themselves without doctor's stuff they recovered sometimes more quickly
than they had sickened. Thus soothing her inward tremors as best she
might, she took more care than ever of her frail charge, stinting
herself than she might nourish it, though the baby seemed to care less
and less for mundane necessities, and only submitted to be fed, as it
were, under patient and silent protest.

And so the sands in Time's hour-glass ran slowly but surely away, and it
was New-Year's eve. Liz had wandered about all day, singing her little
repertoire of ballads in the teeth of a cruel, snow-laden wind--so cruel
that people otherwise charitably disposed had shut close their doors and
windows, and had not even heard her voice. Thus the last span of the
Old Year had proved most unprofitable and dreary; she had gained no more
than sixpence; how could she return with only that humble amount to face
Mother Mawks and her vituperative fury? Her throat ached; she was
very tired, and, as the night darkened from pale to deep and starless
shadows, she strolled mechanically from the Strand to the Embankment,
and after walking some little distance she sat down in a corner close to
Cleopatra's Needle--that mocking obelisk that has looked upon the decay
of empires, itself impassive, and that still appears to say, "Pass on,
ye puny generations! I, a mere carven block of stone, shall outlive you
all!" For the first time in all her experience the child in her arms
seemed a heavy burden. She put aside her shawl and surveyed it tenderly;
it was fast asleep, a small, peaceful smile on its thin, quiet face.
Thoroughly worn out herself, she leaned her head against the damp stone
wall behind her, and clasping the infant tightly to her breast, she
also slept--the heavy, dreamless sleep of utter fatigue and physical
exhaustion. The solemn night moved on, a night of black vapours; the
pageant of the Old Year's deathbed was unbrightened by so much as a
single star. None of the hurrying passers-by perceived the weary woman
where she slept in that obscure corner, and for a long while she rested
there undisturbed. Suddenly a vivid glare of light dazzled her eyes; she
started to her feet half asleep, but still instinctively retaining the
infant in her close embrace. A dark form, buttoned to the throat and
holding a brilliant bull's-eye lantern, stood before her.

"Come now," said this personage, "this won't do! Move on!"

Liz smiled faintly and apologetically.