She uttered a shrill sharp cry, and covered her face with her hands.

At this cry, the torpor, which had hitherto kept Robin quiet, left him; he became like a little fury, and fighting his way savagely to right and left, found his way to her side. For one half instant Helen held him in her arms.

Let him stay there! he may never again receive a loving embrace.

Oh! I think, I think even Justice and the Law might have stood still for one moment to let that woman and that child take another kiss. But no, the police dragged him away, the crowd hustled him out. With jeers and cries of "Thief!" "Son of a thief!" he found himself in the open air.

The woman who had spoken to him kindly, pointed now at him with a finger of scorn: and two or three boys, out of mischief, raised the cry of "Stop, thief!"

The terrified, angry, sorrowful child, began by giving battle—ended by flying from his tormentors. Down street after street did they pursue him, each moment adding numbers to their train. He ran faster, faster; down court and alley. A church with an open door met his eye; he rushed in for shelter.

Into a crimson-cushioned pew he ran. There was no one there. He curled himself up on the softest cushion, and in this calm, sacred spot, cried himself to sleep.

In his sleep he dreamt of Helen, and of the beautiful child who had spoken to him kindly. His sorrows were forgotten; he was smiling and dreaming peacefully, when suddenly a hand seized him by his rough hair, and a voice said rudely—

"Now, then, you little varmint, make yerself scarce, this minute. Lying down and going to sleep in my lord's pew! 'Tis to the p'leece I should 'and you h'over. What next, I wonder?"

As Robin was being ignominiously expelled from God's house, the organ was pealing forth solemn strains, the choir-boys were filing into their places, and my lord himself was approaching his crimson-lined pew. It was a great festival, for which special preparations had been made; who can wonder at the verger being annoyed with Robin? For it had evidently never occurred to this verger, that He for whom the church was built, He, whom they worshipped with solemn strains of music, and much pomp and solemnity, had yet considered this little waif and stray sufficiently worthy of notice to die for him.

PART IV.

HOW HE FARED,

"So leave, oh! leave the children
    To ignorance and woe,
And I'll come in and teach them
    The way that they should go."
                                        CHARLES MACKAY.
                                                    —Souls of the Children.

CHAPTER I.

HIS BROTHER—THE PHILANTHROPIST.

As Robin was standing rubbing his tear-stained eyes outside the church door, a man, who considered himself a philanthropist, but was not, passed by.

He saw the disreputable-looking child, observed that he stood almost inside the church porch, and thought it a nice opportunity for holding forth to this young sinner on the error of his ways.

Judging correctly by Robin's outward appearance that he was a little scapegrace, a regular scamp of the streets, and assuming incorrectly that he was hardened within, he set to work on the much-practised principle of making hard, harder.

"Come, come, my lad, what are you idling there for? If you don't want to go into the church you had better be off about your business. Don't you know now"—this in a would-be patronising tone—"that idling is very sinful?"

While the gentleman was speaking, Robin had been running his bright eyes all over him, and inwardly speculating how best he might secure his pocket handkerchief: finding, however, that he was expected to reply, he hung his head and said,

"Dunno."

"You don't know!" repeated the gentleman, getting wroth. "Did your mother never tell you that verse out of the Bible—'If a man will not work, neither shall he eat?'"

"Dunno," said Robin, more helplessly than before.

"Gracious me! what ignorance, and in a Christian land! Where do you go to school, lad?"

"Doesn't go nowheres," said Robin.

"But you are over the age; the Board ought to know of this. What's your home address?" taking out his pocket-book.

"Eh?" questioned Robin.

"Don't you understand me, child? Where do you sleep at night?"

"Hany wheres."

"Well, where?"

"Nowheres in 'ticlar."

The gentleman returned his pocket-book to the seclusion of his pocket in a mild, not an acute, fit of despair.

"Did not suppose there was such a case left in London—a homeless child! Really very interesting; wonder what his ideas of religion are?"

This man never gave a thought to the poor little starving body.

"Now, my lad, you have heard of God, of course?"

"Yes, zir."

"Ah! What do you know about Him?"

