incessant cries and outcries, quarrels, accidents, and miseries of a
great city. Mrs. Rowles ran swiftly down the sloppy stairs to the open
door, there she found Juliet leaning against the railings, while the
baby lay sprawling on the step.

"Whatever is the matter?" asked Mrs. Rowles, breathless with fear.

"Nothing," was Juliet's reply.

"But I heard loud voices."

"That was only when Miss Sutton walked on baby."

"Poor little fellow! How did that happen?"

"Oh, I don't know; he just slipped off my lap at the very moment that
she was coming out. He's not hurt."

Mrs. Rowles picked up the baby to make sure that he was not injured,
and found no mark or bruise.

"But his spine might be hurt, or his brain, without there being any
outside mark. I am afraid you are very careless."

"Yes, I am. I don't care about nothing."

"Now, that's not at all pretty of you, Juliet."

"Don't want it to be pretty."

"And it's not kind and nice."

"Don't want to be kind and nice."

"And I am afraid people will not love you if you go on like this."

"Don't want people to love me."

Mrs. Rowles knew not how to soften this hard heart. "Juliet, don't you
want to help your sick father and your hard-working mother, and all
your hungry little brothers and sisters?"

"No, I don't. I want to go away from them. I want to have mutton-chops
and rice puddings like we used to have when there was not so many of
us; and merino frocks, and new boots with elastic sides; and the
Crystal Palace."

"Oh, you would like to leave home?"

"Yes, I would. They worrit me, and I worrit them."

"Oh, poor child, poor child!"

The kind-hearted Emma Rowles made curious little noises with her
tongue and her teeth, and toiled again up the staircase with baby in
her arms, and Juliet silently following as she went. Mrs. Rowles
framed short, unworded prayers for guidance at this present crisis;
and when she stood again in her sister-in-law's room her resolve was
taken.

She put the baby into his father's arms.

"There, Thomas, I do hope you will get about soon. Do you think your
trade is a healthy one? My Ned, he always says that it is bad to work
by night, and bad to sleep by day, says he."

"Emma Rowles," was Mitchell's sharp rejoinder, "does your Ned ever
read a newspaper?"

"Yes, most every day. Them passing through the lock often give him a
_Standard_ or a _Telegraph_."

"Then he'd better not find fault with the printers. If the public