“You have no business on our door step,” said the girl, harshly.  “Go away directly, or I shall tell my servant to call a policeman.”

Then, as she entered the brougham after her mother, she addressed the respectable footman angrily, giving him the benefit of a strong nasal intonation.

“Howard, why do you let such dirty beggars come near the carriage?  What are you paid for, I should like to know?  It is perfectly disgraceful to the house!”

“Very sorry, miss!” said the footman, gravely.  “I didn’t see the—­the person before.”  Then shutting the brougham door, he turned with a dignified air to the unfortunate creature, who still lingered near, and, with a sweeping gesture of his gold-embroidered coat-sleeve, said majestically: 

“Do you ’ear?  Be hoff!”

Then, having thus performed his duty, he mounted the box beside his friend the coachman, and the equipage rattled quickly away, its gleaming lights soon lost in the smoke-laden vapours that drooped downward like funeral hangings from the invisible sky to the scarcely visible ground.  Left to herself, the woman who had vainly sought charity from those in whom no charity existed, looked up despairingly, as one distraught, and seemed as though she would have given vent to some fierce exclamation, when a feeble wail came pitifully forth from the sheltering folds of her shawl.  She restrained herself instantly, and walked on at a rapid pace, scarcely heeding whither she went, till she reached the Catholic church known as the “Oratory.”  Its unfinished facade loomed darkly out of the fog; there was nothing picturesque or inviting about it, yet there were people passing softly in and out, and through the swinging to and fro of the red baize-covered doors there came a comforting warm glimmer of light.  The woman paused, hesitated, and then, having apparently made up her mind, ascended the broad steps, looked in, and finally entered.  The place was strange to her; she knew nothing of its religious meaning, and its cold, uncompleted appearance oppressed her.  There were only some half-dozen persons scattered about, like black specks, in its vast white interior, and the fog hung heavily in the vaulted dome and dark little chapels.  One corner alone blazed with brilliancy and colour; this was the altar of the Virgin.  Toward it the tired vagrant made her way, and on reaching it sank on the nearest chair as though exhausted.  She did not raise her eyes to the marble splendours of the shrine—­one of the masterpieces of old Italian art; she had been merely attracted to the spot by the glitter of the lamps and candles, and took no thought as to the reason of their being lighted, though she was sensible of a certain comfort in the soft lustre shed around her.  She seemed still young; her face, rendered haggard by long and bitter privation, showed traces of past beauty, and her eyes, full of feverish trouble, were large, dark, and still lustrous.  Her mouth alone—­that sensitive