te Tilda. She hobbled up the next street
with quickened pace, now and then muttering angrily.

"Serves me right!" she broke out at length. "Bill--you don't know Bill,
but 'e's the wisest man in the 'ole world, _an'_ the kindest, _an'_ the
bestest. Bill would 'a-slapped my ear if 'e 'd 'eard me jus' now.
Near upon gave the show away, I did, an' all through wantin' to 'ear
somebody else tell what I knew a'ready. Never let nobody else make sure
for you--that's one o' Bill's sayin's. Take warnin' by me, an' don't
you ever forget it, Arthur Miles."

The boy had not spoken all the way. He glanced at her timidly, and she
saw that he did not understand. Also it was plain that the streets,
with their traffic, puzzled him; at the approach of every passer-by he
would halt uncertainly, like a puppy not yet way-wise. By-and-by he
said--

"But if that's so, you must be my sister."

"I'm not," said Tilda sharply. "What put it into your 'ead?"

"You told the lady--" he began.

"Eh? So I did. But that was all flam." He could make nothing of this.
"I was kiddin' of 'er--tellin' what wasn' true," she explained.

He walked forward a few steps with a frown--not disapproving, but
painfully thinking this out.

"And about the Hospital--wasn't that true either?"

"Yes," Tilda nodded. "We're goin' to the 'orspital all right.
That's why I came to fetch yer. There's someone wants to see yer, ever
so bad."

"I know about the Good Samaritan," announced the boy.

Tilda stared.

"I bet yer don't," she contradicted.

"He found a man, a traveller, that some thieves had hurt and left by the
road. Going down to Jericho, it was; and he poured oil and wine into
his wounds."

"Oh, cheese it!" said Tilda. "Oo's a-kiddin' now? An' see 'ere, Arthur
Miles--it don't matter with me, a lie up or down; I'm on'y Tilda.
But don't you pick up the 'abit, or else you'll annoy me. I can't tell
why ezactly, but it don't _sit_ on you."

"Tilda?" The boy caught up her name like an echo. "Tilda what?"

"The Lord knows. Tilda _nothin'_--Tilda o' Maggs's, if you like, an'
nobody's child, anyway."

"But that isn't _possible_," he said, after thinking a moment.
"They called me that sometimes, back--back--"

"At the Orph'nige, eh? 'Oo called you that? The Doctor? No," said
Tilda hurriedly, as he halted with a shiver, "don't look be'ind; 'e's
not anywhere near. An' as for the Good Samaritan, you're wrong about
that, too; for _'ere's