his beating by giving them the
money they had to offer for kindness: but the restlessness of the
children suddenly made her a third party to the thought of cakes. She had
no money. Her heart bled for the poor little hungry, apprehensive
creatures. For a moment she half fancied she had her voice, and looked up
at the windows of the pitiless houses with a bold look; but there was a
speedy mockery of her thought "You shall listen: you shall open!" She
coughed hoarsely, and then fell into fits of crying. Her friend the
policeman came by and took her arm with a force that he meant to be
persuasive; so lifting her and handing her some steps beyond the limit of
his beat, with stern directions for her to proceed home immediately. She
obeyed. Next day she asked her hostess to lend her half-a-crown. The
woman snapped shortly in answer: "No; the less you have the better."
Emilia was obliged to abandon her little people.

She was to this extent the creature of mania: that she could not conceive
of a way being open by which she might return to her father and mother,
or any of her friends. It was to her not a matter for her will to decide
upon, but simply a black door shut that nothing could displace. When the
week, for which term of shelter she had paid, was ended, her hostess
spoke upon this point, saying, more to convince Emilia of the necessity
for seeking her friends than from any unkindness: "Me and my husband
can't go on keepin' you, you know, my dear, however well's our meaning."
Emilia drew the woman toward her with both her lands, softly shaking her
head. She left the house about noon.

It was now her belief that she had probably no more than another day to
live, for she was destitute of money. The thought relieved her from that
dreadful fear of the street, and she walked at her own pace, even after
dark. The rumble and the rattle of wheels; the cries and grinding noises;
the hum of motion and talk; all under the lingering smoky red of a London
Winter sunset, were not discord to her animated blood. Her unhunted
spirit made a music of them. It was not like the music of other days, nor
was the exultation it created at all like happiness: but she at least
forgot herself. Voices came in her ear, and hung unheard until long after
the speaker had passed. Hunger did not assail her. She was not beset by
an animal weakness; and having in her mind no image of death, and with
her ties to life cut away;--thus devoid of apprehension or