Night closed in, and it began to rain.  We were about to return homewards, when a voice, a human voice, strange now to hear, attracted our attention.  It was a child singing a merry, lightsome air; there was no other sound.  We had traversed London from Hyde Park even to where we now were in the Minories, and had met no person, heard no voice nor footstep.  The singing was interrupted by laughing and talking; never was merry ditty so sadly timed, never laughter more akin to tears.  The door of the house from which these sounds proceeded was open, the upper rooms were illuminated as for a feast.  It was a large magnificent house, in which doubtless some rich merchant had lived.  The singing again commenced, and rang through the high-roofed rooms, while we silently ascended the stair-case.  Lights now appeared to guide us; and a long suite of splendid rooms illuminated, made us still more wonder.  Their only inhabitant, a little girl, was dancing, waltzing, and singing about them, followed by a large Newfoundland dog, who boisterously jumping on her, and interrupting her, made her now scold, now laugh, now throw herself on the carpet to play with him.  She was dressed grotesquely, in glittering robes and shawls fit for a woman; she appeared about ten years of age.  We stood at the door looking on this strange scene, till the dog perceiving us barked loudly; the child turned and saw us:  her face, losing its gaiety, assumed a sullen expression:  she slunk back, apparently meditating an escape.  I came up to her, and held her hand; she did not resist, but with a stern brow, so strange in childhood, so different from her former hilarity, she stood still, her eyes fixed on the ground.  “What do you do here?” I said gently; “Who are you?”—­she was silent, but trembled violently.—­“My poor child,” asked Adrian, “are you alone?” There was a winning softness in his voice, that went to the heart of the little girl; she looked at him, then snatching her hand from me, threw herself into his arms, clinging round his neck, ejaculating—­“Save me! save me!” while her unnatural sullenness dissolved in tears.

“I will save you,” he replied, “of what are you afraid? you need not fear my friend, he will do you no harm.  Are you alone?”

“No, Lion is with me.”

“And your father and mother?—­”

“I never had any; I am a charity girl.  Every body is gone, gone for a great, great many days; but if they come back and find me out, they will beat me so!”

Her unhappy story was told in these few words:  an orphan, taken on pretended charity, ill-treated and reviled, her oppressors had died:  unknowing of what had passed around her, she found herself alone; she had not dared venture out, but by the continuance of her solitude her courage revived, her childish vivacity caused her to play a thousand freaks, and with her brute companion she passed a long holiday, fearing nothing but the return of the harsh voices and cruel usage of her protectors.  She readily consented to go with Adrian.