a young girl about thirteen, simply dressed. The girl was
struggling, but oddly enough she did not utter a sound.

"Don't put on these airs, Zelda," said one of the ruffians, "let the
little girl have a fling too. You have had yours."

In her struggle the girl dropped a box she carried. Tulles and laces
were scattered over the ground. She saw Sanselme, and then for the first
time she screamed for help. Then with one blow Sanselme felled the man
who held the girl. He fell stunned to the ground. The child was free,
and the two remaining scoundrels turned their attention to the defender.
They were stout, strong fellows, with well-developed muscles, but they
were no match for Sanselme. He hurled one against the wall and the other
into the middle of the street.

"Be off with you!" said Sanselme.

"Oh! thank you, sir. But my mother, my poor mother!"

The woman had sunk upon the snow exhausted. The girl endeavored to lift
her.

"Let me," said Sanselme. "Do you live far from here?"

This question, though so simple, seemed to agitate the girl. Sanselme
now held her mother in his arms.

"Well! Where am I to go?"

She answered slowly:

"Two steps from there. The Rue Travehefoin."

"I don't think I know the street."

"Very possibly," stammered the girl. "I will show you the way."

She had returned the laces to the box, and then with a determined step
led the way. A few feet from the Quai, where this scene had taken place,
there was at this time a network of narrow, dark and wretched streets.
It was in fact regarded as the worst part of the town. Sanselme did not
care for this. He was happy that he had done some good at last. The girl
turned into a lane that was very dark, in spite of the street lamp
burning at the further end. The girl finally stopped before a tall
house, from which came shouts of laughter and singing. The door was not
close shut and the girl pushed it open. A stout woman stood just within.

"Upon my word!" she cried. "Did Zelda need two hours to--"

"My mother is dying," said the child, as she held the door wide open.

Sanselme appeared, carrying the inanimate form.

"Drunk again!" cried the stout woman.

"This woman is ill," answered Sanselme, roughly, who now understood the
kind of a place he was in. "Get out of my way!" he added.

"Ill! Oh! what stuff. Come on, though. I will see to this to-morrow!"

And she took down a lantern from the wall and led the way up the
creaking stairs. Two o