"Don't know nothink but His name—give us a 'ap'ny, zir."

"Gracious me! what depravity! Confesses that he knows nothing of God, and in the same breath asks for a halfpenny." This the gentleman whispered to himself; aloud, he said, "Listen, boy, I am really anxious to help you, but I make it a rule never to give to beggars. You are a strong lad, and should work for your living. But your ignorance is frightful; you tell me to my face you know nothing of your Creator. Now you must go to school—Will you? I will give you the address of one that will receive you."

"Yes, zir; yes, zir. Give us a 'ap'ny, zir. I be rare and 'ungry, zir."

"No, I make it a principle never to encourage idling; you must work for your halfpenny, I have told you this already. There are a thousand things you can do; go as an errand-boy, sweep a crossing—your hands were not given you for nothing; but here," taking a card out of his pocket, "is the address of a nice ragged school, opened for little boys like you. Let me persuade you, my dear lad, to go there this evening; any one will read the address I have written here for you."

He put the card into Robin's hand and moved off, the boy raising after him once more his shrill cry—

"I be rare and 'ungry, zir; give us a 'ap'ny, and God bless yer."

A moment or two later the gentleman missed his pocket handkerchief, which Robin soon sold for a plentiful meal. It never occurred to him that Robin was the thief, for the child had an innocent, nay, contradictory as it may sound, an honest, open expression, which forbade any such thought in connection with him.

The gentleman walked on, pleased with himself and his well-chosen words: he had read the little street lad a lecture, and put him in the way of entering the paths of goodness. It never crossed his mind that he might have employed his time better by giving Robin the halfpenny he desired; or, better still, by putting him in the way of earning it for himself. He walked on, well pleased with himself, but nevertheless shocked for Robin.

"Ignorant of all but the name of the Almighty! Who'd have thought it? who would have thought it, in our enlightened days, and without a home, too. I did not suppose there was such a case left in London. What with our industrial schools, and reformatories, and ragged schools, and refuges of all sorts, there ought not to be one such child now left in London."

Quite right, Mr. Philanthropist—there ought not to be; but what if it has been proved by the most careful computation that cases such as Robin's, number in our city, not by hundreds, but by thousands?*

* "The number of destitutes, or homeless juveniles under sixteen years of age in London, cannot be less than thirty thousand."—From a paper read before the Social Science Congress at Liverpool, Oct. 1876

CHAPTER II.

WHAT THE COUNTRY FOLKS DID FOR HIM.

That night Robin, for the first time, as far as man was concerned, utterly friendless, lay down under an archway to sleep. He had often slept under archways, and his position outwardly was no different from what it had been the night before. The philanthropist's pocket handkerchief had yielded him a bun for his supper; he was not hungry, he was stupid and tired from sorrow, and he quickly fell asleep; but his sleep was not happy, his loneliness pursued him even into the land of dreams. He was alone, quite alone, that was the thought that haunted him. Suddenly he was awakened by a very gentle sound in his ear, and the sensation of something warm rubbing his cheek.

There was light enough on that summer evening for him to see the cause of the gentle sound and the warmth. A large, well-fed tabby cat had curled herself up close to him, was purring the softest, most soothing purr of satisfaction, and was looking at him from out of her comfortable face with considerable interest, and even affection. The fact was, the cat had wandered too far from home, was a trifle hungry, and a trifle cold; she found a few crumbs about Robin, and a little heat in remaining close to his person. It was her intention to spend the night with him.

All his little life Robin had been fond of animals. The very first present Helen had given him had been a blind puppy, which in the excess of his affection he had worried to death. Now he hailed the arrival of the large, sleek cat with delight. He pressed her in his arms, and laid his cheek against hers; and when he felt the quick beat of her heart against his own, his great loneliness vanished. Thus his second sleep was sound and happy.

When in the early morning he awoke and prepared to set off to pilfer in Covent Garden, his friend rose also; but her services, as far as he was concerned, were at an end. She refused his caresses, whisked her tall at his approach, and, vanishing round the corner, disappeared in the direction of her own happy home. Nevertheless, for a few hours she had comforted him, and he whistled more merrily that day under the vague hope that she would return the next night to the same archway, and allow him to stroke down her soft rich fur, and take her in his arms once more. But his hope was vain; the grey cat was faithless, and again he was alone.

