her have the child without further interference.  Liz knew well enough that no one in the miserable alley where she dwelt would care whether the baby were ill or not.  They would tell her, “The more sickly the better for your trade.”  Besides, she was jealous; she could not endure the idea of any one tending it or touching it but herself.  Children were often ailing, she thought, and if left to themselves without doctor’s stuff they recovered sometimes more quickly than they had sickened.  Thus soothing her inward tremors as best she might, she took more care than ever of her frail charge, stinting herself than she might nourish it, though the baby seemed to care less and less for mundane necessities, and only submitted to be fed, as it were, under patient and silent protest.

And so the sands in Time’s hour-glass ran slowly but surely away, and it was New-Year’s eve.  Liz had wandered about all day, singing her little repertoire of ballads in the teeth of a cruel, snow-laden wind—­so cruel that people otherwise charitably disposed had shut close their doors and windows, and had not even heard her voice.  Thus the last span of the Old Year had proved most unprofitable and dreary; she had gained no more than sixpence; how could she return with only that humble amount to face Mother Mawks and her vituperative fury?  Her throat ached; she was very tired, and, as the night darkened from pale to deep and starless shadows, she strolled mechanically from the Strand to the Embankment, and after walking some little distance she sat down in a corner close to Cleopatra’s Needle—­that mocking obelisk that has looked upon the decay of empires, itself impassive, and that still appears to say, “Pass on, ye puny generations!  I, a mere carven block of stone, shall outlive you all!” For the first time in all her experience the child in her arms seemed a heavy burden.  She put aside her shawl and surveyed it tenderly; it was fast asleep, a small, peaceful smile on its thin, quiet face.  Thoroughly worn out herself, she leaned her head against the damp stone wall behind her, and clasping the infant tightly to her breast, she also slept—­the heavy, dreamless sleep of utter fatigue and physical exhaustion.  The solemn night moved on, a night of black vapours; the pageant of the Old Year’s deathbed was unbrightened by so much as a single star.  None of the hurrying passers-by perceived the weary woman where she slept in that obscure corner, and for a long while she rested there undisturbed.  Suddenly a vivid glare of light dazzled her eyes; she started to her feet half asleep, but still instinctively retaining the infant in her close embrace.  A dark form, buttoned to the throat and holding a brilliant bull’s-eye lantern, stood before her.

“Come now,” said this personage, “this won’t do!  Move on!”

Liz smiled faintly and apologetically.

“All right!” she answered, striving to speak cheerfully, and raising her eyes to the policeman’s good-natured countenance.  “I didn’t mean to fall asleep here.  I don’t know how I came to do it.  I must go home, of course.”