ithstanding all Peter's efforts, notwithstanding his singing, and
even shouting, for the baby's benefit, notwithstanding the admiring
cheers of a little street mob that collected round him, the baby cried,
not a loud cry, but a weak, broken-hearted wail. The fact was, the
indifferent milk Flossy had fed her with had made her ill, and her little
frame was already sadly chilled by the damp shawl which she wore about
her. Poor Dickory scarcely ever got any air or exercise, and in
consequence was very susceptible to cold.

'She is sneezing,' said Flossy. 'Oh the poor, poor darling! Peter, I
think we'd better see about our night's lodging soon; it doesn't agree
with Dickory to keep her out so long.'

'We'll go at once,' said Peter, rising to his feet. 'There's another
black cloud coming up, and there'll be a shower again before long. We'll
get a nice room for us four, and then we'll be as happy as possible.'

Accordingly the little party again moved forward, and whenever Peter or
Flossy saw a card up in a window they stopped and rang the house-bell,
and inquired for lodgings for themselves and their baby. Of course, they
were repulsed in all kinds of ways--some people merely laughing, and
shutting the door in their faces; some scolding them, and calling them
tiresome, impertinent little brats; and some even threatening to tell the
police about them; but no one ever hinted at the possibility of taking
them in. Presently they left the more respectable streets, and wandered
into very poor quarters. Here, doubtless, they could have found
accommodation were they able to pay for it, but everybody laughed at
Peter's pennies, and no one dreamt of offering them a shelter. Then the
rain which had threatened came down, and baby was again wet through, and
now she looked ill, as well as fretful, and refused some fresh milk which
Flossy bought for her. She was not the least like the bright little
Dickory who used to laugh and show her dimples in the old attic-nursery
at home.

'Look here,' said Peter, 'what are we to do? 'T will be night soon, and
we haven't found no hiding-place for Dickory, and no one will take us
in.'

'Baby is not at all well, either,' said Flossy; 'her head is quite hot,
like fire, when I touch it.'

'What are we to do?' asked Peter. 'We can't get home, but it seems to
me, Floss, that this is worse for poor Dickory than the workhouse.'

'I'll tell you what,' said Flossy suddenly, raising her brigh