He sat down under the archway, pressed his little head on his childish hands, and tried to think. He had never known such utter loneliness before, and it was now loneliness without hope. There was no chance now of Helen returning to him. Days, weeks, months would not bring Helen back to him. She had been shut up in prison for years, and years seemed as long as eternity to the little child. He missed Helen, he missed the attic where he had been happy for so long. He thought again of that last night when they had been so contented together. How kind Helen had been to him that night! and what bright promises she had made for the future! They were going away in a ship—he and she; going across the ocean to a bright and pleasant land, where the fields were green, and the flowers blossomed in numbers. They were to leave the dingy, dirty city, and go to a place where they would neither be hungry nor unhappy again. It all sounded very delightful to Robin, and it would have happened had Helen not been put in prison. His tears dropped heavily as he thought of it now. He fell asleep after a time, for a child will sleep through every sorrow; but he awoke the next morning feeling dull and unrefreshed.

For the first time his gay heart had utterly failed him. He did not go as usual to Covent Garden. He had a penny in his pocket: with this penny he bought some breakfast at a coffee-stall, then walked aimlessly along the streets. As he did so, a great waggon full of hay passed slowly by. A boy, a good deal older than Robin, had curled himself up in the back part of the waggon, and was preparing to have a ride and a sleep in the fragrant hay.

Just as the great load was passing where Robin stood, the driver discovered this boy, and with a heavy slash of his whip unearthed him from his hiding-place.

"Look here, yer young warmint: ef I catches yer at that ere work agen, 'tis to the p'leece I'll 'and yer h'over, and then yer'll know wot the Lock-h'up's like."

The boy slunk away, but Robin's heart awoke with a new hope as these words sounded on his ears. He believed he had discovered a way back to Helen. When Helen was arrested, she was taken to the Lock-up. That was the place where every one on whom the police were able to lay their hands was taken. From the Lock-up they went to be tried; from their place of trial they were sent to prison. Helen herself had told Robin this, and it occurred to him now, with a great flutter of hope in his heart and a flash of fresh light in his eyes, that he had found a way back to Helen. How often he had trembled and turned pale at the word—the dreadful word, Prison! but nothing now was half so horrible as this loneliness, without his one and only friend. He would even go to prison to find Helen again; and here—here was the way made plain to him. If he, instead of that other boy, got up into that warm bed amongst the hay, why, then, the driver would send him to the Lock-up; and from thence, after a time—he hoped a short time—he should go to prison and find his beloved Helen again.

This idea had scarcely entered his head before his resolve was taken. His movements were light and agile as a bird's; he ran behind the waggon, vaulted into the place where the other boy had been, and curled himself up in the warm, fragrant hay.

The step he had taken was a daring one, and for a time his heart beat high with a feeling of half hope, half fear; then the luxury of his present berth, after the cold dreariness of last night's resting-place under the archway, told on his weary limbs. His head began to nod, his brown eyes to close, and presently the little fellow fell fast asleep. It seemed to him hours, almost a lifetime, before he awoke again.

The motion of the slow-going waggon had brought on very sweet and dreamless sleep, and when he opened his eyes he was sorely puzzled to know where he was. His wonder was all the greater, because now the waggon had come to its destination, the horses had been taken away, and Robin found himself tilted further and more securely into his hiding-place.

When memory returned to him, which of course it did after a little time, he still lay without moving; he was really too comfortable to stir. Then he stretched out his hand, and drew the fragrant hay close to him, and smelt it: finally, curiosity awoke in his breast; he raised his head cautiously and looked out. The scene he saw astonished him; nay more, it nearly took his breath away. Bending over the waggon, sheltering all its great load of hay, was a vast, wide-spreading oak tree. The leaves of this great tree were so close to Robin when he put out his head, that some of them actually brushed against his forehead. He raised his eyes to look up into this world of green. Beyond it, looking bluer than he had ever beheld it before, he caught a glimpse of the sky. A bird, his own namesake in fact, sang down to him from the boughs of the oak tree. He pushed his head out a little farther, and gazed eagerly about him.

