saint, jostling her as he passes can be seen the excited face of the gambler who has staked his all and lost, and again another flower-girl bearing her bright burden, now seen and again lost sight of, looks like a bright humming bird as she flits along, moving hither and thither in this strange medley of human beings.  A group has gathered around some Italian street musicians; little ragged urchins are dancing in time to a merry waltz, and now the tune changes from gay to grave.  Watch the expression of the dark-eyed harpist while he plays, surely his thoughts have flown to his sunny Italy, so sad, so dreamy is his look.  Even this picturesque looking street musician may have a romance and may be dreaming at this moment of some sweet voiced Italian maiden.

Later in the day all the fashionable world is astir.  Elegant carriages with gaily dressed occupants are dashing along.  There is a carriage with the paint scarcely yet dry and seated within is a red-faced vulgar looking woman, the carriage, the horses, the woman, all painfully—­new.  At the same time hurrying along in shabby dress and mean attire is a fragile delicate woman whose garb shows evidences of much mending and patient darning, but the shabby dress cannot hide the fact that here is a lady, as with easy grace she moves down the street.

The afternoon is somewhat advanced and the occasional glimpses which we get of the flower girl show that her basket has been replenished but she does not move quite so quickly as in the morning.  Her limbs are getting weary, and there is a pathetic little note in her voice now as she offers her flowers for sale.

But see! on the bridge is the figure of a woman.  No need to hear her history, the face tells its own story of sin and misery.  She is looking down at the river which flows sluggishly on; down perhaps at her own reflection in the water, down perhaps deeper still into her own soul.  The face is hardened and set and there is scarcely a trace of womanly likeness left.  A life of sin and shame has almost obliterated all that is good in her nature, almost I say, for no one, no matter how low or degraded, can be wholly bad.  But here it is difficult to discern one soft look, as she leans wearily over the railing of the bridge—­a silent, sad, sin-stained creature.  Soon there is a sound of wheels and gay laughter and a carriage rolls by, and there can be no mistaking the nature and errand of the occupants.  A young girl, with sweet, pure face, all in white, with white flowers in her hair and carrying a bouquet of white flowers in her hand, is being driven towards the church.  Passing the solitary woman on the bridge she picks a beautiful flower from the bouquet she is carrying and tosses it at her feet, for she wishes to-day to make all whom she sees as happy as herself.  A little of the hard look leaves the woman’s face as she stoops to pick the flower.  Mechanically she follows the carriage, with stealthy steps and bated