the air
and follow that."

"Here's one," cried Elsie, running forward to pick up a bit of fluffy
white down that had blown over from a pigeon-house on the roof of a
neighbouring stable. "I'll blow, and you say the charm." She puckered
up her rosy little mouth and gave a quick puff.

"Feather, feather, when we blow,
Point the way that we should go,"

sang Phil. "West!" he exclaimed, as it sailed lazily across the alley
and over a high board fence. "That means that we are to go down toward
the cotton-mills. I don't know much about that part of town. Mostly
poor people live there, who look as if they hadn't much money to give
away. But we'll try it, anyhow."

Picking up the barrow-handles, he trundled down the alley toward Pine
Street, with little Elsie holding fast to the tail of his tattered
jacket. We were off at last, to seek our fortunes in the wide, wide
world, and our hearts were light as we followed the feather.

CHAPTER VI.

WHAT DAGO SAID TO THE MIRROR-MONKEY ON SATURDAY.

Such a day as that was! We enjoyed it at first, for the sun shone and
a crowd of dancing children followed us everywhere we went. We were in
a strange part of town, so no one recognised us, but more than one
woman looked sharply at little Elsie's embroidered ruffles, peeping
out below the old gingham dress, and at Phil's squeaky new shoes.

"Have you run away, honey, or did your mammy dress you up that way and
send you out to beg?" asked a pleasant-voiced woman, with a baby in
her arms, as she leaned over a gate to drop a penny in Elsie's cup.
Elsie gave a startled glance at Phil, not knowing what to say, and
Phil, turning very red, moved away without answering.

The music-box was an old-fashioned affair that wound up noisily with
a big key. It played several jerky little waltzes and four plaintive
old songs: "Ben Bolt," "The Last Rose of Summer," "Then You'll
Remember Me," and "Home, Sweet Home." The children had sung them so
often that they knew all the words, and their voices rang out lustily
at first; but, about the twentieth time the same old round of tunes
began, little Elsie drew a deep, tired breath.

[Illustration]

"Oh, Phil," she said, "I _can't_ sing those songs all over again. I'm
sick of them." She sat down on the curbstone, refusing to join in the
melody, clasping her hands around her knees, and rocking back and
forth as the shrill voice of the music-box piped on alone.

"I just _hate_ 'Sweet Alice