A whole brood of yellow, downy chickens, led by their anxious parent, were pecking, scratching, fighting for the seed which dropped from the hay. These chickens had come close to Robin, and one or two of them even saw him, and stared up impudently with their bright black eyes. A little farther on he saw a house—a house with a deep porch, covered over with creepers and bright flowers. Lying half within the shelter of the porch was an old watch-dog, fast asleep. A couple of children, sunburnt and rosy-cheeked, played near the dog.

Away in the distance were fields studded with haycocks; fields, also, wavy with the yet unripe corn. But close, close to the old house, almost within a stone's throw of where Robin lay, was a smaller field, studded also—richly studded; but with something else,—white, white daisies.

The moment he saw the field with the daisies—for from Helen's description he knew they must be daisies—his quick wits returned to him, and he remembered why he had got into the waggon—and why, in short, he was here at all. The sight of the daisies had brought back the coloured picture in the old attic—had brought back, with a painful heart-longing, the thought of Helen. Well! he was all right, he was certain now to be taken to the Lock-up—certain now to be given back to Helen. If the other boy, who was only a few moments in that delightful hiding-place, was worthy of so severe a punishment, how thoroughly must he—Robin—deserve it! He had been a long time in the waggon; he had been asleep amongst the hay. No—there was certainly no fear—not the very least fear of his escaping punishment. He chuckled to himself at the thought, and wondered what the people, who by-and-by would send him to the Lock-up, would think did they know that while they believed they were punishing him, they were in reality furthering his dearest wishes? These pleasant ideas had just occurred to him when a fresh object appeared to distract his attention.

A woman came out of the house, and stood in the porch just where Robin, by raising his head very cautiously, could get a full view of her. She was a very comely, rosy-faced woman. Such a woman as Robin had never seen in all his life before. Her round, apple-blossom cheeks, her contented eyes, her smooth forehead, all denoted that she and want—she and care—she and suffering—were strangers. She and they had never exchanged a hand-clasp. Into her life of full and plenty, these destroyers had not intruded. Shading her eyes from the hot rays of the afternoon sun, the woman looked around her, to right and left of her. Presently her eyes fell on the two little children at her feet; she smiled down at them, then said in her rich, cheery tones—

"Run into the house, Pansy and Cherry. Dinner's ready—a nice apple turnover for each little pet."

Laughing and clapping their hands, the sunburnt children disappeared, and the woman was about to follow them, when a peculiarly clucking sound from the old hen, which still remained close to Robin, drew her attention.

She stepped across the farmyard, came near the downy brood of chickens, and began reckoning them with a very satisfied expression on her comely face.

A slight rustling in the straw overhead caused her to raise her eyes, and there and then she encountered the fixed, half-frightened, half-impudent gaze of the little waif and stray who had been brought to her doors.

It took but an instant for Robin to tumble out of his hiding-place, to go on his knees and whine out with a piteous intonation—

"Please, please 'm, 'ow soon'll yer send me to the Lock-h'up?"

"Bless us and save us!" said Mrs. Martin, the farmer's wife. She fell back a pace or two in her astonishment, and flushed deeply, half with fear, half with amusement.

"Where did you come from, little boy?" she asked, when she could find her voice.

"From Lunnon, please, lady. Please, am I to be took to the Lock-h'up?"

"John Jones," called out Mrs. Martin, using her by no means weak lungs to some purpose. "I say, John Jones, come here, and be quick about it. See," she added, as the burly driver of the waggon answered her summons, "what you brought back with you along with the unsold hay."

"The young warmint!" exclaimed Jones, scratching his head. "Well, well," thrusting his great hand into the hole where Robin had concealed himself, "he'll catch it. Didn't I tell yer as yer'd catch it?" he added, laying his hand with a rough shake on the child's thin shoulder.

"No, no; that was the other boy!" exclaimed Robin. "I heard yer say as yer'd take the h'other boy to the Lock-h'up, and I wanted to be took, so I 'id h'up among the straw. I say, worn't it warm?"

