although she could not close the door behind her.  Leaving it ajar, ’Toinette ran down the steps, and looked eagerly along the square until she discovered the hand-organ man with his monkey just turning the corner, and flew after him as fast as her little feet would carry her.  But, with all her haste, the man had already turned another corner before she overtook him, and was walking, more quickly than he had yet done, down a narrow street.  He was not playing now; but the monkey, who had finished his cake, was climbing over his master’s shoulders, running down his arms and back, chattering, grinning, making faces, and evidently having a little game of romps on his own account.

’Toinette, very much amused, tripped along behind, talking as fast as the monkey, and asking all manner of questions, to none of which either monkey or man made any reply; while all the time the beautiful rosy light was fading out of the west, and the streets were growing dark and crowded; and as the organ-grinder, followed by ’Toinette, turned from one into another, each was dirtier and narrower and more disagreeable than the last.

All at once, the man, after hesitating for a moment, dashed across the street, and into a narrow alley opposite.  Two or three dirt-carts were passing at the same time; and ’Toinette, afraid to follow, stood upon the edge of the sidewalk, looking wistfully after him, and beginning to wonder if she ought not to be going home.

While she wondered, a number of rude boys came rushing by; and, either by accident or malice, the largest one, in passing the little girl, pushed her so roughly, that she stumbled off the sidewalk altogether, and fell into the gutter.

A little hurt, a good deal frightened, and still more indignant, ’Toinette picked herself up, and looked ruefully at the mud upon her pretty dress, but would not allow herself to cry, as she longed to do.

“If I’d got my gingham dress on, it wouldn’t do so much harm,” thought she, her mind returning to the story she had that afternoon heard; and then all at once an anxious longing for home and mother seized the little heart, and sent the tiny feet flying up the narrow street as fast as they could move.  But, at the corner, ’Toinette, who never had seen the street before, took the wrong turn; and, although she ran as fast as she could, every step now led her farther from home, and deeper into the squalid by-streets and alleys, among which she was lost.

CHAPTER VI.

Mother Winch.

In a narrow court, hardly lighted by the one gas-light flaring at its entrance, ’Toinette stopped, and, looking dismally about her, began at last to cry.  At the sound, a crooked old woman, with a great bag on her back, who had been resting upon the step of a door close by, although the little girl had not noticed her, rose, and came toward her.

“What’s the matter, young one?” asked the old woman harshly.