assie, as it wad be tellin' him he had nane! What said ye till
'im?"

"I bit thankit 'im, 'cause I tint my drop as I gaed to the schuil i'
the mornin', an' he fan't till me, an' was at the chopdoor waitin'
to gie me't back. They say he's aye fin'in' things."

"He's a guid-hertit cratur!" said the mother,--"for ane, that is,
'at's been sae ill broucht up."

She rose, took from the shelf a large piece of bread, composed of
many adhering penny-loaves, detached one, and went to the door.

"Here, Gibbie!" she cried as she opened it; "here's a fine piece to
ye."

But no Gibbie was there. Up and down the street not a child was to
be seen. A sandboy with a donkey cart was the sole human
arrangement in it. The baker's wife drew back, shut the door and
resumed her knitting.

CHAPTER II.

SIR GEORGE.

The sun was hot for an hour or two in the middle of the day, but
even then in the shadow dwelt a cold breath--of the winter, or of
death--of something that humanity felt unfriendly. To Gibbie,
however, bare-legged, bare-footed, almost bare-bodied as he was, sun
or shadow made small difference, except as one of the musical
intervals of life that make the melody of existence. His bare feet
knew the difference on the flags, and his heart recognized
unconsciously the secret as it were of a meaning and a symbol, in
the change from the one to the other, but he was almost as happy in
the dull as in the bright day. Hardy through hardship, he knew
nothing better than a constant good-humoured sparring with nature
and circumstance for the privilege of being, enjoyed what came to
him thoroughly, never mourned over what he had not, and, like the
animals, was at peace. For the bliss of the animals lies in this,
that, on their lower level, they shadow the bliss of those--few at
any moment on the earth--who do not "look before and after, and pine
for what is not," but live in the holy carelessness of the eternal
now. Gibbie by no means belonged to the higher order, was as yet,
indeed, not much better than a very blessed little animal.

To him the city was all a show. He knew many of the people--some of
them who thought no small things of themselves--better than they
would have chosen he or any one else should know them. He knew all
the peripatetic vendors, most of the bakers, most of the small
grocers and tradespeople. Animal as he was, he was laying in a
great stock for the time when he would be something more, for