“Can’t say!” replied the puzzled Jim.  “Are ye sure ’t was a church?  Most like ’t was a mooseum.”

“No, no!” said Liz. “’T was a church for certain; there were folks praying in it.”

“Ah, well,” growled Jim, gruffly, “much good it may do ’em!  I’m not of the prayin’ sort.  A woman an’ a babby, did ye say?  Don’t ye get such cranky notions into yer head, Liz!  Women an’ babbies are common enough—­too common, by a long chalk; an’ as for prayin’ to ’em—­” Jim’s utter contempt and incredulity were too great for further expression, and he turned away, wishing her a curt “Good-night!”

“Good-night!” said Liz, softly; and long after he had left her she still sat silent, thinking, thinking, with the baby asleep in her arms, listening to the rain as it dripped, dripped heavily, like clods falling on a coffin lid.  She was not a good woman—­far from it.  Her very motive in hiring the infant at so much a day was entirely inexcusable; it was simply to gain money upon false pretences—­by exciting more pity than would otherwise have been bestowed on her had she begged for herself alone, without a child in her arms.  At first she had carried the baby about to serve as a mere trick of her trade, but the warm feel of its little helpless body against her bosom day after day had softened her heart toward its innocence and pitiful weakness, and at last she had grown to love it with a strange, intense passion—­so much that she would willingly have sacrificed her life for its sake.  She knew that its own parents cared nothing for it, except for the money it brought them through her hands; and often wild plans would form in her poor tired brain—­plans of running away with it altogether from the roaring, devouring city, to some sweet, humble country village, there to obtain work and devote herself to making this little child happy.  Poor Liz!  Poor, bewildered, heart-broken Liz!  Ignorant London heathen as she was, there was one fragrant flower blossoming in the desert of her soiled and wasted existence—­the flower of a pure and guileless love for one of those “little ones,” of whom it hath been said by an all-pitying Divinity unknown to her, “Suffer them to come unto Me, and forbid them not:  for of such is the kingdom of heaven.”

The dreary winter days crept on apace, and, as they drew near Christmas, dwellers in the streets leading off the Strand grew accustomed of nights to hear the plaintive voice of a woman, singing in a peculiarly thrilling and pathetic manner some of the old songs and ballads familiar and dear to the heart of every Englishman—­“The Banks of Allan Water,” “The Bailiff’s Daughter,” “Sally in our Alley,” “The Last Rose of Summer.”  All these well-loved ditties she sang one after the other, and, though her notes were neither fresh nor powerful, they were true and often tender, more particularly in the hackneyed, but still captivating, melody of “Home, Sweet Home.”  Windows were opened, and pennies freely showered on the street vocalist,