uns, for which she was quite ready.

Afterwards they stood for a valuable half-hour outside the waxworks and
explored the markets, where Betty sang "Scatter seeds of kindness," in
spite of John's solemnly given advice to keep it for Sunday. Here she
only made a penny halfpenny by her song, but as she said to John--

"Every one must expect some bad hours."

Then, too, there was in her heart a feeling of certainty that a keen
eyed, bent shouldered old gentleman would be passing soon, and carry her
away straight to the very threshold of fame, as Madam S----'s old
gentleman carried _her_.

When they had become thoroughly acquainted with the markets, John
suggested she should again "count up," with a view of deciding what sort
of lodgings she could afford for the night.

Betty had not thought of such a trivial thing, leaving it possibly for
her old gentleman to settle. But she was more than willing to "count
up" again.

So they went into a corner behind a deserted fruit stall, sat down upon
an empty case, and made little stacks of pennies and half-pennies and
small silver coins.

She had two shillings and a penny, she found in all, and John told her
she could afford to go to one of the places he had seen this morning,
where a bed and breakfast were to be had for sixpence.

"I have seen some places where they charge a shilling," said John. "It
seems an awful lot to pay for a bed and a bit of breakfast. But a
sixpenny place will do for you, and as you're only twelve they might
take you for threepence."

"And where will you go?" asked Betty anxiously.

"Oh, I'd be sixpence, you see, because I'm thirteen and a half," said
John. "I can't afford to pay sixpence. It's always harder for a fellow
to get on than for a girl. That's why you hear more about self-made men
than self-made women--they're thought more of. No bed for me, I expect,
for some time to come. I'll have to sleep in the Domain. I heard a
fellow talking this morning, and he said he's been sleeping there for a
week now. And, you know, Peterborough, the artist I told you
about--well, he slept for a week in a _barrel_!"

"How much money have you got?" asked Betty.

"Eightpence!" said John. "No one seems to want an errand boy to-day."

Betty began to feel very doleful at being one step above John in this
the beginning of their career. But she dared not offer to lend to him,
he had been so very insistent upon paying her back her penny, and paying
for his own