"Shall I take 'im away, missus?" asked Jones, utterly ignoring Robin's confession, which, indeed—nor can I blame him—he failed to understand.

"By no means," answered Mrs. Martin good-humouredly; "leave the little fellow for a few moments; I daresay he is hungry. Follow me, little one."

There is no doubt that Robin was hungry, ravenously hungry, and he certainly lost neither time nor inclination in following his hostess into the big, bright, warm kitchen, where, indeed, he beheld luxuries his ignorant young soul had never even dreamed of.

By this time Pansy and Cherry had demolished their apple turnovers; and when they saw their mother and the little ragged stranger, they scrambled off their chairs and ran forward to meet them; but Mrs. Martin, perceiving Robin's dirt, would permit of no contact with her own children. She believed herself an excellent Christian and a charitable woman; but both her charity and Christianity would only carry her certain lengths.

Motioning the eager Pansy and Cherry back with a wave of her hand and t quick, sharp word, she called to Robin to follow her to the scullery. Here the kitchen-maid, Betty, regaled him plentifully with cold pork and potatoes; but even she did not care to touch the neglected child.

Robin, however, oblivious of all possible want of manners in his treatment, regarded himself as the luckiest boy in the world. But in the delight of satisfying the cravings of his healthy appetite, he was not so overpowered as to forget his primary object; and when he had finished such a meal as Betty afterwards declared "no Christian 'ad ever got inside of hisself afore," he suddenly darted past her, right into the kitchen, and up to Mrs. Martin's side.

"Stand back, little fellow," said Mrs. Martin, not unkindly, as, coming too near, he trod on her clean print gown.

"Please 'm," said Robin, "I'm a ready now!"

"For what, child?"

"To be took to the Lock-h'up. I 'as h'eat full and plenty, and I'm quite ready."

"But I don't want to send you to any Lock-up, little boy; I am glad you had a meal to eat. Run away now; Betty will show you to the gate: you are quite ten miles out of London."

At these words of Mrs. Martin's Robin felt his buoyant heart utterly failing him. Was it possible that his daring enterprise was going to fail after all?

"Ain't I to be a punished?" he asked.

"No, no; foolish child, what am I to punish you for?"

"Ain't it real bad to curl h'up and go to sleep in the nice 'ot 'ay? I thought as it wor real bad."

"It was not a very nice thing to do, but I forgive you."

"But, oh! 'm please 'm, I doesn't want to be forgive."

By this time Mrs. Martin was both puzzled and annoyed.

"You are talking nonsense, child—what do you want?"

"To be took to the Lock-h'up."

"Little idiot! what do you mean? you must be mad to wish to go to such a place."

"I ain't mad, I ain't—I wants fur to see Helen."

"Who is Helen?"

"Ohl she's my mother, and she's in prison; and ef I went to the Lock-h'up I'd be took back to 'er—oh! oh! oh!"

Here Robin's courage and fortitude failed him, and he began to sob most piteously.

But Mrs. Martin saw neither his tears nor his misery.

Before the revelation he had unwittingly made, both her charity and her Christian principle gave way. What creature was this she had taken into the shelter of her respectable house? had fed, and offered hospitality and kind words to? a little gamin from the London streets, a child whose mother was in prison, convicted of a crime, perhaps a crime of murder, at least convicted of a heinous crime! of course the child of such a person must be a thief, a rogue, all—all that was bad. There was no saying what petty pilferings he had already committed. What a lucky thing she had desired Betty to remain with him in the scullery, or where now would be her silver spoons?

These thoughts passed rapidly through her mind, though still she considered herself too good a Christian to be actually unkind to Robin. She would say no unkind word to him, she would not even search him—though, it must be owned, she rather longed to thrust her hands into the pockets of the ragged boy. No, she would dismiss him quickly, but with no word of reproach.

"You must go away, child," she said. "You must leave this place at once, and never come back again. Now! do you hear? I am sorry I cannot help you further. Betty," turning to her handmaid, "see this boy to the gate; put him out, and lock it after him. You understand me, Betty? you are to lock the gate, and bring me back the key."